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 THE NATURE AND ELEMENTS 
 OF POETRY
 
 THE MUSE, OF CHRISTENDOM 
 
 Page I4O
 
 THE 
 
 NATURE AND ELEMENTS 
 OF POETRY 
 
 BY 
 
 EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN 
 
 AUTHOR OF " VICTORIAN POETS," " POETS OF^AMBRICA," BTC. 
 
 BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
 HOUGHTON, MIFFLTN AND COMPANY
 
 Copyright, 1892, 
 Bv EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 SECOND EDITION. 
 
 Tkt Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U.S.A. 
 Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Co.
 
 TO 
 
 LAWRENCE AND FRANCESE TURNBULL, 
 
 OF BALTIMORE, MARYLAND, 
 AND TO THE MEMORY OF THEIR SON, 
 
 PERCY GRAEME TURNBULL, 
 
 WHOSE LIFE AND DEATH INSPIRED THEIR FOUNDATION 
 
 OF THE LECTURESHIP OF POETRY AT JOHNS 
 
 HOPKINS UNIVERSITY, THIS VOLUME 
 
 IS DEDICATED.
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 THE series of lectures contained in this volume, 
 although now somewhat revised and extended, formed 
 the initial course, as delivered in 1891, of the Percy 
 Turnbull Memorial Lectureship of Poetry at Johns 
 Hopkins University. In founding that lectureship, 
 Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence Turnbull commemorated the 
 name of their son, Percy Graeme Turnbull, who died 
 in 1887, having nearly completed his ninth year. 
 The brief life of a child, who gave promise of fulfill- 
 ing the utmost wishes of parents devoted to things 
 good and fair, has been of higher service than that 
 which many whose lights " burn to the socket " are 
 permitted to render. 
 
 In conformity with the terms of the gift, a course 
 of lectures is to be delivered annually by some maker 
 or critical student of poetry. There is but one other 
 foundation dedicated to this art alone, as far as I can 
 learn, among British and American universities, that 
 being the chair endowed at Oxford by Henry Birk- 
 head, in 1708, from which much learned argument
 
 viii INTRODUCTION 
 
 has been delivered since the time of Warton, and to 
 which we owe the criticism of Doyle, Shairp, Pal- 
 grave, and the high discourse of Arnold, in our own 
 day. Had Mr. Lowell's health enabled him to ini- 
 tiate the Turnbull lectureship, the foundation would 
 have derived a lustre at once the light and the 
 despair of his successors. In the shadow of his 
 lamented death it became my duty and distinction to 
 prepare the following lectures, which are now issued 
 in reconsideration of an intention, expressed in my 
 last preceding volume of criticism, to write no more 
 books upon the present theme. 
 
 Perhaps it is only natural that such an intention 
 should be overcome by a striking illustration of the 
 fact that, under stress of public neglect or distaste, 
 the lovers of any cause or art find their regard for 
 it more unshaken than ever. It seemed to me a 
 notable thing that at a time when poetry as the 
 utterance of feeling and imagination is strenuously 
 rivalled by other forms of expression, especially by 
 the modern industry of prose fiction ; at a time when 
 journalism, criticism, science more than all, not only 
 excite interest, but afford activity and subsistence to 
 original writers ; at a time, moreover, when taste is 
 fostered by the wealth of those to whose luxury the 
 architect, the artist, and the musician, rather than 
 the poet, are ready to minister ; it seemed to me
 
 INTRODUCTION ix 
 
 notable and suggestive that at such a time, though 
 many think of poetry as the voice of the past, a few 
 should still consider it a voice of the future also, and 
 that there should be found what I may call practical 
 idealists, to discover one need of our most liberal 
 schools, and to do this much to relieve it. 
 
 I have thought it appropriate that an opening 
 course upon this foundation should relate to the 
 absolute nature of the art which future lecturers will 
 consider more in detail with respect to its technical 
 laws, varied forms, and historic illustrations. These 
 pages, then, treat of the quality and attributes of 
 poetry itself, of its source and efficacy, and of the 
 enduring laws to which its true examples ever are 
 conformed. An attempt to do this within brief 
 limits, notwithstanding the extent of the subject, is 
 not quite impracticable, since whether the "first 
 principles " of any art, even of the philosophy of all 
 arts and knowledge, can be tersely set forth, is not 
 so much in question as is the skill of one who tries 
 to epitomize them. 
 
 In the consideration of any subject, however ideal, 
 an agreement as to what shall be denoted by its title 
 may well be established at the outset. Therefore I 
 have not evaded even that which it is so customary 
 to deprecate, a definition of the thing examined in 
 this treatise. It must be observed that our discus-
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 sion is of poetry in the concrete, and as the actual 
 record of human expression, keeping ever in mind, 
 no less, the uncapturable and mysterious spirit from 
 which its energy is derived. I say this, because 
 most essays upon the theme have been produced by 
 one or the other of two classes, either by tran- 
 scendentalists who invoke the astral presence but 
 underrate its fair embodiment, or by technical arti- 
 sans who pay regard to its material guise alone. 
 There is no good reason, I think, why both the 
 essence and the incarnation of poetry may not be 
 considered as directly as those of the less inclusive 
 and more palpable fine arts. At all events, an at- 
 tempt is made in this volume to do that very thing. 
 
 Even this enforced brevity makes it the more 
 needful that my course should be in good faith what 
 its title indicates elementary. But the simplest 
 laws and constituents, those most patent to common 
 apprehension, are also the most profound and abid- 
 ing. Their statement must be accurate, first of all ; 
 since, as in the present instance, it seeks to deter- 
 mine the initial aim, and a hairbreadth's deviation at 
 the start means a ruinous divergence as the move- 
 ment progresses. I make no apology, then, for what 
 is elementary and oft-repeated, my wish being, in this 
 opening discussion of that wherewith the Turnbull 
 lectureship is concerned, to derive a statement of first
 
 INTRODUCTION XI 
 
 principles from the citation of many illustrious wit- 
 nesses and creative works. If, therefore, I seem to 
 thresh old straw, it is not without design ; and often, 
 instead of making the curious references so easily 
 culled from the less-known books upon our shelves, 
 I repeat passages most famous and familiar, the 
 more familiar, as a rule, because none apter in illus- 
 tration can be cited. 
 
 In the endeavor to use time to the best advantage, 
 it seemed most feasible to begin with a suggestion 
 of reasons why poetry does not obtain the scientific 
 consideration awarded to material processes, and then 
 to review important outgivings of the past with re- 
 spect to it ; and next, to essay a direct statement of 
 its nature (analyzing the statement logically), and to 
 add a correlative view of its powers and limitations 
 as compared with, and differentiated from, those of 
 the other fine arts. I found it serviceable, afterwards, 
 to divide all poetry as indeed the product of every 
 art may be divided into the two main results, 
 creation and self-expression, the vitalities of which 
 are implied in those well-worn metaphysical terms, 
 the objective and the subjective. The former char- 
 acterization applies to that primitive and heroic song 
 which is the only kind recognized by a Macaulay, 
 with his faculty attuned to the major key. But, 
 after all, there was much self-expression in "the
 
 xii INTRODUCTION 
 
 antique," just as there are stately examples of objec- 
 tive creation in the poetry of Christendom. There- 
 fore it was not possible to confine a third lecture 
 entirely to the one, nor a fourth entirely to the other. 
 The creative element, however, is the main topic of 
 the third, while the fourth, entitled " Melancholia," 
 pursues chiefly the stream of self-expression. To- 
 gether, the two afford all the scope permitted in this 
 scheme for a swift glance at the world's master- 
 pieces. The way now becomes clear for examination 
 of the pure attributes which qualify the art we are 
 considering : on the side of aesthetics, beauty, 
 and therewith truth, as concerns the realistic, the in- 
 structive, the ethical ; then the inventive and illu- 
 minating imagination, and passion with its motive 
 power and sacred rage ; lastly, the faculty divine, 
 operative through insight, genius, inspiration, and 
 consecrated by the minstrel's faith in law and his 
 sense of a charge laid upon him. A concession from 
 the original scheme appears in the briefness of the 
 section devoted to passion, under which title a poet's 
 emotion should receive the same attention elsewhere 
 given to his taste, sincerity, and imaginative power. 
 My limits compelled me to speak of passion at the 
 opening of the final lecture, where it does not pre- 
 cisely belong, though a necessary excitant of "the 
 faculty divine."
 
 INTRODUCTION xiii 
 
 Modern writers upon poetry as an art occupy 
 themselves, as I have hinted, very closely with tech- 
 nical matters, with "the science of verse," its 
 rhythm, diction, and metrical effects. But these are 
 matters of course for natural poets, each after his 
 own voice and individuality, and technical instruc- 
 tion is obtained by them otherwise than through the 
 schooling which fortifies the practitioners of arts 
 which return subsistence as well as fame. Con- 
 tenting myself with assuming the need of artistic 
 perfection, I turn to weightier matters of the law, 
 there being no true science of poetry which does not 
 seek after the abstract elements of its power. Nor 
 can any work henceforth be an addition to the liter- 
 ature of the subject, which fails to recognize the obli- 
 gation of treating it upon scientific lines. For no one 
 now feels the steadfast energy of science more than 
 do the poets themselves, and they realize that, if at 
 first it caused a disenchantment, it now gives promise 
 of an avatar. The readjustment, in truth, is so 
 thoroughly in force that a critic moves with it in- 
 stinctively. If there is anything novel in this trea- 
 tise, anything like construction, it is the result 
 of an impulse to confront the scientific nature and 
 methods of the thing discussed. Reflecting upon 
 its historic and continuous potency in many phases 
 of life, upon its office as a vehicle of spiritual expres-
 
 Xiv INTRODUCTION 
 
 sion, I have seen that it is only a specific manifesta- 
 tion of that all-pervading force, of which each one 
 possesses a share at his control, and which communi- 
 cates the feeling and thought of the human soul to 
 its fellows. Thus I am moved to perceive that for 
 its activity it depends, like all other arts, upon Vibra- 
 tions, upon ethereal waves conveying impressions 
 of vision and sound to mortal senses, and so to the 
 immortal consciousness whereto those senses min- 
 ister. 
 
 In my opening lecture, I see that mention is made 
 of the disenchantment to which " that airy nothing, 
 the rainbow," has been subjected. But it is pre- 
 cisely because we have discovered its nothingness, 
 because we know its only being consists in vibra- 
 tions which impart our sense of light, and of the 
 color scale that Lippman has been able at last to 
 seize this color scale, and to fix the negative re- 
 flecting the light of the eye, the flush of the che*ek, 
 to make the sunset eternal, to secure the myriad 
 tints of landscape, in short, to make a final con- 
 quest of nature, and thus to* enlarge our basis for the 
 indispensable higher structures of the painter and 
 the poet. Such realism cannot be ignored. It does 
 not lessen ideality ; it affords new inspiration. 
 Each time when science fulfils our hope, the poet 
 will be charmed to dream anew, and to impart from
 
 INTRODUCTION xv 
 
 his own nature to the semblance of his visions that 
 individuality of tone and form which is the ultimate 
 value of human art. 
 
 I have avoided much discussion of schools and 
 fashions. Every race has its own genius, as we say ; 
 every period has its own vogues in the higher arts, 
 as well as in those which fashion wholly dominates. 
 There have been " schools " in all ages and centres, 
 but these, it must be acknowledged, figure most 
 laboriously at intervals when the creative faculty 
 seems inactive. The young and ardent, so long 
 as art has her knight-errantry, so long as there is a 
 brotherhood of youth and hope, will set out joy- 
 ously upon their new crusades. Sometimes these 
 are effective, as in the Romantic movement of 1830; 
 but more often, as when observing the neo-roman- 
 ticists and neo - impressionists, the French and Bel- 
 gian "symbolists," and just now the " intuitivists," 
 we are taught that, no matter how we reconstruct 
 the altars or pile cassia and frankincense upon them, 
 there will be no mystic illumination unless a flame 
 descends from above. New styles are welcome, 
 but it is a grievous error to believe a new style 
 the one thing needful, or that art can forego a good 
 one, old or new. Our inquiry, then, is concerned 
 with that which never ages, the primal nature of the 
 minstrel's art. Even sturdy thinkers fall into the
 
 XVI INTRODUCTION 
 
 mistake of believing that a great work loses its power 
 as time goes on. Thus Shakespeare's creations have 
 been pronounced outworn, because he was the last 
 great "poet of feudalism." We might as well say 
 that the truth to human life displayed in Genesis 
 and Exodus, or the synthetic beauty of the Parthe- 
 non, or the glory of the Sistine Madonna, will grow 
 ineffective, forgetting that these have the vitality 
 which appertains to the lasting nature of things. 
 No poet can ever outrival Shakespeare, except by a 
 more exceeding insight and utterance. It is well 
 said that great art is always modern, and this is true 
 whether a romantic or a realistic method prevails. 
 Doubtless the prerogative of song is a certain aban- 
 donment to the ideal, but this, on the other hand, 
 becomes foolishness unless the real, the truth of 
 earth and nature, is kept somewhere in view. Still, 
 if any artist may be expected to pursue by instinct a 
 romantic method, it is the poet, the very essence of 
 whose gift is a sane ideality. The arbitrary struc- 
 ture of poetry invites us to a region out of the com- 
 mon, and this without danger of certain perils at- 
 tending the flights of prose romance. 
 
 While the poetic drama, for example, must be real- 
 istic in its truth to life, first, as to human nature, 
 and, second, in fidelity to the manners of a given 
 time and place, it shortly fails unless surcharged
 
 INTRODUCTION XVll 
 
 with romantic passion and ideality. The drama, 
 then, ever catholic and universal, is a standing crit- 
 icism upon the war of schools, a war usually fore- 
 gone whenever the drama reaches and maintains a 
 successful height. I have suggested heretofore the 
 probability that dramatic feeling, and even the pro- 
 duction of works in dramatic form, will distinguish 
 the next poetic movement of our own language and 
 haply of this Western world. 
 
 But criticism of style and method should be ex- 
 tended to specific productions, and to the writers of 
 a certain period or literature. To the essays which 
 in that wise have come from my own hand this trea- 
 tise is a natural complement. If inconsistent with 
 them, if this statement of first principles could not 
 be made up from my books of " applied criticism," I 
 would doubt the integrity of the one and the other ; 
 for I have found, in preparing the marginal notes 
 and topical index of the present volume, that nearly 
 every phase and constituent of art has been touched 
 upon, however briefly, which was illustrated in the 
 analytic course of my former essays. 
 
 E. C. S. 
 NEW YORK, August, 1892.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 I 
 
 ORACLES OLD AND NEW 3 
 
 II 
 WHAT is POETRY? ........ 41 
 
 III 
 
 CREATION AND SELF-EXPRESSION 75 
 
 IV 
 MELANCHOLIA in 
 
 V 
 BEAUTY 147
 
 xx CONTENTS 
 
 VI 
 TRUTH 187 
 
 VII 
 IMAGINATION . 225 
 
 VIII 
 
 THE FACULTY DIVINE: PASSION, INSIGHT, GENIUS, 
 FAITH 259 
 
 INDEX 301
 
 THE NATURE AND ELEMENTS 
 OF POETRY
 
 THE NATURE AND ELEMENTS OF 
 POETRY 
 
 I. 
 
 ORACLES OLD AND NEW. 
 
 POETRY of late has been termed a force, or mode 
 of force, very much as if it were the heat, xhe force of 
 
 ... . . , heaven-bred 
 
 or light, or motion known to physics, poesy." 
 And, in truth, ages before our era of scientific reduc- 
 tions, the energia the vital energy of the min- 
 strel's song was undisputed. It seems to me, in 
 spite of all we hear about materialism, that the sen- 
 timent imparting this energy the poetic impulse, 
 at least has seldom been more forceful than at 
 this moment and in this very place. 
 
 Our American establishments our halls of learn- 
 ing and beauty and worship are founded, as you 
 know, for the most part not by governmental edict ; 
 they usually take their being from the sentiment, 
 the ideal impulses, of individuals. Your own insti- 
 tute, 1 still mewing like Milton's eagle its mighty 
 youth, owes its existence to an ideal sentiment, to a 
 
 1 Johns Hopkins University.
 
 ORACLES OLD AND NEW 
 
 most sane poetic impulse, in the spirit of its founder, 
 devoted though he was, through a long and sturdy 
 lifetime, to material pursuits. Its growth must 
 largely depend on the awakening from time to time, 
 in other generous spirits, of a like energy, a simi- 
 larly constructive imagination. 
 
 Amongst all gracious evidences of this ideality 
 The Percy tnus far calendared, I think of few more 
 Memorial noteworthy, of none more beautiful, than 
 * lp ' those to which we owe the first endowed 
 lectureship of poetry in the United States ; the 
 second foundation strictly of its kind, if I mistake 
 not, throughout the universities of the English- 
 speaking world. 
 
 Whenever a university foundation is established 
 for the study of elemental matters, of scientific 
 truth or human ideality, we return to motives from 
 which the antique and the mediaeval schools chiefly 
 derived their impulse, if not their constitution. The 
 founders would restore a balance between the arbi- 
 trary and the fundamental mode of education. The 
 resulting gain is not the overflow of collegiate re- 
 sources, not the luxury of learning ; not decoration, 
 us fine si g - but enhanced construction. We have a 
 fresh search after the inmost truth of 
 things, the verities of which the Anglo-Florentine 
 songstress was mindful when she averred that poets 
 are your only truth-tellers ; of which, also, Lowell, in 
 his soliloquy of " Columbus," was profoundly con- 
 scious when he made the discoverer say :
 
 THE HIGHER EDUCATION 
 
 " For I believed the poets ; it is they 
 Who utter wisdom from the central deep, 
 And, listening to the inner flow of things, 
 Speak to the age out of eternity." 
 
 Within these verities new estates originate ; more- 
 over, they perpetually advance the knowledge and 
 methods of the time-honored professions. The 
 present and future influences of a school Thespirit 
 are more assured when it enters their givethufe - 
 realm. If I did not believe this with my noonday 
 reason and common sense, it would be an imposture 
 for me to discourse to you upon our theme. The 
 sovereign of the arts is the imagination, by whose 
 aid man makes every leap forward ; and emotion is 
 its twin, through which come all fine experiences, 
 and all great deeds are achieved. Man, after all, is 
 placed here to live his life. Youth demands its share 
 in every study that can engender a power or a de- 
 light. Universities must enhance the use, the joy, 
 the worth of existence. They are institutions both 
 human and humane : not inevitable, except in so far 
 as they become schools for man's advancement and 
 for the conduct of life. 
 
 'We now have to do with the most ideal and com- 
 prehensive of those arts which intensify life and sug- 
 gest life's highest possibilities. The name of poetry, 
 like that of gentleman, is "soiled with all ignoble 
 use ; " but that is because its province is universal, 
 and its government a republic, whose right of fran- 
 chise any one can exercise without distinction of age,
 
 ORACLES OLD AND NEW 
 
 sex, color, or (more 's the pity) of morals, brains, or 
 birthright. The more honor, then, to the founders 
 of this lectureship, whose recognition of poetry at 
 its highest is not disturbed by its abuse, and whose 
 munificence erects for it a stately seat among its 
 peers. 
 
 Under the present auspices, our own approach can 
 Design of scarcely be too sympathetic, yet none the 
 this treatise. j ess f ree o ju us j on an( j alert with a sense 
 
 of realities. We may well be satisfied to seek for 
 the mere ground-plot of this foundation. I am priv- 
 ileged, indeed, if I can suggest a tentative design for 
 the substructure upon which others are to build 
 and decorate throughout the future of your school. 
 Poetry is not a science, yet a scientific comprehen- 
 sion of any art is possible and essential. Unless we 
 come to certain terms at the outset, if only to facil- 
 itate this course, we shall not get on at all. 
 
 ENTER the studio of an approved sculptor, a man 
 Tot artes ^ g enm s, and, if you choose, poetic ideal- 
 
 tantsscienti*. ity Re is intent upQn t ^ Q mo ^ Q \ o f a 
 
 human figure, a statue to be costumed in garments 
 that shall both conceal and express the human form. 
 Plainly he has in his mind's eye the outside, the ul- 
 timate appearance, of his subject. He is not con- 
 structing a manikin, a curious bit of mechanism that 
 imitates the interior the bones, muscles, arteries, 
 nerves of the body. He is fashioning the man as 
 he appears to us, giving his image the air, the expres-
 
 SUBSTRUCTURAL LAW 
 
 sion, of life in action or repose. But you will per- 
 ceive that even the rude joinery on which he casts 
 his first clay is a structure suggesting a man's inte- 
 rior framework. Ere long the skeleton is built 
 upon ; the nude and very man is modeled roughly, 
 yet complete, so that his anatomy shall give the 
 truth, and not a lie, to the finished work. Not until 
 this has been done will the sculptor superadd the 
 drapery the costume which, be it the symbol of 
 our fall or of our advancement, distinguishes civil- 
 ized man from the lower animals. At all events, it 
 is a serious risk for the young artist to forego this 
 progressive craftsmanship. Even a painter will 
 rudely outline his figures according to primitive na- 
 ture before giving them the clothing, which, how- 
 ever full of grace and meaning, is not themselves. 
 Otherwise he will be a painter of dead garments, not 
 of soul-possessing men and women. An artist of 
 learning and experience may overleap this process, 
 but only because his hand has become the trained 
 slave of his creative vision, which sees clearly all 
 that can lie beneath. 
 
 To the anatomic laws, then, of the human form 
 the sculptor's and the figure-painter's arts Preessemiais. 
 are subservient. The laws of. every art are just as 
 determinate, even those pertaining to the evasive, 
 yet all-embracing art of poesy, whose spirit calls 
 other arts to its aid and will imitate them, as art it- 
 self imitates nature ; which has, in truth, its specific 
 method and also the reflex of all other methods. I
 
 8 ORACLES OLD AND NEW 
 
 do not speak of the science, even of the art, of verse. 
 Yet to know the spirit of poetry we must observe, 
 with the temper of philosophers, its preessentials in 
 the concrete. Even its form and its method of work 
 must be recognized as things of dignity : the mate- 
 rial symbols and counterparts, as in Swedenborg's 
 cosmos, of the spirit which is reality. 
 
 And thus, I say, we must obtain at least a service- 
 able definition of the word poetry for our 
 
 A working J 
 
 basis needed; present use. In beginning this course, it 
 is well to let the mists rise, at least to have none of 
 our own brewing. The sentimentalists invariably 
 have befogged our topic. I ask you to divest your 
 minds, for the moment, of sentimentalism, even of 
 sentiment, and to assume, in Taine's phrase, that we 
 are to begin by realizing "not an ode, but a law." 
 Applied criticism that which regards specific po- 
 ets and poems is a subsequent affair. Let us seek 
 the generic elements that are to govern criticism by 
 discovering and applying its standards. If you ask, 
 To what end ? I reply, That we may avoid dilettante- 
 ism. We are not a group of working artists, but 
 they possess something we can share ; to wit, the 
 sincere and even ascetic mood that wishes no illu- 
 sions and demands a working basis. But again, to 
 but not for the what purpose ? Surely not for the devel- 
 
 promotion of . t f * /~i i i 
 
 versifying. opment of a. breed of poets ! Consider the 
 tenuous voices of minnesingers far and near, whose 
 music rises like the chirping of locusts by noonday 
 and of meadow-frogs at night. Each has his fault-
 
 THE POET AND HIS TEACHERS 9 
 
 less little note, and while the seasonable chorus 
 blends, it is humored by some and endured by most, 
 quite as a matter of course, and the world goes on 
 as usual. Human suffering may have been greater 
 when the rhapsodist flourished and printing was un- 
 known, when one was waylaid at the corners of the 
 market-place, and there was no escape but in flight 
 or assassination. And if our object were to train 
 poets, and a past-master were on the rostrum, his 
 teachings would be futile unless nature reasserted 
 her averages. Fourier accounted for one poet in his 
 phalanstery of a thousand souls ; yet a shrewder es- 
 timate would allow but one memorable poet to a 
 thousand phalansteries, in spite of the fact that even 
 nature suspends her rules in countenance of youth's 
 prerogative, and unfailingly supplies a laureate for 
 every college class. With respect to training, the 
 catalogues term a painter the pupil of Bonnat, of 
 Duran, of Cabanel ; a musician, pupil of Rubinstein 
 or Liszt. But the poet studies in his own Nature both 
 
 T T ii- makes and 
 
 atelier. He is not made, his poetry is not trains a poet, 
 made, by a priori rules, any more than a language is 
 made by the grammarians and philologists, whose 
 true function is simply to report it. 
 
 Yet even the poet has his teachers : first of all, 
 since poetry is vocal, those from whom he learns the 
 speech wherewith he lisps in numbers. In the nur- 
 sery, or on the playground, he is as much at school 
 as any young artist taking his initial lessons in the 
 drawing-class, or a young singer put to his first exer-
 
 10 ORACLES OLD AND NEW 
 
 cises. Later on, he surely finds his way to the higher 
 gymnasium ; he reads with wonder and assimilation 
 the books of the poets. Thus not only his early 
 methods, but his life-long expression, his vocabulary, 
 his confines and liberties, will depend much upon 
 early associations, and upon the qualities of the mod- 
 els which chance sets within his way. As to techni- 
 cal ability, what he seeks to acquire after the forma- 
 tive period relatively counts for little ; his gain must 
 come, and by a noble paradox, from learning to 
 unlearn, from self-development ; otherwise his utter- 
 ance will never be a force. One poet's early song, 
 for example, has closely echoed Keats ; another's, 
 Tennyson ; afterward, each has given us a motive 
 and a method of his own, yet he was first as much a 
 pupil of an admirable teacher as those widely differ- 
 ing artists, Couture and Millet, were pupils of De- 
 laroche. Still another began with the Italian poets, 
 and this by a fortunate chance, or rather, let us 
 say, by that mysterious law which decrees that 
 genius shall find its own natural sustenance. In 
 time he developed his own artistic and highly origi- 
 nal note, with a spirituality confirmed by that early 
 pupilage. 
 
 I assume, then, that the poet's technical modes, 
 even the general structure of a masterwork, come by 
 intuition, environment, reading, experience ; and that 
 The natural to studious consideration of them may 
 perchance retard him. I suspect that no 
 instinctive poet bothers himself about such matters
 
 DAME NATURE'S SCHOOL II 
 
 in advance ; he doubtless casts his work in the form 
 and measures that come with its thought to him, 
 though he afterward may pick up his dropped feet 
 or syllables at pleasure. If he ponders on the Iam- 
 bic Trimeter Catalectic, or any of its kin, his case is 
 hopeless. In fact, I never have known a natural poet 
 who did not compose by ear, as we say : and this is 
 no bad test of spontaneity. And as for rules, such, 
 for example, as the Greeks laid down, their effi- 
 cacy is fairly hit off in that famous epigram of the 
 Prince de Conde, when the Abb6 d'Aubignac boasted 
 that he closely observed the rules of Aristotle : " I 
 do not quarrel with the Abbe d'Aubignac for having 
 so closely followed the precepts of Aristotle ; but I 
 cannot pardon the precepts of Aristotle that occa- 
 sioned the Abbe d'Aubignac to write so wretched a 
 tragedy." We do see that persons of cleverness and 
 taste learn to write agreeable verses ; but the one 
 receipt for making a poet is in the safe-keeping of 
 nature and the foreordaining stars. 
 
 On the other hand, the mature poet, and no less 
 the lover of poetry, may profitably observe Oneendin 
 what secrets of nature are applied to lyri- view - 
 cal creation. The first Creator rested after his work, 
 and saw that it was good. It is well for an artist to 
 study the past, to learn what can be done and what 
 cannot be done acceptably. A humble music-master 
 can teach a genius not to waste his time in move- 
 ments proved to be false. Much of what is good is 
 established, but the range of the good is infinite;
 
 12 ORACLES OLD AND NEW 
 
 that which is bad is easily known. If there be a 
 mute and to-be-glorious Milton here, so much the 
 better. And for all of us, I should think, there can 
 be no choicer quest, and none more refining, than, 
 with the Muse before us, to seek the very well-spring 
 and to discover the processes of her " wisdom mar- 
 ried to immortal verse." 
 
 We owe to the artist's feeling that his gift is in- 
 Artistic nate, and that it does produce " an illusion 
 
 on the eye of the mind " which, he fears, 
 too curious analysis may dispel : to this we doubt- 
 less owe his general reluctance to talk with definite- 
 ness concerning his art. Often you may as well ask 
 a Turk after his family, or a Hindu priest concern- 
 ing his inner shrine. I have put to several minstrels 
 the direct question, "What is poetry?" without ob- 
 taining a categorical reply. One of them, indeed, 
 said, "I can't tell you just now, but if you need a 
 first-class example of it, I '11 refer you to my volume 
 of ' Lyrics and Madrigals.' " But when they do give 
 us chips from their workshop, the table-talk of 
 poets, the stray sentences in their letters, these, 
 like the studio-hints of masters, are both curt and 
 precious, and emphatically refute Macaulay's state- 
 ment that good poets are bad critics. They incline 
 us rather to believe with Shenstone that "every 
 good poet includes a critic; the reverse" (as he 
 added) "will not hold." 
 
 Even a layman shares the artist's hesitation to
 
 WHY ANSWER IS EVADED 13 
 
 discourse upon that which pertains to human emo- 
 tion. Because sensation and its causes are univer- 
 sal, the feeling that creates poetry for an expression, 
 and the expression itself, in turn exciting feeling in 
 the listener, are factors which we shrink from redu- 
 cing to terms. An instinctive delicacy is founded in 
 nature. To overcome it is like laying hands upon 
 the sacred ark. One must be assured that this is 
 done on the right occasion, and that, at least for the 
 moment, he has a special dispensation. A false 
 handling cheapens the value of an art puts out of 
 sight, with the banishment of its reserve, what it 
 might be worth to us. All have access to Theheritage 
 the universal elements; they cost nothing, ofa11 ' 
 are at the public service, and even children and wit- 
 lings can toy with and dabble in them. So it is with 
 music, poetry, and other general expressions of feel- 
 ing. Most people can sing a little, any boy can 
 whistle and latterly, I believe, any girl who would 
 defy augury, and be in the fashion. Three fourths 
 of the minor verse afloat in periodicals or issued in 
 pretty volumes corresponds to the poetry of high 
 feeling and imagination somewhat as a boy's whis- 
 tling to a ravishing cavatina on the Boehm flute. As 
 a further instance, a knack of modelling comes by 
 nature. If sculptor's clay were in every road-bank, 
 and casts from the antique as common as school 
 readers and printed books of the poets, we probably 
 should have reputed Michelangelos and Canovas in 
 every village instead of here and there a Ward, a St. 
 Gaudens, or a Donoghue.
 
 14 ORACLES OLD AND NEW 
 
 But it is precisely the arts in which anybody can 
 the crown of dabble that the elect raise to heights of 
 dignity and beauty. Those who realize 
 this indulge a pardonable foible if they desire to 
 reserve, like the Egyptian priests, certain mysteries, 
 if only pro magnifico. Besides, there are ^periods 
 when the utility of artistic analysis is not readily 
 accepted by those who make opinion. Economics 
 and sociology, for example, largely absorb the in- 
 terest of one of our most scholarly journals. Its 
 literary and art columns are ably conducted. The 
 A traditional chief editor, however, told me that he 
 
 undervalua- , , . , .. , . 
 
 tion. knew little of aesthetics, and cared to 
 
 know less ; and in such a way as to warrant an in- 
 ference that, though well disposed, he looked upon 
 art and song and poetry very much as Black Both- 
 well regarded clerkly pursuits, that they were to 
 him what Italian music seemed to Dr. Johnson, in 
 whose honest eyes its practitioners were but fiddlers 
 and dancing-masters. This undervaluation by a very 
 clever man is partly caused, if not justified, one 
 must believe, by the vulgarization of the arts of 
 beauty and design. Yet these arts belong as much 
 to the order of things, and indirectly make as much 
 for wealth, as the science of economics, and they 
 make as much for social happiness as the science of 
 sociology, if, indeed, they are to be excluded from 
 either. 
 
 Can we, even here, take up poetry as a botanist
 
 JS ANSWER POSSIBLE f 15 
 
 takes up a flower, and analyze its components ? Can 
 we make visible the ichor of its proto- can poetry be 
 plasm, and recognize a something that 
 imparts to it transcendency, the spirit of the poet 
 within his uttered work ? Why has the question 
 before us been so difficult to answer ? Simply be- 
 cause it relates to that which is at once inclusive 
 and evasive. There is no doubt what sculpture and 
 painting and music and architecture seem to be ; 
 the statements of critics may differ, but the work 
 is visible and understood. Do you say with the 
 philosophers that poetry is a sensation, that its qual- 
 ity lies in the mind of the recipient, and hence is 
 indefinite ? The assertion applies no less to the 
 plastic arts and to music, yet the things by which 
 those excite our sensations are well denned, and 
 what I seek is the analogous definition of the spoken 
 art. It has been said that " one element must for- 
 ever elude researches, and that is the very element 
 by which poetry is poetry." I confess we cannot 
 define the specific perfume of a flower ; but there is 
 a logical probability that this conveys itself alike to 
 all of us, that the race is as but one soul in receiving 
 the impression. I think we can seize upon all other 
 conditions that make a flower a flower or a poem a 
 poem. 
 
 Edgar Poe avowed his belief in the power of 
 words to express all human ideas, a whether ian- 
 belief entertained by Joubert also. Nor quate. 
 have I any doubt that for every clear thought, even
 
 1 6 ORACLES OLD AND NEW 
 
 for every emotion, words have been, or can be, 
 found, as surely as there is a conquest of matter by 
 the spirit ; that speech, the soul's utterance, shares 
 the subtilties of its master. Where it seems to fail, 
 the fault is in the speaker. As a race goes on, both 
 its conceptions and its emotions are clearer and 
 richer, and language keeps pace with them. The 
 time may come, indeed, when thought will not be 
 "deeper than all speech," nor "feeling deeper than 
 all thought." If we still lag in emotional expres- 
 sion, we can excite feelings similar to our own by 
 the spells of art. I do not see why the primary ele- 
 ments of poetry in the concrete should not be stated 
 without sophistication, and as clearly as those of 
 painting, music, or architecture. They have, in fact, 
 Oracles, old been stated fragmentarily by one and an- 
 other poet and thinker, most of whom 
 agree on certain points. True criticism does not 
 discredit old discovery in its quest for something 
 more. Its office, as Mill says of philosophy, is not 
 to set aside old definitions, but it " corrects and regu- 
 lates them." It does not differ for the sake of nov- 
 elty, but formulates what is, and shall be, of melody 
 and thought and feeling, and what no less has been 
 since first the morning stars sang together. I must 
 ask you, then, to permit me, in this opening lecture, 
 very swiftly to review familiar and historic utter- 
 ances, from which we may combine principles emi- 
 nently established, and, if need be, to add some 
 newly stated factor, in our subsequent effort to for-
 
 ARISTOTELIANISM 1? 
 
 mulate a definition of poetry that shall be scientifi- 
 cally clear and comprehensive, and also to establish 
 limits beyond which speculation is foreign to the 
 design of this lecture-course. 
 
 Various poets and thinkers, each after his kind, 
 have contributed to such a definition. I The antique 
 
 . , or classical 
 
 have mentioned Aristotle. He at least idea. 
 applied to the subject a cool and level intellect ; and 
 his formula, to which in certain essentials all must 
 pay respect, is an ultimate deduction from the an- 
 tique. It fails of his master Plato's spirituality, but 
 excels in precision. Aristotle regards FromAristo . 
 poetry as a structure whose office is imi- tle to Goethe - 
 tation through imagery, and its end delight, the 
 latter caused not by the imitation, but through 
 workmanship, harmony, and rhythm. The histo- 
 rian shows what has happened, the poet such things 
 as might have been, devoted to universal truth 
 rather than to particulars. The poet the iron/rr;? 
 is, of course, a maker, and his task is invention. 
 Finally, he must feel strongly what he writes. 
 Here we have the classical view. The Greeks, 
 looking upon poetry as a fine art, had no hesitation 
 in giving it outline and law. 
 
 Naturally an artist like Horace assented to this 
 
 conception. Within his range there is no Horace, Dry- 
 den, and 
 
 more enduring poet ; yet he excludes him- thers - 
 self from the title, and this because of the very ele- 
 ments which make him so modern, his lyrical
 
 1 8 ORACLES OLD AND NEW 
 
 grace and personal note. With Aristotle, he 
 yielded the laurel solely to heroic dramatists and 
 epic bards. His example is followed by our brave 
 old Chapman, Homer's bold translator, who de- 
 clares that the energia of poets lies in " high and 
 hearty Invention." Dryden also accepts the canon 
 of Imitation, but avows that " Imaging is, in itself, 
 the height and life of- it," and cites Longinus, for 
 whom poetry was " a discourse which, by a kind of 
 enthusiasm, or extraordinary emotion of the soul, 
 makes it seem to us that we behold those things 
 which the poet paints." Landor, the modern Greek, 
 whose art was his religion, repeats that "all the 
 imitative arts have delight for their principal ob- 
 ject ; the first of these is poetry ; the highest of 
 AS an an poetry is the tragic." But recognition 
 of only the structure of verse, without its 
 soul, deadened the poetry of France in her pseudo- 
 classical period, from Boileau to Hugo, so that it 
 could be declared, as late as A. D. 1838, that " in 
 French literature that part is most poetry which is 
 written in prose." Even the universal Goethe re- 
 pressed his " noble rage " by the conception of 
 poetry as an art alone, so that Heine, a pagan of the 
 lyrical rather than of the inventive cast, said that 
 this was the reason why Goethe's work did not, 
 like the lesser but more human Schiller's, " beget 
 deeds." "This is the curse," he declared, "of all 
 that has originated in mere art." Like Pygmalion 
 and the statue, "his kisses warmed her into life,
 
 SONG AND EMOTION 19 
 
 but, so far as we know, she never bore children." 1 
 Goethe's pupil, the young Matthew Arnold, ac- 
 cepted without reserve the antique notion of poetry. 
 "Actions, human actions," he cried, "are the eter- 
 nal objects of the muse." In after years, as we 
 shall see, he formed a more sympathetic conception. 
 Other poets have thrown different and priceless 
 alloys into the crucible from which is to The Romantic 
 flow the metal of our seeking, adding fire aTthe lyr^ai 7 
 
 i . rr>i . f expression of 
 
 and sweetness to its tone. I he chiefs of Emotion, 
 the romantic movement, so near our own time, be- 
 lieved Passion to be the one thing needful. Byron 
 was its fervent exemplar. In certain Byron, 
 moods, it is true, he affected to think that he and 
 his compeers were upon a wrong system, and he ex- 
 tolled the genius and style of Pope. But this was 
 after all had got the seed of his own flower. It was 
 plainly an affectation of revolt from his own affec- 
 tation, with haply some prophetic sense of natural- 
 ism as a basis for genuine emotion. His summing 
 up is given in " Don Juan " : 
 
 " Thus to their extreme verge the passions brought 
 Dash into poetry, which is but passion, 
 Or at least was so, ere it grew a fashion." 
 
 Moore, light-weight as he was, aptly stated the 
 Byronic creed : " Poetry ought only to be employed 
 as an interpreter of feeling." This is certainly 
 true, as far as it goes, and agrees with Mill's 
 
 1 But see Ovid, Met. x. 297 : 
 
 " Ilia Paphon genuit, de quo tenet insula nomen."
 
 20 ORACLES OLD AND NEW 
 
 later but still limited canon, that poetry is emo- 
 Miiiand tion expressed in lyrical language. 1 But 
 Ruskm. a com pi e te definition distinguishes the 
 thing defined from everything else ; it denotes, as 
 you know, " the species, the whole species, and no- 
 thing but the species." Bascom and Ruskin follow 
 Mill, but Ruskin adds other elements, saying that 
 poetry is the suggestion, by the "imagination," of 
 noble " thoughts " for noble emotions. This does 
 not exclude painting and other emotional and im- 
 aginative arts. In truth, he is simply defining art, 
 and takes poetry, as Plato might, as a synonym for 
 art in all its forms of expression. 
 
 An elevated view, on the whole, is gained by 
 imagination, those who recognize more sensibly the 
 force of Imagination. Here the twin contemplative 
 seers, Wordsworth and Coleridge, lift their torches, 
 dispersing many mists. They saw that poetry is not 
 opposed to prose, of which verse is the true antithe- 
 sis, but that in spirit and action it is the reverse of 
 science or matter of fact. Imagination is its pole- 
 star, its utterance the echo of man and nature. The 
 poet has no restriction beyond the duty of giving 
 pleasure. Nothing else stands between him and the 
 very image of nature, from which a hundred bar- 
 riers shut off the biographer and historian. Words- 
 The Lake worth admits the need of emotion, but re- 
 nounces taste. Coleridge plainly has the 
 instinct for beauty and the spell of measured words. 
 
 1 J. S. Mill's Thoughts on Poetry and its Varieties, 1833.
 
 IMA GIN A TION PLA TONISM 2 1 
 
 The chief contributions of the Lake School to our 
 definition are the recognition of the imagination and 
 the antithesis of science to poetry. 1 The pessimist 
 Schopenhauer, who wrote like a musician on music, 
 like a poet on poetry, yet with wholly impassive 
 judgment, also avows that poetry is "the art of ex- 
 citing by words the power of the imagination," and 
 that it must " show by example what life and the 
 world are." 
 
 From the attributes of invention, passion, and im- 
 agination may perhaps be deduced what The Platonic 
 seems to others *the specific quality of conce P tion - 
 the poet, the very quintessence of his gift. What 
 should I mean, save that which Aristotle's mas- 
 ter considered the element productive of all others 
 and a direct endowment from heaven, inspiration, 
 the Inspiration governing creative, impassioned, im- 
 aginative art ? The poet's soul was, according to 
 Plato, in harmonic relation with the soul of the uni- 
 verse. It is true that in the " Republic " he sup- 
 plies Aristotle with a technical basis ; Plat0)in The 
 furthermore, as an idealist playing at gov- Re P ubhc -" 
 ernment, he is more sternly utilitarian than even the 
 man of affairs. The epic and dramatic makers of 
 " imitative history " are falsifiers, dangerous for their 
 divine power of exciting the passions and unsettling 
 the minds of ordinary folk. He admires a poet, and 
 would even crown him, but feels bound to escort 
 
 1 Coleridge's Introductory Matter on Poetry, the Drama, and the 
 Stage ; Wordsworth's Prefaces and Appendix to Lyrical Ballads, etc.
 
 22 ORACLES OLD AND NEW 
 
 him to the side of the ship Republic and to drop 
 him overboard, as the Quaker repulsed the boarder, 
 with the remark, " Friend, thee has no business 
 here ! " But this is Plato defying his natal goddess 
 in a passing ascetic mood ; Plato, in whose self the 
 poet and philosopher were one indeed, having ever 
 since been trying, like the two parts of his arche- 
 typal man, to find again so perfect a union. In his 
 more general mood he atones for such wantonness, 
 reiterating again and again that the poet is a seer, 
 possessed of all secrets and guided by an inspiring 
 spirit ; that without his second sight, his interpre- 
 tation of the divine ideas symbolized by substance 
 and action, his mission would be fruitless. 
 
 Those who take this higher view revere the name 
 From piato to f Plato, though sometimes looking be- 
 yond him to the more eastern East, 
 whence such occult wisdom is believed to flow, 
 to such sayings as that ascribed to Zoroaster, 1 
 " Poets are standing transporters ; their employ- 
 ment consists in speaking to the Father and to 
 Matter, in provoking apparent copies of unapparent 
 natures, and thus inscribing things unapparent in 
 the apparent fabric of the world." 
 
 Cicero, deeply read in Plato, could not conceive 
 Cicero. of a poet's producing verse of grand im- 
 
 port and perfect rhythm without some heavenly in- 
 breathing of the mind. The soul's highest preroga- 
 tive was to contemplate the order of celestial things 
 1 Cited by F. B. Sanborn in a paper on Emerson.
 
 THE POET AS A SEER 23 
 
 and to reproduce it. Transcendental thinkers 
 such as Lord Bacon in his finest vein recognize 
 this as its office. While Bacon's general Bacon, 
 view of poetry is that all " Feigned History " (as 
 he terms it), prose or verse, may be so classed, he 
 says the use of it " hath been to give some shadow 
 of satisfaction to the mind of man in those points 
 wherein the nature of things doth deny it " ; and 
 again, that it is thought to " have some participation 
 of divineness because it doth raise and erect the 
 mind, by submitting the shews of things to the 
 desires of the mind." Sidney's flawless Sidney. 
 " Defense of Poesie " l exalts the prophetic gift of 
 the vates above all art and invention. In our day 
 Carlyle clung to the supremacy of inspiration, in 
 art no less than in action. But no one since Ploti- 
 nus has made it so veritably the golden dome of the 
 temple as our seer of seers, Emerson, in whose be- 
 lief the artist does not create so much as report. 
 The soul works through him. " Poetry is the per- 
 petual endeavor to express the spirit of the thing." 
 And thus all the Concord group, notably The Concord 
 Dr. W. T. Harris, in whose treatises of SchooL 
 Dante and other poets the spiritual interpreting 
 
 1 Prof. Albert S. Cook, in his edition of Sidney's tractate, re- 
 marks concerning the title : " The Defense was not published till 
 1595, and then by two different printers, Olney and Ponsonby. The 
 former gave it the title, An Apologie for Poetrie ; the latter, The De- 
 fence of Poesie. It is doubtful which of these appeared the earlier. . . . 
 Sidney himself refers to the treatise as 'a pitiful defense of poor 
 poetry.' "
 
 24 ORACLES OLD AND NEW 
 
 power of the bard is made preeminent. The sub- 
 tlest modern poet of life and thought, Browning, 
 Browning. has left us only one prose statement of 
 his art, but that is the lion's progeny. The poet's 
 effort he saw to be " a presentment of the correspon- 
 dency of the universe to the Deity, of the natural to 
 the spiritual, and of the actual to the ideal." Spirit- 
 ual progress, rather than art, is the essential thing. 
 A similarly extreme view led Carlyle (himself, like 
 Cariyie. Plato, a poet throughout) to discounte- 
 
 nance the making of poetry as an art. Carried too 
 far, the Platonic idea often has vitiated the work 
 Transcenden- of those minor transcendentalists who re- 
 
 tal strength 
 
 and weakness, duce their poetics to didactics, and inject 
 the drop of prose that precipitates their rarest elixir. 
 Their creed, however, with its inclusion of the 
 bard as a revealer of the secret of things, while 
 not fully defining poetry, lays stress upon its high- 
 est attribute. 
 
 Thus we see that many have not cared to speak 
 Per ambages, absolutely, and more have failed to dis- 
 
 ut mos oracu- 
 
 lis - criminate between the thing done and the 
 
 means of doing. Poetry is made a Brahma, at once 
 the slayer and the slain. A vulgar delusion, that of 
 poetasters, is to confound the art with its materials. 
 The nobler error recognizes the poetic spirit, but 
 not that spirit incarnate of its own will in particular 
 and concrete form. The outcome is scarcely more 
 exact and substantial than the pretty thesis caroled 
 by " one of America's pet Marjories " in her tenth
 
 CLEARER UTTERANCES 25 
 
 year, and long since become of record. This child's 
 heart detected "poetry, poetry everywhere!" and 
 proclaimed that 
 
 " You breathe it in the summer air, 
 You see it in the green wild woods, 
 It nestles in the first spring buds. 
 
 'T is poetry, poetry everywhere 
 It nestles in the violets fair, 
 It peeps out in the first spring grass 
 Things without poetry are very scarce." 
 
 That our na'fve little rhymer was a sibyl, and her 
 statement hardly more vague than the definitions of 
 poetry offered by older philosophers, who will deny ? 
 All in all, various writers connected with the art 
 movement of the present century have clearer state- 
 most sensibly discussed the topic. They ments ' 
 recognize poetry as an entity, subject to expressed 
 conditions. Hazlitt and Leigh Hunt logically distin- 
 guished between it and poetic feeling, and believed 
 one to be the involuntary utterance of the other, 
 sympathetically modulating the poet's sheiiey'snobie 
 
 3 V J "Defence of 
 
 voice to its key. Shelley, the Ariel of Poetry," 1821. 
 songsters, came right down to the ground of our 
 enchanted isle, laying stress upon the dependence 
 of the utterance on rhythm and order on " those 
 arrangements of language, and especially metrical 
 language, which are created by that imperial fac- 
 ulty whose throne is contained within the invisible 
 nature of man." More recently the poet-critic, 
 Theodore Watts, in the best modern essay upon the
 
 26 ORACLES OLD AND NEW 
 
 subject, 1 says that "absolute poetry is the concrete 
 and artistic expression of the human mind in emo- 
 tional and rhythmical language." Here we certainly 
 are getting out of the mists. In these formulas an 
 effort for precision is apparent, and the latest one 
 would be satisfactory did it insist more definitely, 
 within itself, upon the office of the imagination, 
 and upon the interpretative gift which is the very 
 soul of our art. 
 
 The ideas presented by many of the poets seem 
 mam conformed to their own re- 
 
 The personal 
 
 Krmtation. spective gifts, and therefore in a sense 
 
 limited. Thus, years after Schlegel had termed po- 
 etry " the power of creating what is beautiful, and 
 representing it to the eye or ear," our disciple of 
 taste, Poe, who avowed that poetry had been to him 
 " not a purpose, but a passion," amended Schlegel's 
 terms with the adjective needed to complete his own 
 Lecture on definition " the Rhythmical Creation of 
 principle,"' Beauty." Never did a wayward romancer 
 l845 ' speak with a sincerer honesty of the lyri- 
 
 cal art, and he clenched his statement by adding that 
 its sole arbiter was Taste. If you accept beauty in a 
 comprehensive sense, including all emotions, truths, 
 and ethics, accept this definition as precise and un- 
 flinching. But Poe confines its meaning to the do- 
 main of aesthetics, which of itself he thought opposed 
 to vice on account of her deformity ; furthermore, 
 he restricts it to what he terms supernal beauty, the 
 
 1 " Poetry," in the Encyclopedia Britannica, Ninth Edition.
 
 MIL TON POE ARNOLD 2 7 
 
 note of sadness and regret. This was simply his 
 own highest range and emotion. His formula, how- 
 ever, will always be tenderly regarded by refined 
 souls, for Beauty, pure and simple, is the alma mater 
 of the artist ; her unswerving devotee is absolved 
 many sins are forgiven to him who has loved her 
 much. 
 
 But often a poet, great or small, has burnished 
 some facet of the jewel we are setting. The Miitomc 
 Milton's declaration that poetry is " sim- canon - 
 pie, sensuous, passionate," is a recognition of its 
 most effective attributes. 1 Lowell has sprinkled the 
 whole subject with diamond-dust, and he, of all, per- 
 haps could best have given a new report of its tricksy 
 spirit. Arnold's phrase, "a criticism of AtTlold . s Del . 
 life, under the conditions fixed for such a P^ outgiving, 
 criticism by the laws of poetic truth and poetic 
 
 1 Milton's phrase has become familiar as a proverb since Coleridge 
 used it with great force in the prelude to his lectures on Shakespeare 
 and on the Drama, but it is seldom quoted with its context, as found 
 in the tractate On Education, addressed to Samuel Hartlib, A. D. 
 1644. The poet there speaks of "Rhetoric" as an art "to which 
 poetry would be made subsequent, or indeed rather precedent, as 
 being less subtile and fine, but more simple, sensuous, and passionate. 
 I mean not here the prosody of a verse, which they could not but have 
 hit on before among the rudiments of grammar ; but that sublime art 
 which in Aristotle's poetics, in Horace, . . . teaches what the laws 
 are of a true epic poem, what of a dramatic, what of a lyric, what 
 decorum is, which is the grand masterpiece to observe. This would 
 make them soon perceive what despicable creatures our common 
 rhymers and playwriters be ; and show them what religious, what 
 glorious and magnificent, use might be made of poetry, both in divine 
 and human things."
 
 28 ORACLES OLD AND NEW 
 
 beauty," is of value, yet one of those definitions 
 which themselves need a good deal of defining. 
 With the exception of Mr. Watts, we see that not 
 even the writers of our logical period have condensed 
 into a single clause a statement that establishes, 
 practically and inclusively, the basis on which our 
 art sustains its enrapturing vitality, and Mr. Watts's 
 statement leaves something for inference and his 
 after-explanation. Before endeavoring, in the next 
 lecture, to construct a framework that may serve our 
 temporary needs, I wish to consider briefly the most 
 suggestive addition which this century has made to 
 the elements previously observed. I refer to the 
 assertion of Wordsworth and Coleridge that poetry 
 is " the antithesis to science." 
 
 What does this assertion mean, and how far does 
 Poetry as the its bearing extend? The poet has two 
 
 antithesis to - . i i r 
 
 science. functions, one directly opposed to that of 
 
 the scientist, and avoided by him, while of the other 
 the scientist is not always master. The first is that 
 of treating nature and life as they seem, rather than 
 as they are ; of depicting phenomena, which often 
 are not actualities. I refer to physical actualities, of 
 which the investigator gives the scientific facts, the 
 poet the semblances known to eye, ear, and touch. 
 The poet's other function is the exercise of an in- 
 sight which pierces to spiritual actualities, to the 
 meaning of phenomena, and to the relations of all 
 this scientific knowledge.
 
 POETRY AND SCIENCE 2Q 
 
 To illustrate the distinction between a poet's, or 
 other artist's, old-style treatment of things The Real and 
 as they seem and the philosopher's state- the A PP arent - 
 ment of them as they are, I once used an extreme, 
 and therefore a serviceable, example ; to wit, the 
 grand Aurora fresco in the Rospigliosi palace. Here 
 you have the childlike, artistic, and phenomenal con- 
 ception of the antique poets. To them the Dawn 
 was a joyous heroic goddess, speeding her chariot in 
 advance of the sun-god along the clouds, while the 
 beauteous Hours lackeying her scattered many-hued 
 blossoms down the eastern sky. For the educated 
 modern there is neither Aurora nor Apollo ; there 
 are no winged Hours, no flowers of diverse hues. 
 His sun is an incandescent material sphere, alive 
 with magnetic forces, engirt with hydrogenous flame, 
 and made up of constituents more or less recogniza- 
 ble through spectrum analysis. The colors of the 
 auroral dawn for the poet still fondly calls it auro- 
 ral are rays from this measurable incandescence, 
 refracted by the atmosphere and clouds, under the 
 known conditions that have likewise put to test both 
 the pagan and biblical legends of that prismatic no- 
 thing, the rainbow itself. 1 The stately blank-verse 
 poem, " Orion," which the late Hengist Home pub- 
 lished at a farthing half a century ago, is doubtless 
 our most imaginative rendering of the legend which 
 
 1 " There was an awful rainbow once in heaven : 
 We know her woof, her texture ; she is given 
 In the dull catalogue of common things." 
 
 Keats : Lamia.
 
 30 ORACLES OLD AND NEW 
 
 placed the blind giant in the skies. The most superb 
 of constellations represents even in modern poetry a 
 mythical demigod. In science it was but the other 
 day that the awful whirl of nebulae developed by the 
 Lick telescope revealed it to us almost as a distinct 
 universe in itself. 
 
 But to show the distinction as directly affecting 
 A modem modes of expression, take the first of 
 countless illustrations that come to hand ; 
 for instance, the methods applied to the treatment 
 of one of our recurrent coast storms. The poet 
 says : 
 
 " When descends on the Atlantic 
 
 The gigantic 
 
 Storm-wind of the Equinox, 
 Landward in his wrath he scourges 
 
 The toiling surges 
 Laden with sea-weed from the rocks." 
 
 Or take this stanza by a later balladist : 
 
 " The East Wind gathered, all unknown, 
 A thick sea-cloud his course before : 
 He left by night the frozen zone, 
 
 And smote the cliffs of Labrador ; 
 He lashed the coasts on either hand, 
 And betwixt the Cape and Newfoundland 
 Into the bay his armies pour." 
 
 All this impersonation and fancy is translated by 
 the Weather Bureau into something like the follow- 
 ing: 
 
 An area of extreme low pressure is rapidly moving up 
 the Atlantic coast, with wind and rain. Storm-centre now
 
 ANTITHETICAL PROCESSES 31 
 
 off Charleston, S. C. Wind N. E. Velocity, 54. Ba- 
 rometer, 29.6. The disturbance will reach New York on 
 Wednesday, and proceed eastward to the Banks and Bay 
 St. Lawrence. Danger-signals ordered for all North At- 
 lantic ports. 
 
 We cannot too clearly understand the difference 
 between artistic vision and scientific ana- The distinction 
 
 , . , chiefly one of 
 
 lysis. The poet in his language and the methods. 
 painter with his brush are insensibly and rightly 
 affected by the latter. The draughtsman, it is 
 plain, must depict nature and life as they seem to 
 the eye, and he needs only a flat surface. The 
 camera has proved this, demonstrating the fidelity 
 in outline and shadow of drawings antedating its 
 use. The infant, the blind man suddenly given 
 sight, see things in the flat as we do, but without 
 our acquired sense of facts indicated by their per- 
 spective. We have learned, and experience has 
 trained our senses to instant perception, that things 
 have the third dimension, that of thickness, and are 
 not equally near or far. The Japanese, with an in- 
 stinct beyond that of some of his Mongolian neigh- 
 bors, avoids an extreme flat treatment by confining 
 himself largely to the essential lines of objects, 
 allowing one's imagination to supply the rest. He 
 carries suggestiveness, the poet's and the artist's 
 effective ally, to the utmost. Still, as Mr. Wores 
 says, he has no scruples about facts, "for he does 
 not pretend to draw things as they are, or should 
 be, but as they seem." Now, it is probable that the
 
 32 ORACLES OLD AND NEW 
 
 Aryan artist is born with a more analytic vision 
 than that of the Orient ; if not, that he does in- 
 stinctively resist certain inclinations to draw lines 
 just as they appear to him. But this natural resist- 
 ance unquestionably was long ago reinforced by his 
 study of the laws of perspective. The generally 
 truer and more effective rendering of outline and 
 shadow by Western masters cannot be denied, and 
 furnishes an example of the aid which scientific 
 analysis can render to the artist. In just the same 
 way, we may see, empirical knowledge is steadily 
 becoming a part of the poet's equipment, and, I 
 have no doubt, is by inherited transmission giving 
 him at birth an ability to receive from phenomena 
 more scientifically correct impressions. For his 
 purposes, nevertheless, the portrayal of things as 
 they seem conveys a truth just as important as that 
 other truth which the man of analysis and demon- 
 stration imparts to the intellect. It is the methods 
 that are antithetical. 
 
 The poet's other function, which the scientist 
 Discoveiy does not avoid, but which research alone 
 
 through Im- 
 agination, does not confer upon him, is that of seiz- 
 ing the abstract truth of things whether observed or 
 discovered. It has been given out, though I do not 
 vouch for it, that Edison obtains some of his ideas 
 for practical invention from the airy flights of im- 
 agination taken by writers of fiction. In any case, 
 it is clear that with respect to inventive surmise the 
 poet is in advance : the investigator, if he would
 
 DISCOVERY THROUGH INTUITION 33 
 
 leap to greater discoveries, must have the poetic 
 insight and imagination, be, in a sense, a poet 
 himself, and exchange the mask and gloves of the 
 alchemist for the soothsayer's wand and mantle. 
 Those of our geologists, biologists, mechanicians, 
 who are not thus poets in spite of themselves must 
 sit below the seers who by intuition strike the trail 
 of new discovery. For beyond both the phantasmal 
 look of things and full scientific attainment there is 
 a universal coherence there are infinite meanings 
 which the poet has the gift to see, and by the 
 revelation and prophecy of which he illumines what- 
 ever is cognizable. 
 
 The so-called conflict of science and religion, in 
 reality one of fact and dogma, has been waged ob- 
 viously since the time of Galileo. Its annals are 
 recorded. It was the sooner inevitable because 
 science takes nothing on faith. The slower, but 
 equally prognosticable, effect of exact science on 
 poetry, though foreseen by the Lake School, was 
 not extreme until recently, so recently, in fact, 
 that a chapter which I devoted to it in c p . "Victorian 
 
 _ . . Poets " : pp. 
 
 1874 was almost the first extended con- 7-2'- 
 sideration that it received. Since then it has been 
 constantly debated, and not always radically. That 
 the poets went on so long in the old way, very much 
 like the people who came after the deluge, was due 
 to two conditions. First, their method was so in- 
 grained in literature, so common to the educated 
 world, that it sustained a beauteous phantasmagory
 
 34 ORACLES OLD AND NEW 
 
 against all odds. Again, the poets have walked in 
 lowly ways, and each by himself ; they have no proud 
 temporal league and station, like the churchmen's, 
 to make them timid of innovation, of any new force 
 that may shake their roof -trees. They have been 
 gipsies, owning nothing, yet possessed of everything 
 without the care of it. At last they see this usu- 
 fruct denied them ; they are bidden to surrender 
 even their myths and fallacies and inspiring illu- 
 sions. With a grace that might earlier have been 
 displayed by the theologians, they are striving to 
 adapt art to its conditions, though at the best it is 
 a slow process to bring their clientage to the new 
 Through night ideality. Though the imagery and diction 
 which have served their use, and are now 
 absurd, must cease, the creation of something truer 
 and nobler is not the work of a day, and of a leader, 
 but of generations. So there is a present struggle, 
 and the poets are sharing the discomfort of the dog- 
 matists. The forced marches of knowledge in this 
 age do insensibly perturb them, even give the world 
 a distaste for a product which, it fears, we must dis- 
 trust. The new learning is so radiant, so novel, and 
 therefore seemingly remarkable, that of itself it 
 satiates the world's imagination. Even the abashed 
 idealists, though inspired by it, feel it becoming to 
 fall into the background. Some of them recognize 
 it with stoical cynicism and stern effect. In Bal- 
 zac's " The Search for the Absolute," Balthazar's 
 wife, suffering agonies, makes an attempt to dis-
 
 THE NEW LEARNING 35 
 
 suade him from utterly sacrificing his fortune, his 
 good name, even herself, in the effort to manufac- 
 ture diamonds. He tenderly grasps her in his arms, 
 and her beautiful eyes are filled with tears. The 
 infatuated chemist, wandering at once, exclaims : 
 "Tears ! I have decomposed them : they contain a 
 little phosphate of lime, chloride of sodium, mucin, 
 and water." Such is the last infirmity of noble 
 minds to-day. 
 
 We latterly find our bards alive to scientific reve- 
 lations. It has been well said that a Cp Poets o{ 
 " Paradise Lost " could not be written in f^"'^ 15 ' 
 this century, even by a Milton. In his 382 ' 
 time the Copernican system was acknowledged, but 
 the old theory of the universe haunted literature 
 and was serviceable for that conception of " man's 
 first disobedience," and the array of infernal and 
 celestial hosts, to which the great epic was devoted. 
 In our own time such a poet as Tennyson, to whom 
 the facts of nature are everything, does not make a 
 lover say, " O god of day ! " but 
 
 " Move eastward, happy earth, and leave 
 Yon orange sunset, waning slow." 
 
 Browning, Banville, Whitman, Emerson earliest and 
 most serenely, in fact, all modern intellectual 
 poets, not only adapt their works to physical 
 knowledge, but, as I say, often forestall it. Even 
 as we find them turned savants, we find Sdentificin . 
 our Clerk Maxwells, Roods, Lodges, Row- tultlons - 
 lands, poets in their quick guesses and assump-
 
 36 ORACLES OLD AND NEW 
 
 tions. Imaginative genius is such that often one 
 of its electric flames will come through what is ordi- 
 narily a non-conductor. That term, howbeit, can- 
 not be applied to an American scientist 1 who enjoys 
 the distinction of being at once a master of abstruse 
 mathematics and a brilliant writer of very poetic 
 novels, and to whom I put the same question I have 
 addressed to poets, simply, What is poetry ? He 
 Letter from an repaid me with a letter setting forth in 
 
 imaginative 
 
 savant. aptest phrase his own belief in the kin- 
 
 dred imaginations of the physicist and the poet. 
 Naturally he considers the physical discoverer just 
 now more triumphant and essential. " His study," 
 he says, " is relations. When he cannot discover 
 them, he invents them, strings his fact-beads on 
 the thread of hypothesis." After some illustrations 
 of this, he sets present research above past fancy, 
 and exclaims : " Compare the wings of light on 
 which we ascend with a speed to girdle the earth 
 eight times a second, to sift the constitution of stars, 
 with the steed of Mohammed and its five-league 
 steps and eyes of jacinth ! What a chapter the Ori- 
 ental poet could give us to-day in a last edition of 
 Job founding the conception of the Unknown on 
 what we know of his works, instead of on our igno- 
 rance of them. I want a new Paul to rewrite and 
 restate the doctrine of immortality." 
 
 But here the poet may justly break in and say, 
 It is not from investigators, but from the divine 
 
 1 Prof. A. S. Hardy, of Dartmouth College.
 
 POET AND SA VANT 37 
 
 preachers, that we inherit this doctrine of immor- 
 tality. Being poets, through insight they Insight first of 
 saw it to be true, and announced it as ail - 
 revealed to them. Let science demonstrate it, as it 
 yet may, and the idealists will soon adjust their 
 imagery and diction to the resulting conditions. It 
 is only thus they can give satisfaction and hold 
 their ground. The prolongation of worn-out fancy 
 has been somewhat their own fault, and it is just 
 they should suffer for it. Still, although we may 
 shift externals, the idealists will be potent as ever ; 
 their strength lies not in their method, but in their 
 sovereign perception of the relations of things. Even 
 the theologians no longer dismiss facts with the 
 quotation, " Canst thou by searching find out God ? " 
 The world has learned that at all events we can 
 steadily broaden and heighten our conception of him. 
 We are beginning to verify Lowell's prophetic state- 
 ment : 
 
 " Science was faith once ; Faith were science now 
 Would she but lay her bow and arrows by 
 And arm her with the weapons of the time." 
 
 Theology, teaching immortality, now finds science 
 deducing the progressive existence of the Aspects of the 
 soul as an inference from the law of evolu- transitlon - 
 tion. Poetry finds science offering it fresh discovery 
 as the terrace from which to essay new flights. 
 While realizing this aid, a temporary disenchantment 
 is observed. The public imagination is so intent 
 upon the marvels of force, life, psychology, that it
 
 38 ORACLES OLD AND NEW 
 
 concerns itself less with the poet's ideals. Who 
 cares for the ode pronounced at the entrance of this 
 Exposition, while impatient to reach the exhibits 
 within the grounds ? Besides, fields of industrial 
 achievement are opened by each investigation, en- 
 hancing human welfare, and absorbing our energies. 
 The soldiers of this noble war do not meditate and 
 idealize ; their prayer and song are an impulse, not 
 an occupation. 
 
 My romancer and scientist goes on to say, " In all 
 The poet's this the poet loses nothing. It is funda- 
 g"ound! e mental fact that the conquest of mystery 
 leads to greater mystery ; the more we know the 
 greater the material for the imagination." This I 
 too believe, and that the poet's province is, and ever 
 must be, the expression of the manner in which re- 
 vealed truths, and truths as yet unseen but guessed 
 and felt by him, affect the emotions and thus sway 
 man's soul. 
 
 Therefore his final ground is still his own, and he 
 well may say, as Whitman chanted thirty years 
 ago: 
 
 " Space and Time ! now I see it is true, what I guessed at. 
 
 I accept Reality, and dare not question it, 
 Materialism first and last imbuing. 
 
 Gentlemen, to you the first honors always ! 
 
 Your facts are useful, and yet they are not my dwelling, 
 
 I but enter by them to an area of my dwelling. 
 
 Less the reminders of properties told my words, 
 
 And more the reminders they of life untold."
 
 IMMORTAL BROTHERHOOD 39 
 
 Insight and spiritual feeling will continue to pre- 
 cede discovery and sensation. In their footprints 
 the investigator must advance for his next truth, 
 and at the moment of his advance become one with 
 the poet. In the words of Tyndall on Emerson, 
 "Poetry, with the joy of a bacchanal, takes her grave 
 brother by the hand, and cheers him with immortal 
 laughter." Meanwhile the laws of change, Ebb and flow, 
 fashion, ennui, that breed devotion first to one exer- 
 cise of man's higher faculty, and anon to another, 
 will direct the public attention alternately to the 
 investigator and to the poet. In lulls or fatigue of 
 discovery, there will be an eager return to the oracles 
 for their interpretation of the omens of the labora- 
 tory and ward. The services of the temple are con- 
 fined no more to the homily and narrative than to 
 song and prayer.
 
 II. 
 
 WHAT IS POETRY? 
 
 THESE lectures, as I have intimated, are purposely 
 direct of statement, and even elementary. A word 
 From my point of view this does not of it- b 
 self imply a lack of respect for the intelligence of 
 the listener. The most advanced star-gazer holds to 
 his mathematics ; while, as to poetry, enthusiasts 
 find it easier to build fine sentences than to make 
 clear to others, if to themselves, the nature of that 
 which affects them so inspiringly. I trust that you 
 are willing, in place of the charm of style and the 
 jest and epigram of discourses for entertainment, to 
 accept a search for the very stuff whereof the Muse 
 fashions her transubstantial garments to discover 
 what plant or moth supplies the sheeny fibre ; in 
 what heat, what light, the iridescent fabric is dyed 
 and spun and woven. 
 
 It has occurred to me I think it may not seem 
 amiss to you that this eager modern The direct 
 
 .. and timely 
 
 time, when the world has turned critic, question, 
 this curious evening of the century, when the 
 hum of readers and the mists of thought go up from 
 every village ; when poetry is both read and written, 
 whether well or ill, more generally than ever before ;
 
 42 WHAT IS POETRY f 
 
 and when clubs are formed for its study and enjoy- 
 ment, where commentators urban or provincial, mas- 
 ters and mistresses of analytics, devote nights to the 
 elucidation of a single verse or phrase it has oc- 
 curred to me that this is an opportune time for the 
 old question, so often received as if it were a jet of 
 cold water upon steam or the stroke of midnight at 
 a masquerade an apt time to ask ourselves, What, 
 then, is poetry, after all ? What are the elements 
 beneath its emotion and intellectual delight ? Let us 
 have the primer itself. For, if such a primer be not 
 constructible, if it be wholly missing or disdained, 
 you may feel and enjoy a poem, but you will hardly 
 be consistent in your discourse upon it, and this 
 whether you concern yourself with Browning, or 
 Meredith, or Ibsen, as is now the mode, or with 
 the masterworks of any period. 
 
 Nevertheless, we too must begin our answer to 
 The poetic the question, What is poetry? by declar- 
 
 spirit not redu- 
 cible to terms, ing that the essential spirit of poetry is 
 
 indefinable. It is something which is perceived and 
 felt through a reciprocal faculty shared by human 
 beings in various degrees. The range of these de- 
 grees is as wide as that between the boor and the 
 sensitive adept between the racial Calibans and 
 Prosperos. The poetic spirit is absolute and primal, 
 acknowledged but not reducible, and therefore we 
 postulate it as an axiom of nature and sensation. 
 To state this otherwise : it is true that the poetic
 
 DEFINABLE IN THE CONCRETE 43 
 
 essence always has been a force, an energy, both 
 subtile and compulsive ; a primal force, like that 
 energy the discovery of whose unities is the grand 
 physical achievement of this century. The shapes 
 which it informs are Protean, and have a seeming 
 elusiveness. Still, even Proteus, as Vergil tells us, is 
 capturable. Force, through its vehicle of light, be- 
 comes fixed within the substance of our planet ; in 
 the carbon of the fern, the tree, the lump its vocal ex- 
 
 ,. . , rr^t pressionmay 
 
 of coal, the diamond. The poetic spirit be defined, 
 becomes concrete through utterance, in that poetry 
 which enters literature ; that is, in the concrete ut- 
 terances of age after age. Nothing of this is dura- 
 bly preserved but that which possesses the crystal- 
 line gift of receiving and giving out light indefinitely, 
 yet losing naught from its reservoir. Poetry is the 
 diamond of these concretions. It gives out light of 
 its own, but anticipates also the light of after-times, 
 and refracts it with sympathetic splendors. 
 
 With this uttered poetry, then, we are at present 
 concerned. Whether sung, spoken, or written, it is 
 still the most vital form of human expression. One 
 who essays to analyze its constituents is an explorer 
 undertaking a quest in which many have failed. 
 Doubtless he too may fail, but he sets forth in the 
 simplicity of a good knight who does not fear his 
 fate too much, whether his desert be great or small. 
 
 In this mood seeking a definition of A definition of 
 
 . . . . - Poetry in the 
 
 that poetic utterance which is or may be- concrete, 
 come of record, a definition both defensible and
 
 44 WHAT IS POETRY? 
 
 inclusive, yet compressed into a single phrase, I 
 have put together the following statement : 
 
 Poetry is rhythmical, imaginative language, express- 
 ing the invention, taste, thought, passion, and insight, 
 of the human soul. 
 
 First of all, and as a corollary, a resultant from 
 the factors of imaginative invention and 
 
 i.Theimagina- 
 
 and express! expression, we infer that poetry is, in 
 are Creative. com mon with other art products, a crea- 
 tion, of which the poet is the creator, the maker. 
 Expression is the avowed function of all the arts, 
 their excuse for being ; out of the need for it, art in 
 the rude and primitive forms has ever sprung. No 
 work of art has real import, none endures, unless 
 the maker has something to say some thought 
 which he must express imaginatively, whether to the 
 eye in stone or on canvas, or to the ear in music or 
 artistic speech ; this thought, the imaginative con- 
 ception moving him to utterance, being his creative 
 idea his art-ideal. This simple truth, persistently 
 befogged by the rhetoric of those who do not " see 
 clear and think straight," and who always underrate 
 the strength and beauty of an elementary fact, is the 
 Metrical ^ ast to k realized by commonplace mech- 
 steriiity. anicians. They go through the process of 
 making pictures or verses without the slightest mis- 
 sion really with nothing to say or reveal. They 
 mistake the desire to beget for the begetting power. 
 Their mimes and puppets have everything but souls. 
 Now, the imaginative work of a true artist, convey-
 
 CREA TION INSIGHT 45 
 
 ing his own ideal, is creative because it is the ex- 
 pression, the new embodiment, of his particular na- 
 ture, the materialization of something which renders 
 him a congener, even a part, of the universal soul 
 that divinity whose eternal function it is to create. 
 The expressive artist is to this extent indeed fash- 
 ioned after his Maker. He can even declare, in the 
 words of Beddoes, who used them, however, to re- 
 veal his surprising glimpses of evolution : 
 
 " I have a bit of Fiat in my soul, 
 And can myself create my little world." 
 
 At the same time, the quality of the poet's crea- 
 tion, be it lyrical, narrative, or dramatic, a Thepoet 
 is in a sense that of revelation. He can- ^rougl!^ 
 not invent forms and methods and sym- Insight - 
 bols out of keeping with what we term the nature 
 of things ; such inventions, if possible, would be 
 monstrous, baleful, not to be endured. But he 
 utters, reveals, and interprets what he sees with 
 that inward vision, that second sight, the prophetic 
 gift of certain personages, that which I mean by 
 "insight," and through which the poet is thought 
 to be inspired. This vision penetrates what Plato 
 conceived to be the quintessence of nature, what 
 Wordsworth, in his very highest mood, declares 
 that we perceive only when 
 
 "we are laid asleep 
 In body, and become a living soul : 
 While with an eye made quiet by the power 
 Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, 
 We see into the life of things."
 
 46 WHAT IS POETRY? 
 
 The creative insight, according to its degree, is 
 Genius its rec- ^^^ with, if not the source of , the mys- 
 itTscie.Yfk 1 terious endowment named genius, which 
 humdrum intellects have sought to dis- 
 allow, claiming that it lies chiefly in one of its fre- 
 quent attributes, industry, but which the wis- 
 dom of generations has indubitably recognized. 
 The antique and idealistic notion of this gift is 
 given in " Ion " : "A poet ... is unable to com- 
 pose poetry until he becomes inspired and is out of 
 his sober senses, and his imagination is no longer 
 under his control ; for he does not compose by art, 
 but through a divine power." The modern and sci- 
 entific rendering is that of the exact investigator, 
 Hartmann, who traces this power of genius to its 
 inmost cell, and classifies it as the spontaneous, in- 
 voluntary force of the untrammelled soul, in pre- 
 cise terms, " the activity and efflux of the Intellect 
 freed from the domination of the Conscious Will." 
 Whichever statement you accept, and I see no 
 reason why the two are not perfectly concordant, 
 here is the apparently superhuman gift which drew 
 from Sophocles that cry of wonder, " ^Eschylus does 
 what is right without knowing it." 
 
 As an outcome of genius producing the semblance 
 3 . Poetry as ^ what its insight discovers, poetry aims 
 o? thTbeam" to convey beauty and truth in their ab- 
 solute simplicity of kind, but limitless 
 variety of guise and adaptation. The poet's vision 
 of these is shared to some extent by all of us, else
 
 EXPRESSION OF THE BEAUTIFUL 47 
 
 his appeal would not be universal. But to his in- 
 born taste and wisdom is given the power of coade- 
 quate expression. Taste has been vilely mistaken 
 for a sentiment, and disgust with its abuse may have 
 incited the Wordsworthians and others to disqualify 
 it. They limited their own range by so doing. The 
 world forgives most sins more readily than those 
 against beauty. There was something ridiculous, if 
 heroic, in the supercilious attitude of our transcen- 
 dentalists, not only putting themselves against the 
 laity, but opposing the whole body of their fellow 
 seers and artists, whose solace for all labors ever has 
 been the favor of their beloved mistress Beauty, 
 the inspirer of creative taste. 
 
 The truth is that taste, however responsive to cul- 
 tivation, is inborn, as spontaneous as through crea . 
 insight, and, indeed, with an insight of tiveTaste - 
 its own. Schlegel's alertness with respect to the 
 aesthetic moved him to define even genius as " the 
 almost unconscious choice of the highest degree of 
 excellence, and, consequently," he added, " it is taste 
 in its highest activity." Profound thinkers, lofty 
 and unselfish natures, may flourish without taste : if 
 so, they miss a sense, nor only one that is physical, 
 something else is lacking, if the body be the sym- 
 bol of the soul. I would not go so far as to say of 
 one born, for instance, without ear for melody, that 
 there will be " no music in his soul " when that is 
 disembodied. It is finer to believe that 
 
 " whilst this muddy vesture of decay 
 Doth grossly close it in "
 
 48 WHAT IS POETRY? 
 
 such a one cannot hear it ; that 
 
 " The soul, with nobler resolutions deck'd, 
 The body stooping, does herself erect." 
 
 But taste, whether in or out of the body, is a fac- 
 Taste often ulty for want of which many ambitious 
 
 wanting or J . J 
 
 assumed. thinkers have in the end railed as poets. 
 It is a sense, however, the functions of which are 
 very readily assumed and mechanically imitated. 
 At periods when what are called false and artificial 
 standards have prevailed, as, in French and English 
 letters from 1675 to 1790, the word "taste" has 
 been on every one's lips, and the true discernment 
 of beauty has been supposed to be supreme, when 
 in fact merely the crown and sceptre of taste have 
 been set up and its mantle stuffed with straw. At 
 this very time art is suffering everywhere from an 
 immense variety of standards and models, and our 
 taste, in spite of the diverse and soulless yet attrac- 
 tive productions of the studio and the closet, is that 
 of an interregnum. 
 
 Assuming that the artist's conceptions are spon- 
 4 Poetry as taneous and imaginative, their working 
 oHmeUrcuS out brings into play the conscious intel- 
 lect. He gives us thought, building up 
 masterpieces from the germinal hint or motive : his 
 wisdom is of so pure a type that through it the 
 poet and the philosopher, in their ultimate and pos- 
 sible development, seem united. It is the exclusive 
 presentation of thought and truth that makes poetry 
 didactical, and hence untrue in the artistic sense.
 
 THOUGHT FEELING 49 
 
 For taste has been finely declared to be " the artistic 
 ethics of the soul," and it is only through a just bal- 
 ance of all the elements in question that poetry 
 rises above ordinary and universal human speech 
 and becomes a veritable art. 
 
 Under the conditions of these reciprocal ele- 
 ments, the poet's nature, " all touch, all Emotion . 
 eye, all ear," exalted to a creative pitch, SfaSS*"* 
 becomes emotional. Feeling is the exci- S1 
 tant of genuine poetry. The Miltonic canon, re- 
 quiring the sensuous beauty which taste alone 
 insures, demands, last of all, as if laying stress upon 
 its indispensability, that poetry should be passionate. 
 It is the impassioned spirit that awakes the imagi- 
 nation, whose taste becomes alert, that hears whis- 
 perings which others do not hear, which it does 
 not itself hear in calmer periods, that breaks into 
 lyric fervor and melody, and that arouses kindred 
 spirits with recital of its brave imaginings. Feeling 
 of any kind is the touch upon the poet's electric 
 keyboard ; the passio vera of his more intense moods 
 furnishes the impulse and the power for effective 
 speech. His emotion instinctively acquires the tone 
 and diction fitted to its best expression. Even the 
 passion of a hateful nature is not without a certain 
 distinction. Flame is magnificent, though it feed 
 upon the homes of men. 
 
 Right here we stop to consider that thus far our 
 discussion of the poetic elements applies with almost
 
 50 WHAT IS POETRY f 
 
 equal significance to all the fine arts ; each of them, 
 But the fore- m ^ act being a means of expressing the 
 fe'rtfin^TaT 5 taste, thought, passion, imagination, and 
 insight, of its devotee. The generic prin- 
 ciples of one are those of all. Analysis of one is 
 to this extent that of art as art : a remark illus- 
 trated by the talk of every noteworthy virtuoso, 
 from Angelo to Reynolds and Ruskin and Taine. 
 Reflect for an instant upon the simultaneous appear- 
 ance of a certain phase, such as Preraphaelitism, in 
 the plastic, structural, and decorative arts, in imagi- 
 native literature; and on the stage itself, and you see 
 that the Muses are indeed sisters, and have the same 
 food and garments, often the same diseases. But 
 take for granted the " consensus of the arts." What 
 is it, then, that differentiates them ? Nothing so 
 much as their respective vehicles of expression. The 
 6. Poetry, key-stone of our definition is the statement 
 
 then, is an art 
 
 of Speech. that poetry, in the concrete and as under 
 consideration, is language. Words are its specific 
 implements and substance. And art must be dis- 
 tinguished, whatsoever its spirit, by its concrete 
 form. A picture of the mind is not a painting. 
 There is a statue in every stone ; but what matters 
 it, if only the brooding sculptor sees it ? A cataract, 
 a sunset, a triumph, a poetic atmosphere, or mood, 
 or effect, none of these is a poem. When Emer- 
 son and Miss Fuller went together to see Fanny 
 Elssler dance, and the philosopher whispered to the 
 sibyl, " Margaret, this is poetry ! " and the sibyl re-
 
 AN ART OF RHYTHMIC SPEECH. 5 1 
 
 joined, " Waldo, it is religion ! " they both, I take it, 
 would have confessed with Hosea that they had used 
 similitudes. We are now considering the palpable 
 results of inspiration. Poetry houses itself in words, 
 sung, spoken, or inscribed, though there is a fine dis- 
 crimination in the opening sentence of Ben Jonson's 
 Grammar, which declares of language that "the 
 writing [of it] is but an accident." 
 
 Language is colloquial and declarative in our ordi- 
 nary speech, and on its legs for common Its character . 
 use and movement. Only when it takes l s ^ c a js nguage 
 wings does it become poetry. As the 
 poet, touched by emotion, rises to enthusiasm and 
 imaginative power or skill, his speech grows rhyth- 
 mic, and thus puts on the attribute that distinguishes 
 it from every other mode of artistic expression 
 the guild-mark which, rightly considered, establishes 
 the nature of the thing itself. At this date there 
 is small need to descant upon the universality of 
 rhythm in all relations of force and matter, nor 
 upon its inherent consonance with the lightest, the 
 profoundest, sensations of the living soul. Let us 
 accept the wisdom of our speculative age, which 
 scrutinizes all phenomena and reaches the scien- 
 tific bases of experience, and, looking from nadir to 
 zenith, acknowledges a psychological impulse behind 
 every physical function. The earliest observers saw 
 that life was rhythmical, that man and brute are the 
 subjects of recurrent touch, sensation, order, and are 
 alike responsive to measured sound, the form of
 
 5 2 WHA T IS POE TR Y? 
 
 rhythm most obvious and recognizable ; that music, 
 for instance, affects the most diverse animate gen- 
 era, from the voiceless insect and serpent to the 
 bird with its semi-vocal melody, and the man whom 
 it incites to speech and song. The ancients no less 
 comprehended the rhythm of air and water, the mul- 
 titudinous harmonies, complex and blended, of ocean 
 The soul surges and wind-swept pines. But our 
 vT^tions. new empiricism, following where intuition 
 leads the way, comprehends the function of vibra- 
 tions : it perceives that every movement of matter, 
 seized upon by universal force, is vibratory ; that vi- 
 brations, and nothing else, convey through the body 
 the look and voice of nature to the soul ; that thus 
 alone can one incarnate individuality address its fel- 
 low ; that, to use old Bunyan's imagery, these vibra- 
 tions knock at the ear-gate, and are visible to the 
 eye-gate, and are sentient at the gates of touch of 
 the living temple. The word describing their action 
 is in evidence: they "thrill" the body, they thrill 
 the soul, both of which respond with subjective, in- 
 terblending vibrations, according to the keys, the 
 wave-lengths, of their excitants. 
 
 Thus it is absolutely true that what Buxton For- 
 E true man calls "idealized language," that is, 
 whh the^jt speech which is imaginative and rhythmi- 
 of Rhythm. calj goes with emot i ona i thought \ and 
 
 that words exert a mysterious and potent influence, 
 thus chosen and assorted, beyond their normal mean- 
 ings. Equally true it is that natural poets in sensi-
 
 A VIBRATORY FORC&. 53 
 
 tive moods have this gift of choice and rhythmic as- 
 sortment, just as a singer is born with voice and ear, 
 or a painter with a knack of drawing likenesses be- 
 fore he can read or write. It is not too much to say 
 that if not born with this endowment he is not a 
 poet : a poetic nature, if you choose, indeed, often 
 more good, pure, intellectual, even more sensitive, 
 than another with the " gift," and, again, one who 
 in time by practice may excel in rhythmical mecha- 
 nism him that has the gift but slights it ; neverthe- 
 less, over and over again, not a born poet, not of the 
 royal breed that by warrant roam the sacred groves. 
 I lay stress upon this, because, in an age of econom- 
 ics and physics and prose fiction, the fashion is to 
 slight the special distinction of poetry and to depre- 
 cate its supremacy by divine right, and to do this as 
 our democracy reduces kingcraft through extend- 
 ing its legitimate range. You cannot force artists, 
 architects, musicians, to submit to such a process, 
 for material dividing lines are too obvious. Other- 
 wise, some would undoubtedly make the attempt. 
 But poetic vibrations are impalpable to the carnal 
 touch, and unseen by the bodily eye, so that every 
 realist, according to his kind, either discredits them 
 or lays claim to them. All the same, nothing ever 
 has outrivaled or ever will outrival, as a declaration 
 of the specific quality of poetry, the assertion that 
 its makers do 
 
 " feed on thoughts, that voluntary move 
 Harmonious numbers ; "
 
 54 WHAT IS POETRY? 
 
 and the minstrel poet, of my acceptation, "lisped in 
 numbers" as an infant and well does the hack- 
 neyed verse reiterate, " for the numbers came." 
 
 Aside from the vibratory mission of rhythm, its 
 Rhythmical little staff of adjuvants, by the very disci- 
 minor S aids. pline and limitations which they impose, 
 take poetry out of the place of common speech, and 
 make it an art which lifts the hearer to its own unu- 
 sual key. Schiller writes to Goethe that " rhythm, 
 in a dramatic work, treats all characters and all situ- 
 ations according to one law. ... In this manner it 
 forms the atmosphere for the poetic creation. The 
 more material part is left out, for only what is spir- 
 itual can be borne by this thin element." In real, 
 that is, spontaneous minstrelsy, the fittest assonance, 
 consonance, time, even rhyme, if rhyme be in- 
 voked, and rhyme has been aptly called "both a 
 memory and a hope," come of themselves with 
 the imaginative thought. The soul may conceive 
 unconsciously, and, as I believe in spite of certain 
 metaphysicians, without the use of language ; but 
 when the wire is put up, the true and only words 
 just so far as the conception is true and clear and 
 the minstrel's gift coequal are flashed along it. 
 Such is the test of genuineness, the underlying prin- 
 ciple being that the masterful words of all poetic 
 tongues are for the most part in both their open and 
 consonantal sounds related to their meanings, so 
 that with the inarticulate rhythm of impassioned 
 thought we have a correspondent verbal rhythm for
 
 SPONTANEOUSLY RHYTHMICAL 55 
 
 its vehicle. The whole range of poetry which is 
 vital, from the Hebrew psalms and prophecies, in 
 their original text and in our great English version, 
 to the Georgian lyrics and romances and the Vic- 
 torian idyls, confirms the statement of Mill that 
 " the deeper the feeling, the more characteristic 
 and decided the rhythm." The rapture of the poet 
 governs the tone and accent of his 
 
 " high and passionate thoughts 
 To their own music chanted." 
 
 Whoever, then, chooses to exempt poetry from 
 this affinity with rhythm is not consider- Theessential 
 ing the subject-matter of these discourses, differentiation. 
 Not that I would magnify its office, or lessen the 
 claims of other forms of imaginative and emotional 
 expression. " The glory of the celestial is one, and 
 the glory of the terrestrial is another. . . .'There is 
 one glory of the sun, and another glory of the moon." 
 Nor do I ask you, with the Scripture, to set one 
 above the other : count them of equal rank, if you 
 like, as in truth they seem to be in a time which 
 has produced not only " In Memoriam," " Pippa 
 Passes," "The Problem," but also "A Tale of Two 
 Cities," " Henry Esmond," " The Scarlet Letter," 
 but count them as different. Of one thing I am 
 assured, that every recognized poet will claim the 
 vitality of this difference a professional claim, 
 without doubt, but not as though made by a lawyer 
 or a divine, since their professions are more arbi- 
 trary and acquired. I confess that natural aptitude
 
 56 WHAT IS POETRY? 
 
 justifies in a measure the expressions " a born law- 
 yer," "a born doctor," etc.; still, more of what we 
 call professional skill is obtained by training than by 
 derivation. The reverse of this is true of minstrelsy, 
 and thus it chances that for a thousand excellent 
 lawyers you shall not discover one superior poet. 
 
 It is not essential now, when the trick of making 
 Rhyme, etc. clever verse is practised, like all the minor 
 technics of decoration, music, and so on, by many 
 more or less cultured persons with a talent for mim- 
 icry, to discuss historic forms of measure, and to 
 show why rhythm is not confined to any formal 
 measures rhymed or unrhymed. Yet even rhyme, 
 in our tongue, has advantages apart from its sound, 
 when so affluent and strong a workman as Browning 
 uses it in some of his most extended poems as a 
 brake on the whirl and rush of an over-productive 
 genius. All the varied potencies of rhythm, its 
 trinity of time-beat, consonance, and assonance, its 
 repetends and refrains and accidental wandering 
 melodies and surprises, are the vibrations of the 
 poetic fervor made manifest, and the poet's convey- 
 ance of it to his listeners. 
 
 Now, we have seen that the term poetry was long 
 imaginative applied to all imaginative literature. I 
 prose fiction: recO g n i ze t he fact that the portion of it 
 which was only germinal with the ancients, but is 
 the chief characteristic of our modern age, the prose 
 tale or romance, that this, our prose fiction, is 
 equally a part of the feigned history celebrated by
 
 DISTINCT FROM PROSE ROMANCE $7 
 
 Plato and Bacon and Sidney, of the thing creatively 
 invented rather than of things debated or recorded. 
 It is often imbued with the true spirit of poesy, and 
 is almost always more original in plot, narrative, 
 structure, than its sister art. It well may supply the 
 topic for a series of discourses. Among the bril- 
 liant romancers and novelists are not a few who, 
 were not fiction the dominant mode of our time, 
 would possibly have wreaked their thoughts upon 
 expression in rhythmical form. But to how it is 
 
 . . distinguished 
 
 see how distinct a thing it is, and also to from the 
 
 T e i i poetry under 
 
 illustrate my belief that a dramatic poet consideration, 
 may as well not originate his own narrative or plot, 
 read a story of Boccaccio or a chronicle by Holin- 
 shed, and then the play of Shakespeare's moulded 
 upon it. The masterly novelist, the better to control 
 his plot and to reflect life as it is, keeps his personal 
 emotion within such command that it fails to become 
 rhythmical. Where it gets the better of him, and 
 he breaks into blank verse or singsong, his work is 
 infallibly weakened ; it may catch the vulgar ear, 
 but is distinctly the less enduring. Who now can 
 abide the tricky metrical flow of certain sentimental 
 passages in Dickens ? And Dickens, by the way, 
 nature's own child and marvellous, as in truth he 
 was, occasionally set himself to write poetic verse, 
 but he knew no trick of it, and could acquire none. 
 His lyrics were mostly commonplace. This was to 
 be expected, for a real poet usually writes good 
 prose, and rarely rhythmical prose as prose, though
 
 $8 WHAT fS POETRY? 
 
 he may elect, with Macpherson, Blake, Tourgenieff, 
 Emerson, and Whitman, to cast his poetry in rhyth- 
 mical prose form. Thackeray, who was a charming 
 poet, of a light but distinct quality above which he 
 was too genuine to venture, put no metrics into his 
 The prose of novels. See how definite the line be- 
 tween the prose and the verse of Milton, 
 Goethe, Landor, Coleridge, Byron. Of Emerson I 
 have said elsewhere that his prose was poetry, and 
 his poetry light and air. There is a class of writers, 
 of much account in their day, whose native or pur- 
 posed confusion between rhythmical and true prose 
 attracts by its glamour, and whom their own genera- 
 tion, at least, can ill spare. Of such was Richter, 
 "poetical" anc * su ch in a measure have been De Quin- 
 prose< cey, Wilson, Carlyle, and even Ruskin, 
 
 each after his kind. The strong personality of a 
 writer forces its way. But it is to be noted that 
 these after a time fall into distrust, as if the lasting 
 element of true art had somehow escaped them. 
 Certain latter-day lights well might take a lesson 
 from the past. These ilium inati leave firm ground, 
 but do they rise to the upper air ? There is some- 
 thing eerie and unsubstantial about them as they flit 
 in a moonlit limbo between earth and sky. Howbeit, 
 they are what they are, and may safely plead that it 
 is more to be what they can be than not to be at all. 
 The difference betwixt poetical prose and the prose 
 of a poet is exemplified by Mark Pattison's cita- 
 tion of the two at their best the prose of Jeremy
 
 SOME THINGS WHICH IT IS NOT 59 
 
 Taylor and that of Milton, the former " loaded with 
 imagery on the outside," but the latter " colored by 
 imagination from within." 
 
 In short, although throughout our survey, and 
 especially in the Orient, the most imaginative 
 poetry often chants itself in rhythmic prose, the 
 less rhythm there is in the prose of an essayist or 
 novelist the better, even though it characterizes an 
 interlude. As a drop of prosaic feeling is said to 
 precipitate a whole poem, so a drop of sentimental 
 rhythm will bring a limpid tale or essay to cloudy 
 effervescence. As for eloquence, which E]oqueTlce 
 also was classed with poetry by our an- rhetonc > etc - 
 cestors, and which is subjective and passionate, I do 
 not say that it may not rise by borrowing wings ; 
 but in a poem the force of eloquence pure and sim- 
 ple cannot be prolonged without lessening ideality 
 and the subtlest quality of all, suggestiveness, 
 and rhetoric is as false a note as didacticism in the 
 poet's fantasia. 
 
 It is worth while to observe, in passing, that there 
 never was a time before our own in liter- Modem 
 
 cleverness 
 
 ary history when more apparent sue- and training, 
 cesses, more curious and entertaining works, were 
 achieved by determined and sincere aspirants who 
 enter, not through original bent, but under gradual 
 training and "of malice aforethought," fields to 
 which they are not born inheritors, the joint do- 
 mains of poetry and prose fiction. Their output 
 deceives even the critic, because it does serve a
 
 60 WHAT IS POETRY? 
 
 purpose, until he reflects that none of it is really 
 a force, really something new, originative, endur- 
 ing. Such a force was that of Fielding, of Byron, 
 of Scott, of Keats, of Wordsworth, of Browning ; 
 and many lesser but fresh and natural poets and 
 novelists are forces in their several degrees. What 
 they produce, from its individual, often revolution- 
 ary, quality, is an actual addition to literature. But 
 we see natural critics and moralists, persons of learn- 
 ing, of high cultivation in the focal centres of liter- 
 ary activity, who develop what is inborn with them 
 an exquisite gift of appreciation, and in time a 
 stalwart purpose to rival the poets and novelists on 
 their own ground. This they undertake at that 
 mature age when the taste and judgment are fully 
 ripe, and after admirable service as scholars, essay- 
 Nature's i sts > an d the like. Now, there scarcely is 
 process. an i ns |; ancej in the past, of a notable poet 
 
 or romancer who did not begin, however late, by 
 producing poetry or fiction, however crude, and this 
 whether or not he afterward made excursions into 
 the fields of analysis or history or aesthetics. Mr. 
 Howells is a living illustration of this natural pro- 
 cess. He began as a poet, and then, after excur- 
 sions into several literary fields that displayed his 
 humor, taste, and picturesqueness, he caught the 
 temper of his period as a novelist, and helped to 
 lead it. The cleverness and occasional " hits " of 
 various self-elected poets and tale-writers are, how- 
 ever, noteworthy, even bewildering. At this mo-
 
 A BIRTHRIGHT INDISPENSABLE 6 1 
 
 ment many who command public attention and what 
 is called the professional market have previously 
 demonstrated that their natural bent was that of 
 didactic and analytic, rather than of emotional and 
 creative, writers. Their success has been a triumph 
 of culture, intellect, and will power. These in- 
 stances, as I have said of an eminent cp. "Victorian 
 
 Poets " : pp. 
 
 poet and essayist now no more, almost 91,442. 
 falsify the adage that a poet is born, not made. 
 Still, we bear in mind that precisely analogous con- 
 ditions obtain in the cognate artistic professions, 
 in painting, music, architecture. The poets and 
 novelists by cultivation, despite their apparent 
 vogue in the most extended literary market the 
 world has ever seen, and ambitious as their work 
 may be, lack, in my opinion, the one thing needed 
 to create a permanent force in the arts, and that is 
 the predestined call by nature and certain particles 
 of her " sacred fire." 
 
 We need not enter the poet's workshop and ana- 
 lyze the physics and philosophy control- The Science 
 ling the strings of his lyre. That a philo- Ver9e -" 
 sophical law underlies each cadence, every structural 
 arrangement, should be known in this very spot, 1 if 
 anywhere, where not alone the metrics and phonet- 
 ics, and what has been called the rationale, of verse, 
 but therewithal the spirit of the poetry of the East, 
 of our classical antiquity, of the Romance tongues, 
 of the Norse, and of our own composite era, are in 
 
 1 Johns Hopkins University.
 
 62 WHAT IS POETRY? 
 
 the air, one may say, and are debated with a learn- 
 ing and enthusiasm for which a few of us, in my own 
 academic days, hungered in vain. Here, too, it was 
 that the most analytic treatise ever conceived, upon 
 the technics of rhythmical effect, was written by 
 Lanier. your own poet, Lanier, for whom the 
 
 sister-spirits of Music and Poesy contended with a 
 rivalry as strong as that between " twin daughters 
 of one race," both loving, and both worshipped by, 
 one whom death too soon removed while he strove 
 to perfect their reconciliation. Though poetry must 
 come by the first intention, if at all, and inspiration 
 laughs at technical processes, even the unlettered 
 minstrel conforms to law, as little conscious of it as 
 some vireo in the bush is conscious of the score by 
 which a Burroughs or an Olive Miller transfers the 
 songster's tirra-lirra to the written page. The point 
 remains that poetry is ideal expression through 
 poetry, words, and that words are not poetry 
 
 above all, is 
 
 utterance. unless they reach a stress that is rhyth- 
 mical. Painting is a mode of expression, being visi- 
 ble color and shadow distributed upon a material 
 surface ; the language of poetry is another mode, 
 because it is articulate thought and feeling. Sidney 
 pointed merely to the fact that rhythm is not con- 
 fined to verse, when he spoke of " apparelled verse " 
 as " an ornament, and no cause to poetry, since there 
 have been many most excellent poets that never 
 have versified " ; and he added that " now swarm 
 many versifiers that need never answer to the name
 
 COMPARED WITH OTHER ARTS 63 
 
 of poet." Wordsworth's familiar recognition of " the 
 poets that ne'er have penned their inspiration " 
 was a just surmise ; but such a poet is one in posse, 
 assuredly not in esse, not a maker. Swinburne tra- 
 verses the passage with a bit of common sense 
 " There is no such thing as a dumb poet or a hand- 
 less painter. The essence of an artist is that he 
 should be articulate." 
 
 Submitting these views with respect to a scientific 
 definition of poetry, I ask your attention comparative 
 
 , . . . , ... . review of the 
 
 to a brief consideration of its bounds and Arts, 
 liberties, as compared with those of music and the 
 respective arts of design. 
 
 The specific province, by limitation, of Sculpture, 
 the art consecrate to the antique precision The respective 
 of repose, is to express ideals of form notations of 
 arrested as to movement and time. Its 
 beauteous or heroic attitudes are caught at the one 
 fit moment, and forever transfixed in rigid stone or 
 wood or metal. Painting has an additional Painting, 
 limitation ; it gives only the similitude of form in all 
 its dimensions, and only from one point of a behold- 
 er's view. To offset this, the range of the painter is 
 marvellously broadened by the truth of perspective, 
 the magic and vital potency of color, the tremulous 
 life of atmosphere, and the infinite gradations and 
 contrasts of light and shade. The mystical warmth 
 and force of the Christian humanities are radiant in 
 this enrapturing art. Yet its office is to capture the
 
 64 WHAT JS POETRY? 
 
 one ideal moment, the lifelong desire of Faust, and 
 to force it to obey the mandate : 
 
 " Ah, still delay thou art so fair ! " 
 
 Such are the arts addressed to the eye alone, both 
 of them lending their service to the earliest, the 
 latest, the most various, of all material constructions 
 Architecture, Architecture, whose pediments and 
 roofs and walls originate in our bodily necessities, 
 whose pinnacles typify our worship and aspiration, 
 and which so soon becomes the beneficiary and the 
 incasement of its decorative allies. None of the 
 three can directly express time or movement, but 
 there is practically no limit to their voiceless repre- 
 sentation of space and multitude. 
 
 But movement in time is a special function of 
 Music. Music, that heavenly maid, never so young 
 
 as now, and still the sovereign of the passions, 
 reaching and rousing the soul through sound-vibra- 
 tions perpetually changing as they flow. To this it 
 .. adds the sympathetic force of harmonic 
 
 1 he compos- J A 
 
 freedom," 116 counterpoint. Its range, then, is freer 
 passive than that of the plastic and structural 
 arts, by this element of progressive 
 change. Under its spell, thrilling with the sensa- 
 tions which it can excite, and which really are imma- 
 nent in our own natures, considering moreover the 
 superb mathematics of its harmony, and again that 
 it has been the last in development of all these arts, 
 we question whether it is not only superior to them
 
 MUSIC YEARNING AYE FOR SPEECH 65 
 
 but even to that one to which these lectures are de- 
 voted. All feel, at least, the force of Foe's avowal 
 that music and poetry at their highest must go 
 together, because "in music the soul most nearly 
 attains the great end for which it struggles super- 
 nal beauty." And so old John Davies, in praise of 
 music, 
 
 " The motion which the ninefold sacred quire 
 Of angels make : the bliss of all the blest, 
 Which (next the Highest) most fills the highest desire." 
 
 Schopenhauer thought that the musician, because 
 there is no sound in nature fit to give him more 
 than a suggestion for a model, "approaches the 
 original sources of existence more closely than all 
 other artists, nay, even than Nature herself." Her- 
 bert Spencer has suggested that music may take 
 rank as the highest of the fine arts, as the chief 
 medium of sympathy, enabling us to partake the 
 feeling which excites it, and " as an aid to the 
 achievement of that higher happiness which it indis- 
 tinctly shadows forth." And in truth, if the inter- 
 course of a higher existence is to be effected through 
 sound-vibrations rather than through the swifter 
 light-waves, or by means of aught save the absolute 
 celestial insight, one may fondly conceive music 
 to be the language of the earth-freed, as of those 
 imagined seraphim with whom feeling is "deeper 
 than all thought." 
 
 Consider, on the other hand, how feeling governs 
 the simple child, "that lightly draws its breath,"
 
 66 WHAT IS POETRY? 
 
 while thought begins its office as the child grows in 
 But intellect- strength and knowledge, and it is a fair 
 
 ual Speech is . . . 
 
 supreme. inference that thought is the higher attri- 
 bute, and that the suggestion of emotion by music 
 is a less vital art than that of intellectual speech. 
 The dumb brutes partake far more of man's emotion 
 than of his mental intelligence. ' Neither is music 
 despite our latter-day theorists who defy the argu- 
 ment of Lessing's Laocoon and would make one art 
 usurp the province of another, and despite its power 
 as an indirect incentive to thought by rousing the 
 emotions a vehicle for the conveyance of precise 
 and varied ideas. The clearer the idea, the more 
 exact the language which utters and interprets it. 
 This, then, is the obvious limitation of music : it 
 can traverse a range of feeling that may govern the 
 tone of the hearer's contemplations, it can " fill all 
 the stops of life with tuneful breath " and prolong 
 their harmonic intervals indefinitely, but the domain 
 of absolute thought, while richer and more imperial 
 for its excitation, is not mastered by it. Of that 
 realm music can make no exact chart. 
 
 Thus far, we have no art without its special office, 
 and none that is not wanting in some capacity dis- 
 played by one or more of the rest. Each goes upon 
 T . . . its appointed way. Now comes poetry, 
 
 Limitations J J* 
 
 of the poet. rhythmical, creative language, compact 
 of beauty, imagination, passion, truth, in no wise 
 related, like the plastic arts, to material substance ; 
 less able than its associate, music, to move the soul
 
 ITS POWERS AND LIMITATIONS 6/ 
 
 with those dying falls of sound that increase and 
 lessen thought and the power to harbor it ; almost a 
 voiceless spirit of invention, working without hands, 
 yet the more subtile, potent, inclusive, for this eva- 
 sive ideality, and for creations that are impalpable 
 except through the arbitrary and non-essential sym- 
 bols by which it now addresses itself to the educated 
 eye. 
 
 Permit me to select, almost at random, from Keats 
 and Tennyson, ready illustrations of the bounds and 
 capabilities of the various arts passages necessa- 
 rily familiar, since they are from Keats and Tenny- 
 son, but chosen from those masters because, of all 
 English poets since Spenser, they are most given to 
 picture-making, to the craft that is, as we say, artis- 
 tic, picturesque. A stanza from the "Ode Ho wfarhe 
 on a Grecian Urn " describes, and rivals VSte te 
 in verse, the ravishing power of a bit of sculpture - 
 sculpture to perpetuate arrested form and attitude 
 yes, even the suggestion of arrested music : 
 
 " Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard 
 
 Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on 
 Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, 
 
 Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone. 
 Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave 
 
 Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare ; 
 Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss, 
 
 Though winning near the goal ; yet, do not grieve 
 She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss ; 
 
 Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair." 
 
 These undying lines not only define by words the
 
 68 IV HA T IS POETRY? 
 
 power and limits of the sculptor, but are almost a 
 matchless example of the farthest encroachment 
 poetry can make upon sculpture's own province. 1 
 What it cannot do is to combine the details of the 
 carving so as to produce them to the mind, as sculp- 
 ture does to the eye, at a single instant of time. It 
 lingers exquisitely upon each in succession. Pro- 
 gressive time is required for its inclusion of the 
 effects of a Grecian frieze or scroll. Now, take 
 His picture, from Tennyson's lovely but lighter poem, 
 making: The Day _ Dream ; _ a i vr i ca l idyl at the 
 
 acme of melodious and fanciful picture-making, a 
 stanza which seems to match with a certain round- 
 ness and color the transfixing effect of the painter's 
 handiwork. It portrays a group entranced by the 
 spell that has doomed to a hundred years of abey- 
 ance and motionlessness the life of the king's palace 
 and the Sleeping Beauty. In the poems of Keats 
 and Tennyson, as I say, artists find their sculptures 
 and paintings already designed for them, so that 
 these poets are the easiest of all to illustrate with 
 its liberties some measure of adequacy. The theme 
 and bounds. of the f o n ow i ng i meS) rendered by a 
 
 painter, would show the whole group and scene at a 
 flash of the eye ; poetry cannot do this, yet, aided 
 
 1 Since the first appearance of this lecture I have seen a finely pen- 
 etrative essay by Mr. J. W. Comyns Carr (The New Quarterly Maga- 
 zine, October, 1875), m which this same Ode is quoted to illustrate the 
 ideal calm sought for by "The Artistic Spirit in Modern Poetry." As 
 no better example can be found, in conveyance of the poetic and the 
 plastic methods respectively, I do not hesitate to retain it.
 
 POET AND PAINTER 69 
 
 by its moving panorama, the listener has painted all 
 in his mind when the last word is uttered : 
 
 " More like a picture seerneth all 
 Than those old portraits of old kings, 
 That watch the sleepers from the wall. 
 
 " Here sits the butler with a flask 
 
 Between his knees, half-drain'd ; and there 
 The wrinkled steward at his task, 
 
 The maid-of-honor blooming fair ; 
 The page has caught her hand in his : 
 
 Her lips are sever'd as to speak : 
 His own are pouted to a kiss : 
 
 The blush is fix'd upon her cheek." 
 
 It is to be noted, as we read, that Tennyson's per- 
 sonages, and those of Keats as well, are Artist-poets. 
 mostly conventional figures, as characterless as those 
 on a piece of tapestry. The genius of neither poet 
 is preferably dramatic : they do not get at individu- 
 ality by dramatic insight like Shakespeare, nor by 
 monodramatic soliloquy and analysis, like the stren- 
 uous Browning. Their dramas are for the most 
 part masques containing eidttllia (little pictures) ; 
 though who can doubt that Keats, had he lived, 
 would have developed the highest dramatic power ? 
 Remember what the less sensuous, more lyrical 
 Shelley achieved in "The Cenci," when only four 
 years beyond the age at which Keats imagined his 
 " gold Hyperion, love - lorn Porphyro." The poet in- 
 But, to resume, see what poetry, in addi- hit command 
 
 . ,/- . of vocal 
 
 tion to the foregoing counterfeit of the movement, 
 painter's ocular presentment, can bring about in its
 
 70 WHAT IS POETRY? 
 
 own field through its faculty of movement in time 
 a power entirely wanting to the arts which it has 
 just mimicked. Note how it breaks the spell of 
 transfixed attitude, of breathless color and sus- 
 pended action ; how it lets loose the torrents of Life 
 at the instant of the " fated fairy prince's " experi- 
 mental kiss : 
 
 " A touch, a kiss ! the charm was snapt. 
 
 There rose a noise of striking clocks, 
 And feet that ran, and doors that clapt, 
 
 And barking dogs, and crowing cocks ; 
 A fuller light illumined all, 
 
 A breeze thro' all the garden swept, 
 A sudden hubbub shook the hall, 
 
 And sixty feet the fountain leapt. 
 
 The maid and page renew'd their strife, 
 The palace bang'd, and buzz'd, and clackt, 
 
 And all the long-pent stream of life 
 Dash'd downward in a cataract." 
 
 That is the stream which the painter has no art to 
 undam. Only by a succession of pictures can he 
 suggest its motion or follow the romance to its se- 
 quel ; and that he can do even this with some fitness 
 in the case of a Tennysonian ballad is because the 
 laureate, as we see, counterfeits the painter's own 
 method more artistically than other idyllists of rank 
 in our time. If art is the fit and beautiful confor- 
 mation of matter infused with the spirit of man, it 
 He is again must indeed have life. The most nimble, 
 ardent, varied transfer of the vital spirit 
 is by means of language, and of all language that of
 
 the poet is the most alive and expressive. Observe, 
 again, that in what are called art circles Arcadian 
 groups of those devoted to art and letters the im- 
 aginative writers are apt to interest themselves far 
 more with respect to the plastic arts than the sculp- 
 tors and painters with respect to poetry and ro- 
 mance ; and well they may, since the poet enriches 
 his work by using all artistic effects, while nothing 
 is more dangerous to a painter, for example, than 
 that he should give his picture a literary cast, as the 
 phrase is, and make it too closely tell a story or 
 rehearse a poem. This of itself tends to confirm 
 Lessing's apothegm that " the poet is as far beyond 
 the painter as life is better than a picture." 
 
 THE conquests of poetry, in fine, are those of pure 
 intelligence, and of emotion that is unfet- Final analysis 
 tered. Like the higher mathematics, it "thVSZf 
 is not dependent on diagrams, for the artSi 
 mind to which it appeals is a responsive draughts- 
 man of lines finer and more complex than any 
 known to brush or graver. It creates no beauty of 
 form beyond the accidental symbols grouped in 
 script and print, none of light and color, while the 
 ear is less touched by it than by the melodies or 
 harmonies of music ; for its melody is that of flexi- 
 ble speech, and it knows not counterpoint, but must 
 resort to the value of successive strains. Yet we
 
 72 WHAT IS POETRYf 
 
 say that it has form and outline of its own, an archi- 
 tecture of its own, its own warmth and color, and, 
 like music, life, and withal no little of music's vocal 
 charm, in that through words it idealizes these 
 "sweet influences," and is chartered to convey them 
 all to the inward sight, the spiritual hearing, of the 
 citadeled soul, with so apt suggestion that the poet's 
 fellow-mortals, of like passions and perceptions with 
 himself, see and hear and feel with much of his dis- 
 tinct individuality. Its vibrations excite the reflex 
 action that creates in the mind of the receiver a 
 vision corresponding to the imagination of the poet. 
 Here is its specific eminence : it enables common 
 mortals to think as the poet thinks, to use his wings, 
 move through space and time, and out of space and 
 time, untrammelled as the soul itself ; it can feel, 
 moan, weep, laugh, be eloquent, love, hate, aspire, 
 for all and with its maker ; can reflect, and know, 
 and ever seek for knowledge ; can portray all times 
 and seasons, and describe, express, interpret, the 
 hiddenmost nature of man. Through poetry soul 
 addresses soul without hindrance, by the direct 
 medium of speech. Words are its atmosphere and 
 very being : language, which raises man above the 
 speechless intelligences ; which, with resources of 
 pitch, cadence, time, tone, and universal rhythm, is 
 in a sense a more advanced and complex music than 
 music itself that idealized language which, as it 
 ever has been the earliest form of emotional ex- 
 pression, appears almost a gift captured in man's
 
 THOUGHT AND FEELING FREE 73 
 
 infancy from some " imperial palace whence he 
 came." To the true poet, then, we say, like the 
 bard to Israfel : 
 
 " The ecstasies above 
 
 With thy burning measures suit 
 Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love, 
 With the fervor of thy lute 
 Well may the stars be mute."
 
 III. 
 
 CREATION AND SELF-EXPRESSION. 
 
 THE difficulty that confronts one who enters upon 
 a general discussion of poetry is its uni- The radiant 
 versal range. The portals of his obser- dome " 
 vatory tower before him, flashing yet frowning, and 
 inscribed with great names of all the ages. Mount 
 its stairway, and a chart of the field disclosed is in- 
 deed like that of the firmament. In what direction 
 shall we first turn ? To the infinite dome at large, 
 or toward some particular star or group ? We think 
 of inspiration, and a Hebrew seer glows in the pro- 
 phetic East ; of gnomic wisdom and thought, and 
 many fixed white stars shine tranquilly along the 
 equinox, from Lucretius to Emerson ; of tragedy 
 and comedy, the dramatic coil and mystery of life, 
 and group after group invites the lens, for us, most 
 of all, that English constellation blazing since " the 
 spacious times of great Elizabeth " ; of beauty, and 
 the long train of poetic artists, with Keats like his 
 own new planet among them, swims into our ken. 
 Asia is somewhere beyond the horizon, and in view 
 are countless minor lights, the folk-singers and 
 minstrels of many lands and generations. 
 
 The future lecturer will have the satisfaction of
 
 76 CREA TION AND SELF-EXPRESSION 
 
 giving his attention to a single master or school, 
 to" the Greek dramatists, to Dante, or Milton, or 
 Goethe ; more than one will expend his resources 
 upon the mimic world of Shakespeare, yet leave as 
 much for his successors to accomplish as there was 
 before. Their privilege I do not assume ; since 
 these initiatory discourses have to do with the ele- 
 ments of which poetry is all compact, and with the 
 spirit in fealty to which its orbs shine and have 
 their being and rehearse the burden of their radi- 
 ant progress : 
 
 " Beneath this starry arch 
 
 Nought resteth or is still : 
 But all things hold their march, 
 
 As if by one great will : 
 Moves one, move all : hark to the footfall ! 
 On, on, forever ! " 
 
 Still, I wish in some way to review this progress 
 TWO main o * poesy. Essaying then, for the little 
 
 div,sions. that can be done> to J 0()k first at fre broa( J 
 
 characteristics of the field, we see that there are, at 
 all events, two streams into which its vast galaxy is 
 divided, though they intersect each other again 
 and again, and in modern times seem almost 
 blended. These do not relate to the technical clas- 
 A passing sification of poetry : to its partition by 
 esfabHshed the ancients into the epic, dramatic, lyric, 
 and the idyllic, unto which we have 
 added the reflective, and have merged them all in 
 the composite structures of modern art. Time has 
 shown that we cannot overrate the method of those
 
 TWO MAIN STREAMS OF SONG 77 
 
 intuitive pagans. No one cares for Wordsworth's 
 division of his own verse into poems of imagination, 
 of fancy, and the like, the truth being that they all, 
 with the exception of a few spontaneous lyrics, are 
 poems of reflection, often glorified by the imagina- 
 tion, sometimes lightened by fancy, but of whose 
 predominant spirit their author was apparently the 
 least successful judge. The Greeks felt that the 
 spirit shapes the form of art, and therefore is re- 
 vealed by it. Assume, then, the fitness of poetic 
 orders, styles, and measures ; that these are known 
 to you and me, and thus we may leave dactyls and 
 choriambs to the metrical anatomists, and rhymes to 
 the Walkers and Barnums. Passing to But poetry 
 
 s either 
 
 ...... , 
 
 the more essential divisions of expres- i 
 
 or self- 
 
 sion, you will find their types are defined expressive. 
 by the amount of personality which they respec- 
 tively hold in solution : that poetry is differentiated 
 by the Me and the Not Me, by the poet's self- 
 consciousness, or by the representation of life and 
 thought apart from his own individuality. 
 
 That which is impersonal, and so very great at its 
 best, appears the more creative as being a statement 
 of things discerned by free and absolute vision. The 
 other order is so affected by relations with the mak- 
 er's traits and tastes that it betokens a relative and 
 conditioned imagination ; and is thus by far the 
 larger division, since in most periods it is inevitable 
 that the chief impulse to song should be a conscious 
 or unconscious longing for personal expression.
 
 78 CREATION AND SELF-EXPRESSION 
 
 The gift of unconditioned vision has been vouch- 
 The creative safed both to the primitive world, and to 
 impersonal, races at their height of action and inven- 
 tion. The objective masterpieces of poetry consist, 
 first, of those whose origin is obscure, and which 
 are so naturally inwrought with history and popular 
 traits that they seem growths rather than works of 
 art. Such are the Indian epics, the Northern sagas, 
 the early ballads of all nations, and of course the 
 Homeric poems of Greece. These are the lusty 
 juventus product of the youth of mankind, the 
 song and story that come when life is un- 
 jaded, faith unsophisticated, and human nature still 
 in voice with universal Pan. The less spontaneous 
 but equally vital types are the fruit of later and con- 
 structive periods, "golden" ages, the masterpieces 
 of which are composed with artistic design and still 
 unwearied genius. Whether epic or dramatic, and 
 whether traditional or the product of schools and 
 nations in their prime, the significance of objective 
 poetry lies in its presentment of the world outside, 
 and not of the microcosm within the poet's self. 
 His ideal mood is that of the Chinese sage from 
 whose wisdom, now twenty-six centuries old, the 
 artist John La Farge, himself imbued with the 
 spirit of the "most eastern East," has cited for me 
 these phrases : " I am become as a quiet water, or a 
 mirror reflecting what may be. It keeps nothing, it 
 refuses nothing. What it reflects is there, but I do 
 not keep it : it is not I." And again : " One should
 
 THE BALLAD THE EPIC THE DRAMA 79 
 
 be as a vacuum, so to be filled by the universe. 
 Then the universe will fill me, and pour out again." 
 Which dark saying I interpret here as an emblem of 
 the receptivity of the artist to life at large. This it 
 is his function to give out again, illumined, but un- 
 adulterate. The story is told, the song chanted, 
 the drama constructed, with the simplest of under- 
 standings between audience and maker : as between 
 children at their play, artisans at their handicraft, 
 recounter and hearers around the desert fire. Every 
 literature has more or less of this free, absolute 
 poetry. But only in the drama, and at Early and 
 
 ,. . . , . . . . , , late creative 
 
 distinctively imaginative periods, have eras, 
 poets of the Christian era been quite objective ; 
 not even there and then, without in most cases 
 having " unlocked " their hearts by expression of 
 personal feeling. This process exemplified in the 
 sonnets of Shakespeare, and in the minor works 
 of Dante, Tasso, Cervantes, Calderon, Camoens 
 rarely suggested itself to the antique poets, whose 
 verses were composed for the immediate verdict of 
 audiences great or small, and in the Attic period 
 distinctly as works of art, necessarily universal, and 
 not introspective. Nor would much self-intrusion 
 then have been tolerated. Imagine the Homeric 
 laughter of an Athenian conclave, every man of 
 them with something of Aristophanes in him, at 
 being summoned to listen to the sonnetary sorrows 
 of a blighted lover ! There were few Werthers in 
 those days. Bad poets, and bores of all sorts, were
 
 80 CREA TION AND SELF-EXPRESSION 
 
 not likely to flourish in a society where ostracism, 
 the custody of the Eleven, and the draught of hem- 
 lock were looked upon as rather mild and exemplary 
 modes of criticism. 
 
 Now, in distinction from unsophisticated and cre- 
 The subjective atrve son g> comes the voice of the poet 
 P 061 * absorbed in his own emotions and depend- 
 
 ent on self-analysis for his knowledge %f life. Here 
 is your typical modern minor poet. But here also 
 are some of the truest " bards of passion and of 
 pain " that the world has known. Again, there are 
 those who are free from the Parnassian egoism, but 
 whose manner is so pronounced that every word 
 they utter bears its author's stamp : their tone and 
 style are unmistakable. Finally, many are confined 
 specialists. implacably to certain limits. One cares 
 for beauty alone, an artist pure and simple ; another 
 is a balladist ; a third is gifted with philosophic in- 
 sight of nature ; still another has a genius for the 
 psychological analysis of life. Each of these appears 
 to less advantage outside his natural range. The 
 vision of all these classes is conditioned. 
 
 An obvious limitation of the speechless arts is 
 Language the tnat they can be termed subjective only 
 of e seif means with respect to motive and style. We 
 expression. haye tlie natural i an dscapist, and the fig- 
 ure-painter, while nearly all good painters, sculptors, 
 architects, musicians, are recognizable, as you know, 
 by their respective styles, but otherwise all arts, 
 save those of language, are relatively impersonal and 
 objective.
 
 CONDITIONED VOICES 8 1 
 
 The highest faculties of vision and execution are 
 required to design an absolutely objective poem, and 
 to insure its greatness. There is no middle ground ; 
 it is great, or else a dull and perfunctory mechanism. 
 The force of the heroic epics, whose authorship is 
 in the crypt of the past, seems to be not that of a 
 single soul, but of a people ; not that of a genera- 
 tion, but of a round of eras. Yet the final determi- 
 nation of poetic utterance is toward self-expression. 
 The minstrel's soul uses for its medium that slave of 
 imaginative feeling, language. It is a voice a 
 voice ; and the emotion of its possessor will not be 
 denied. The poet is the Mariner, whose heart burns 
 within him until his tale is told : 
 
 " I pass, like night, from land to land; 
 I have strange power of speech; 
 That moment that his face I see, 
 I know the man that must hear me : 
 To him my tale I teach." 
 
 Races themselves have a bent toward one of the 
 two generic types, so that with one nation Radal 
 or people the creative poet is the excep- tendenc y- 
 tion, and with another the rule. The Asiatic inspi- 
 ration, even in its narrative legacies, is more subjec- 
 tively vague than that which we call the antique 
 that of the Hellenes. But the extreme Asia. 
 Eastern field requires special study, and is beyond 
 the limits of this course, so that I will only confess 
 my belief that much of our fashionable adaptation
 
 82 CREATION AND SELF-EXPRESSION 
 
 of Hindu, Chinese, Japanese literatures represents 
 more honestly the ethics and poetic spirit of its 
 
 A . . Western students than the Oriental feel- 
 Attempts to 
 
 E^ddhfstcon- m S an< ^ conceptions ; that it is a latter- 
 cepnons. ^y illumination of Brahmanic esoterics 
 rather than the absolute Light of Asia, whether 
 better or worse, not a veritable transfer, but the 
 ideal of Christendom grafted on the Buddhist stock. 
 It is doubtful, in fact, whether the Buddhists them- 
 selves fully comprehend their own antiquities ; and 
 if our learned virtuosos, from Voltaire and Sir Wil- 
 liam Jones to Sir Edwin Arnold, fail to do so, they 
 nevertheless have found the material for a good deal 
 of interesting verse. It will be a real exploit when 
 some one does for the Buddhist epos and legendary 
 what John Payne and Captain Burton have done for 
 the Arabic "Thousand Nights and One Night." 
 Then we shall at least know those literatures as they 
 are ; nor will it be strange if they prove to be, in 
 some wise, as much superior to our conception of 
 them as Payne's rendering of the "Arabian Nights " 
 is to that of Galland, or as Butcher and Lang's prose 
 translation of Homer is to Lord Derby's verse. Of 
 such a paraphrase as Fitzgerald's " Rubaiyat of 
 Omar Khayyam," one at once declares, in Lander's 
 phrase, that it is more original than the originals : 
 the Western genius in this instance has produced 
 an abiding poem, unique in its interfusion of the 
 Persian and the neo-English dispositions. 
 
 But with Hebrew poetry, that of the Bible, we
 
 THE ASIATIC INSPIRATION 83 
 
 have more to do, since we derive very closely from 
 it. There is no literature at once so grand and 
 so familiar to us. Its inherent, racial The He braic 
 genius was emotional and therefore lyrical gemus ' 
 (though I am not with those who deem all lyrical 
 poetry subjective), and a genius of so fiery and pro- 
 phetic a cast that its personal outbursts have a lof- 
 tiness beyond those of any other literature. The 
 Hebrew was, and the orthodox Israelite remains, a 
 magnificent egoist. Himself, his past, and his 
 future, are a passion. But and this is what re- 
 deems his egoism they are not his deepest pas- 
 sion ; he has an intenser emotion concerning his 
 own race, the chosen people, a more ferveftt devotion 
 to Jehovah, his own Jehovah, if not the God of a 
 universe. Waiving the question whether the ancient 
 Jew was a monotheist, we know that he trusted in 
 the might of his own God as overwhelmingly supe- 
 rior to that of all rivals. His God, moreover, was a 
 very human one. But the Judaic anthropomorphism 
 was of the most transcendent type that ever hath 
 entered into the heart of man. 
 
 I do not, then, class the Hebrew poetry, which, 
 though lyrical, gives vent not so much to i ts national 
 the self-consciousness of the psalmist or exaltatlon - 
 prophet or chieftain as to the pride and rapture of 
 his people, with that which is personal and relative, 
 any more than I would count the winged Pindar in 
 his splendid national odes, or even his patriotic Gre- 
 cian followers, as strictly subjective, however lyrical
 
 84 CREATION AND SELF-EXPRESSION 
 
 and impassioned. Such bards are trumpet-tongued 
 with the exaltation of their time and country : they 
 speak not of themselves, but for their people. To 
 the burning imagination of Moses and the prophets, 
 and to the rhythmical eloquence of the Grecian cele- 
 brants, I may refer when noting the quality of inspi- 
 ration. I think the national and religious utterance 
 of the Hebrews even more characteristic than their 
 personal outgivings ; they were carried out of and 
 intense per- ' above themselves when moved to song, 
 sonai feeling. But there ^ nQ mQTQ won derful poetry of 
 
 the emotional order than the psalms of David and 
 his compeers relating to their own trials and agonies, 
 their loves and hates and adoration. As we agonize 
 and triumph with a supreme lyrical nature, its ego- 
 ism becomes holy and sublime. The stress of human 
 feeling is intense in such poetry as that of the sixth 
 Psalm, where the lyrist is weary with groaning, and 
 waters the couch with his tears, exclaiming, " But 
 thou, O Lord, how long ? " and that of the thir- 
 teenth, when he laments : " How long wilt thou for- 
 get me, O Lord ? Forever ? " and in successive per- 
 sonal psalms wherein the singer, whether David or 
 another, avows his trust in the Deity, praying above 
 all to overcome his enemies and to have his great- 
 ness increased. These petitions, of course, do not 
 reach the lyrical splendor of the psalms of praise 
 and worship : " The heavens declare the glory of 
 God," "The earth is the Lord's and the fulness 
 thereof;" and those of Moses "He that dwelleth
 
 POETRY OF THE BIBLE 85 
 
 in the secret place of the Most High," and its imme- 
 diate successors. But the Hebrew, in those strains 
 where he communes with God alone, other protec- 
 tors having failed him, is at the climax of emotional 
 song. 
 
 Modern self-expression is not so direct and simple. 
 We doubt the passion of one who wears his heart 
 upon his sleeve. The naivete of the Davidic lyre is 
 beyond question, and so is the superb unrestraint 
 of the Hebrew prophecy and paeans. We feel the 
 stress of human nature in its articulate moods. This 
 gives to the poetry of the Scriptures an Subjectivei yet 
 attribute possessed only by the most crca- umversal - 
 tive and impersonal literature of other tongues, 
 that of universality. Again, it was all designed for 
 music, by the poets of a musical race; and the psalms 
 were arranged by the first composers, the leaders 
 of the royal choir. It retains forever the fresh tone 
 of an epoch when lyrical composition was the nor- 
 mal form of expression. Then its rhythm is free, 
 unrestrained, in extreme opposition to that of clas- 
 sical and modern verse, relying merely upon anti- 
 phony, alliteration, and parallelism. Technical aban- 
 don, allied with directness of conception and faithful 
 revelation of human life, makes for universality ; 
 makes of the Hebrew Scriptures a Bible, a world's 
 book that can be translated into all tongues with 
 surpassing effect, notably into a language almost as 
 direct and elemental as its own, that of our Anglo- 
 Saxon in its Jacobean strength and clarity.
 
 86 CREATION AND SELF-EXPRESSION 
 
 Advancing further, you perceive that where a 
 work survives as an exception to the inherent 
 The Book temper of a people, it is likely to exhibit 
 greatness. The sublimest poem of an- 
 tiquity is impersonal, yet written in the Hebrew 
 tongue. The book of Job, the life-drama of the 
 Man of Uz, towers with no peak near it ; its author- 
 ship lost, but its fable associated in mind with 
 the post-Noachian age, the time when God dis- 
 coursed with men and the stars hung low in the 
 empyrean. It is both epic and dramatic, yet em- 
 bodies the whole wisdom of the patriarchal race. 
 Who composed it ? Who carved the Sphinx, or set 
 the angles of the Pyramids ? The shadow of his 
 name was taken, lest he should fall by pride, like 
 Eblis. The narrative prelude to Job has the direct 
 epic simplicity, a Cyclopean porch to the temple, 
 but within are Heaven, the Angels, the plumed Lord 
 of Evil, before the throne of a judicial God. The 
 personages of the dialogue beyond are firmly distin- 
 guished : Eliphaz, Bildad, Zophar, Elihu, to whom 
 the inspiration of the Almighty gave understanding, 
 and the smitten protagonist himself, majestic in 
 ashes and desolation. Each outvies the other in 
 grandeur of language, imagination, worship. Can 
 there be a height above these lofty utterances ? 
 Yes ; only in this poem has God answered out of the 
 whirlwind, his voice made audible, as if an added 
 range of hearing for a space enabled us to compre- 
 hend the reverberations of a superhuman tone. I
 
 THE GRECIAN LYRE 87 
 
 speak not now of the motive, the inspiration, of the 
 symphonic masterpiece ; it is still a mortal creation, 
 though maintaining an impersonality so absolute as 
 to confirm our sense of mystery and awe. 
 
 It has been said of the Hebrew language that its 
 every word is a poem ; and there are books of the 
 Old Testament, neither lyrical nor prophetic, so ex- 
 quisite in kind that I call them models of impersonal 
 art. Considered thus, the purely narrative idyls of 
 Esther and Ruth have so much significance that I 
 shall have occasion to recur to them with reference 
 to poetic beauty and construction. 
 
 Turning from Semitic literature to the Aryan 
 in its Hellenic development, we at once Greece, 
 enter a naturally artistic atmosphere. Until after 
 his Attic prime, the Greek, with no trick of intro- 
 spection, concerned himself very little about his in- 
 dividual pathology, being far too much absorbed 
 with an inborn sense of beauty, and with his office 
 of imaginative creation. His great lyri- Theorists, 
 cal poets Alcaeus, Simonides, Pindar rehearsed, 
 as I have said, the spirit of a people rather than of 
 themselves. As with the Hebrews, but conversely, 
 the few exceptions to this usage were very notable, 
 else they could not have arisen at all. One extrem- 
 ity of passion for which, in their sunlit life, they 
 found expression compulsive, was that of love ; and 
 among those who sang its delights, or lamented its 
 incompleteness, we have the world's accepted type in
 
 88 CREATION AND SELF-EXPRESSION 
 
 Love's priestess of Mitylene, the " violet-crowned, 
 pure, sweetly smiling Sappho." The pity of it is 
 Sappho. that we have only the glory of her name, 
 celebrated by her contemporaries and successors, 
 and justified to us by two lyrics in the stanzaic 
 measure of her invention, and by a few fragments 
 of verse more lasting than the tablets of the Par- 
 thenon. But the " Hymn to Aphrodite " and the 
 <E>aiWdi fwi KTJVOS are enough to assure us that no 
 other singer has so united the intensity of passion 
 with charm of melody and form. A panting, living 
 woman, a radiant artist, are immanent in every verse. 
 After twenty-five centuries, Sappho leads the choir 
 of poets that have sung th eir love ; and from her 
 time to that of Elizabeth Browning no woman has 
 so distinguished her sex. The Christian sibyl moved 
 in a more ethereal zone of feeling, but could not 
 equal her vEgean prototype in unerring art, al- 
 though, by the law of true expression, most artistic 
 where she is most intense. 
 
 The note which we call modern is frequent in the 
 classical dramas of Euripides, and in those of his 
 o*?IeiTng. satirist, Aristophanes ; it drifts, in minor 
 waves of feeling, with the lovely Grecian epitaphs 
 and tributes to the dead, that feeling, the breath of 
 personal art, which Mahaffy illustrates from the bas- 
 reliefs and mortuary emblems which beautify the 
 tombs west of Athens. The Greek anthology is 
 rich with sentiment of this cast, so pathetic and 
 so human. As an instance of what I mean, let me
 
 IDYLLIC SENTIMENT 89 
 
 repeat Cory's imitation of the elegiacs of Callima- 
 chus on his friend Heracleitus : 
 
 " They told me, Heracleitus, they told me you were dead, 
 They brought me bitter news to hear and bitter tears to shed. 
 I wept, as I remembered how often you and I 
 Had tired the sun with talking and sent him down the sky. 
 
 "And now that thou art lying, my dear old Carian guest, 
 A handful of gray ashes, long, long ago at rest, 
 Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales, awake, 
 For Death he taketh all away, but them he cannot take." 
 
 This, to be sure, is a paraphrase, yet it conveys the 
 feeling better than the more compact version by the 
 poet-scholar Andrew Lang. Nothing can exceed, in 
 its expression of the spirit, Mr. Lang's handling of 
 Meleager's verses to the memory of his loved and 
 lost Heliodora : 
 
 " Tears for my lady dead, 
 
 Heliodore ! 
 
 Salt tears, and strange to shed, 
 Over and o'er." 
 
 But I quote no more of this melody, since you can 
 find it, in a certain romance of " Cleopatra," shining 
 by contrast with much of that story like the (f jewel 
 in an Ethiope's ear." Others of Mr. Lang's elusive, 
 exquisite renderings, done as it seems by the first 
 touch, are incomparable with any lyrical exploits of 
 their kind since "Music's wing" was folded in the 
 dust of Shelley. 
 
 Follow the twilight path of elegiac verse to the 
 Alexandrian epoch, and you find the clear Athenian 
 strain succeeded by a compound of artifice and
 
 90 CREATION AND SELF-EXPRESSION 
 
 nature, so full of sentiment withal as to seem the 
 The Greek forerunner of Christian art, in some 
 idyihsts. respects the prototype of our own idyllic 
 poetry. The studiously impassioned lament of Mos- 
 chus for Bion is nearer than the poetry of his dead 
 master, and of that master's master, Theocritus (al- 
 ways excepting the latter's " Thalysia "), to our own 
 modes of feeling and treatment. It set the key for 
 our great English elegies, from Spenser's "Astro- 
 phel" and Milton's "Lycidas" to Shelley's "Ado- 
 nais " and Arnold's lament for Clough. The subjec- 
 tivity of the Greek idyllists is thus demonstrated. 
 They were influenced largely by the Oriental feeling, 
 alike by its sensuousness and its solemnity, and at 
 times they borrowed from its poets, as in the trans- 
 fer by Moschus of a passage from Job into his Dorian 
 hexameters, of which I will read my own version : 
 
 " Even the mallows alas ! alas ! when once in the garden 
 
 They, or the pale-green parsley and crisp-growing anise, have perished, 
 
 Afterward they will live and flourish again at their season ; 
 
 We, the great and brave, and the wise, when death has benumbed us, 
 
 Deaf in the hollow ground a silent, infinite slumber 
 
 Sleep : forever we lie in the trance that knoweth no waking." 
 
 We pass with something like indifference to the 
 Latin Latin poets, because their talent, in spite 
 
 sentiment. of manv nQ ^ Q legacies bequeathed us, 
 
 so lacked the freedom, the originality, the inimitable 
 poetic subtilties which animated everything that was 
 Grecian. Hellas was creative of beauty and inspi-
 
 VERGILIAN STYLE 91 
 
 ration ; Italia, too, was a creative soil, but of gov- 
 ernment, empire, law. Her poetry, as it was less 
 an impulse and more a purpose, belongs largely to 
 the mixed class. In its most objective portions 
 there is an air of authorship and self-expression. I 
 will not speak now of Lucretius, who sends out the 
 one dauntless ray of contemplative splendor between 
 the Hebraic sages and the seers of our new dispen- 
 sation. But Vergil is a typical example Vergil. 
 of the poet whose style is so unmistakable that every 
 verse overflows with personal quality, a style that 
 endures, establishes a pupilage. Vergil borrowed 
 fire from Greece to light the altars of beauty in a 
 ruder land. The Iliad and Odyssey kindled the 
 invention and supplied the construction of his 
 ^Eneids ; the Georgics, his sturdiest cantos, took 
 their motive from Hesiod ; the Eclogues are a para- 
 phrase upon Theocritus. But the Mantuan's style 
 is preeminently his own, the limpid, liquid, sweet, 
 steadfast Vergilian intonation on which monarchs 
 and statesmen hung enchanted, and which was con- 
 fessedly the parent-voice of many an after bard. 
 Tennyson, in point of a style whose qual- H; S modem 
 
 ., .1 j-i- r t. v cc countertypes. 
 
 ity is the more distinct for its diffusive 
 ness, whose potency, to borrow the homoeopathic 
 term, is the greater for its perfect trituration, has 
 been the English Vergil of our day. Browning's 
 trade-mark is, plainly, the antithesis of what I here 
 mean by style. Our own Longfellow furnishes the 
 New World counterpart of Vergil. In the ascetic
 
 Q2 CREATION AND SELF-EXPRESSION 
 
 and prosaic America of his early days he excited a 
 feeling for the beautiful, borrowing over sea and 
 from all lands the romance-forms that charmed his 
 countrymen and guided them to taste and invention. 
 His originality lay in the specific tone that made 
 whatever Longfellow's sweet verse rehearsed a new 
 song, and in this wise his own. Mentioning these 
 leaders of to-day only to strengthen my reference 
 te Vergil, and as illustrating Schlegel's point that 
 "what we borrow from others, to assume a true 
 poetical shape, must be born again within us," - - I 
 Ovid may add that there is a good deal of per- 
 
 catuiius, etc. sona i feeling and expression in the Latin 
 epigrammatists and lyrists. We have Ovid with 
 his Tristia of exile, and Catullus with his Sapphic 
 grace and glow, and a Latin anthology of which the 
 tenderest numbers are eloquent of grief for lover 
 and friend gone down to the nebulous pagan under- 
 world. The deaths that touched them most were 
 those of the young and dear, cut off with their lives 
 unlived, their promise of grace and glory brought to 
 naught. Both the Greeks and the Latins, in their 
 joy of life, strongly felt the pathos of this earthly 
 infruition. That famous touch of Vergil's, in the 
 A touch of sixth yEneid, was not all artifice: the 
 passage in which JEneas sees a throng 
 of shades awaiting their draught of Lethe and re- 
 incarnation in the upper world, and among them 
 the beauteous youthful spirit that in time will be- 
 come Marcellus, son of the Emperor's sister Octavia,
 
 "TU MARCELLUS ERIS" 93 
 
 and heir to the throne of the Caesars. Every school- 
 boy, from the poet's day to the present, knows how 
 this touch of nature made Vergil and his imperial 
 listeners kin : 
 
 " Heu, miserande puer ! si qua fata aspera rumpas, 
 Tu Marcellus eris. Manibus date lilia plenis, 
 Purpureos spargam flores." l 
 
 From the consecrating beauty of the Latin verse, in 
 a new world and after nineteen centuries, is derived 
 the legend Manibus date lilia plenis of an Amer- 
 ican hymn for Decoration Day. Out of the death of 
 a youth as noble and gracious, 2 in whom centred lim- 
 itless hopes of future strength and joy, the spirit of 
 poetry well may spring and declare as from yonder 
 tablet in this very place 3 that his little life was 
 not fruitless, and that its harvest shall be perennial. 
 A passing reference may be made at this point 
 to a class of verse elegantly produced in The Horatu. 
 various times of culture and refinement : the hearty 
 overflow of the taste, philosophy, good-fellowship, 
 especially of the temperament, of its immediate 
 maker. Thus old Anacreon started off, that Parisian 
 of Teos. When you come to the Latin Horace, who 
 like Vergil took his models from the Greek, you 
 have, above all, the man himself before you : the 
 
 1 "Ah, dear lamented boy ! if thou canst break fate's harsh decrees, 
 thou wilt be our own Marcellus. Bring lilies in handfuls; let me strew 
 the purple flowers ! " 
 
 2 Percy Graeme Turnbull : born May 28, 1878 ; died February 12, 
 1887. 
 
 * Levering Hall, Johns Hopkins University.
 
 94 CREATION AND SELF-EXPRESSION 
 
 progenitor of an endless succession, in English verse, 
 of our Swifts and Priors and Cannings and Dobsons, 
 of our own inimitable Holmes. There are feeling 
 and fancy, and everything wise and witty and charm- 
 ing, in the individuality of these Horatii ; they give 
 us delightful verse, and human character in sunny 
 and wholesome moods. One secret of their attract- 
 iveness is their apt measurement of limitations ; 
 they have made no claim to rank with the great im- 
 aginative poets who supply our loftier models and 
 illustrations. 
 
 Return for a moment to that creative art which is 
 Absolutely found in early narrative poetry and the 
 creative song, true drama. The former escapes the pale 
 cast of thought through the conditions of its forma- 
 Primitive tion and rehearsal. Primitive ballads have 
 a straightforward felicity ; many of them 
 a conjuring melody, as befits verse and music born 
 together. Their gold is virgin, from the rock strata, 
 and none the better for refining and burnishing. 
 No language is richer in them than the English. 
 Our traditional ballads, such as " Clerk Saunders," 
 "Burd Ellen," "Sir Patrick Spens," " Chevy-Chace," 
 " Edward ! Edward ! " usually are better poetry than 
 those of known authorship. Not until you come to 
 Drayton's "Agincourt" do you 'find much to rival 
 them. What I say applies to the primitive ballads 
 of all nations. Touch them with our ratiocination, 
 and their charm vanishes. The epos evolved from
 
 HOMER 95 
 
 such folk - songs has the same directness. The 
 rhythm of its imagery and narrative, swift Eplcmagteri 
 and strong and ceaseless as a great river, pieces> 
 would be sadly ruffled by the four winds of a min- 
 strel's self-expression, its current all set back by 
 his emotional tides, 
 
 " The hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, 
 The love of love." 
 
 The modern temper is not quick to apprehend a 
 work of simple beauty and invention. It presup- 
 poses, judging from itself, underlying motives even 
 for the legends and matutinal carols of a young peo- 
 ple. Age forgets, and fails to understand, the heart 
 of childhood ; we " ancients of the earth " miscon- 
 ceive its youth. We even class together the litera- 
 tures of races utterly opposed in genius and disposi- 
 tion. Some would put the Homeric epos The Homeric 
 on the same footing with the philosophi- epo9 ' 
 cal drama of Job, the end of which is avowedly " to 
 justify the ways of God to men." Professor Sni- 
 der, who has exploited well the ethical scheme of 
 " Faust," would similarly deal with the Iliad and the 
 Odyssey. Homer, he thinks, had in mind a grand 
 exposition of Providence, divine rule, the nature of 
 good and evil, and so forth, in relation to which the 
 narrative and poetry of those epics are subordinate 
 and allegorical. But why should we reason too curi- 
 ously ? Both instinct and common sense are against 
 it. Whether the Homeric epos was a growth, or 
 an originally synthetic creation, I believe that the
 
 96 CREATION AND SELF-EXPRESSION 
 
 legends of the glorious Ionian verse were recited 
 its direct and for the delight of telling and hearing; 
 joyous motive. that the unrest i n g f untiring, billowy hex- 
 ameters were intoned with the unction of the bard ; 
 that they do convey the ancestral reverence, the 
 religion, the ethics, of those adventurous daedal 
 Greeks, but simply as a consequence of their spon- 
 taneous truth and vitality. Their poets sang with 
 no more casuistic purpose than did the nightingales 
 in the grove of Colonos. Hence their directness, 
 and their unconscious transmission of the Hellenic 
 system of government and worship. If you wish 
 instruction, everything is essentially natural and 
 true. A perfect transcript of life the best of 
 teachers is before us. In the narrative books of 
 the Bible the good and bad appear without disguise. 
 All is set forth with the frankness that made the 
 heart of the Hebrew tent-dweller the heart of the 
 world thereafter. In Homer, the deities are drama- 
 tis persona, very human, with sovereign yet terres- 
 trial passions ; they dwell like feudal lords, slightly 
 above their dependents, alternating between con- 
 tempt for them and interest in their affairs. But 
 immortal where is the healthy man or boy who 
 uT^outoV" 6 rea ds these epics without an absorption 
 in their poetry and narrative that is the 
 clew to their highest value ? I have little patience 
 with the critics who would disillusionize us. What 
 is the use of poetry ? Why not, in this workaday 
 world, yield ourselves to its enjoyment? Homer
 
 THE ATTIC PRIME 97 
 
 makes us forget ourselves because he is so self-for- 
 getful. He accepts unquestioningly things as they 
 are. The world has now grown hoary with specula- 
 tion, but at times, in art as in religious faith, except 
 ye be as children ye cannot enter into the kingdom. 
 We go back to the Iliad and the Odyssey, to the 
 creative romance and poesy of all literatures, as 
 strong men wearied seek again the woods and waters 
 of their youth, for a time renewing the dream which, 
 in sooth, is harder to summon than to dispel. Such 
 a renewal is worth more than any moral, when fol- 
 lowing the charmed wanderings of the son of Laer- 
 tes, by isle and mainland, over the sea whose waters 
 still are blue and many-voiced, but whose mystic 
 nymphs and demigods have fled forever ; it is worth 
 more than a philosophy, 
 
 " When the oars of Ithaca dip so 
 
 Silently into the sea 
 That they wake not sad Calypso, 
 
 And the hero wanders free. 
 He breasts the ocean furrows 
 
 At war with the words of fate, 
 And the blue tide's low susurrus 
 
 Comes up to the Ivory Gate." 
 
 The dramas of the Attic prime, although equally 
 objective with these epics, are superb TheGreek 
 poetry, with motives not only creative Dramatists - 
 but distinctly religious and ethical. They recog- 
 nize and illustrate the eternal law which brings a 
 penance upon somebody for every wrong, the in-
 
 98 CREA TION AND SELF-EXPRESSION 
 
 scrutable Nemesis to which even the Olympian 
 gods are subject. In this respect the " Prometheus 
 Bound," deathless as the Titan himself, is the first 
 and highest type of them all. The chorus, the major 
 and minor personages, the prophetic demigod, and 
 even the ruthless Zeus, take for granted the power 
 of a righteous Destiny. The wrong-doer, whether 
 guilty by chance or by will, as in the case of the 
 " OEdipus Tyrannus " of Sophocles, even pro- 
 nounces and justifies his own doom. I will not 
 now consider the grandeur of these wonderful 
 productions. Through the supremer endurance of 
 poetry they have come down to us, while the pic- 
 tures of Zeuxis and Apelles, and the " Zeus " and 
 " Athene " of Pheidias, are but traditions of " the 
 glory that was Greece." The point I make is that 
 Their absolute these are absolute dramas. They are 
 quality. richly freighted, like Shakespeare's, with 
 
 oracles and expositions ; but their inspired wisdom 
 never diverts us from the high inexorable progress 
 of the action. It is but a relief and an adjuvant. 
 You may learn the bent of the dramatist's genius 
 from his work, but little of his own emotions and 
 experiences. Nor is the wisdom so much his wis- 
 dom, as it is something residual from the history 
 and evolution of his people. The high gods of 
 ^Eschyius and -^Eschylus and Sophocles for the most 
 Sophocles. part sit above the thunder : but the hu- 
 man element pervades these dramas ; the legendary 
 demigods, heroes, gentes, that serve as the person-
 
 THE ATHENIAN STAGE 99 
 
 ages, Hermes, Herakles, the houses of Theseus, 
 Atreus, Jason, all are types of humankind, re- 
 peating the Hebraic argument of transmitted ten- 
 dency, virtue, and crime, and the results of crime 
 especially, from generation to generation. The pub- 
 lic delight in the Athenian stage was due to its 
 strenuous dramatic action at an epoch when the 
 nation was in extreme activity. Its religious cast 
 was the quintessence of morals derived from history, 
 from the ethics of the gnomic and didactic bards, 
 from the psychological conditions following great 
 wars and crises such as those which terminated at 
 Salamis and Plataea. ^Eschylus and Sophocles were 
 inspired by their times. They soared in contempla- 
 tion of the life of gods and men : no meaner flight 
 contented them. The apparent subjectivity of Eu- 
 ripides is due to his relative modernness. No litera- 
 ture was ever so swift to run its course as the 
 Attic drama, from the Cyclopean architecture of 
 the " Prometheus " to the composite order of " Al- 
 cestis " and " Ion." Euripides, freed somewhat 
 from the tyranny of the colossal myths, Euripides, 
 was almost Shakespearian in his reduction of them 
 to every-day life with its vicissitudes and social re- 
 sults. His characters are often unheroic, modern, 
 very real and emotional men and women. Aristo- 
 phanes, still more various, and at times Aristophanes. 
 equal to the greatest of the dramatists, as a satirist 
 necessarily enables us to judge of his own taste and 
 temper ; but in his travesties of the immediate life
 
 100 CREA TION AND SELF-EXPRESSION 
 
 of Athens he is no more self-intrusive than Moliere, 
 twenty centuries later, in his portraits of Tartuffe 
 and Harpagon and " Les Precieuses." Men create 
 poetry, yet sometimes poetry creates a man for us, 
 witness our ideal of the world's Homer. The 
 hearts of the Grecian dramatists were so much in 
 their business (to use the French expression) that 
 they have told us nothing of themselves ; but this 
 implies no insignificance. So reverse to common- 
 place, so individual were they each and all, that in 
 point of fact we know from various sources more of 
 their respective characters, ambitions, stations, than 
 we know of that chief of dramatists who was buried 
 at Stratford less than three centuries ago. 
 
 But I well may hesitate to discourse upon the 
 Tribute to Greek and Latin poets to the pupils of an 
 
 an American 
 
 scholar. admired expounder of the classical litera- 
 
 tures ; J and I use the word " literatures " advisedly, 
 since, with all his philological learning, it is perhaps 
 his greatest distinction to have led our return to 
 sympathetic comprehension of the style and spirit 
 of the antique masters, to have applied, I may 
 say, his genius not only to the materials in which 
 they worked, but to the grace and power and pleni- 
 tude of the structures wrought from those materials. 
 With less hesitation, then, I change, in quest of 
 strictly dramatic triumphs, from the time of Pericles 
 to the period of Calderon, of Moliere, of Shakespeare 
 and his Elizabethan satellites. Lowell says that 
 1 Professor Basil L. Gildersleeve.
 
 YOUTH'S PRENTICE HAND IOI 
 
 Addison and Steele together made a man of genius. 
 Terence and Plautus between them perhaps display 
 the constituents of a master-playwright, but not, I 
 think, of a strongly imaginative poet. 
 
 I have alluded to the process by which the epic 
 and dramatic chieftains appear to reach The cry of 
 
 adolescence. 
 
 their creative independence. As a pre- CD. "Poets 
 
 of America " : 
 
 liminary, or at certain intervals of life, P- l * 6 - 
 they seem to rid themselves of self-consciousness 
 by its expression in lyrics, sonnets, and canzonets. 
 Of this the minor works of Dante, Tasso, Boccac- 
 cio, Michelangelo, Cervantes, Calderon, Camoens, 
 Shakespeare are eminent examples. But nothing so 
 indicates the unparalleled success of the last-named 
 poet in this regard, as the fact that, unambiguous as 
 are his style and method, and also his moral, civic, 
 and social creeds, we gather so little of the man's 
 inner and outer life from his plays alone : except as 
 we seem to find all lives, all mankind, within him- 
 self, all experiences, 
 
 " All thoughts, all passions, all delights, 
 Whatever stirs this mortal frame ; " 
 
 and Coleridge, when he called him the myriad- 
 minded, should have added, "because the myriad- 
 lived." 
 
 The grand drama, then, like the epic, gives us 
 that "feigned history" which is truer than history 
 as written, because it does not attempt to set things 
 right. Its strength must be in ratio to its imper-
 
 102 CREATION AND SELF-EXPRESSION 
 
 sonality. It follows the method of life itself, which 
 The drama an to ^ Q unthinking so often seems blind 
 tranll; n ript v of chance, so often unjust ; and of which 
 philosophers, reviewing the past, are 
 scarcely able to form an ethical theory, and quite 
 helpless to predicate a future. Scientifically, they 
 doubt not, they must not doubt, that 
 
 " through the ages one increasing purpose runs, 
 And the thoughts of men are widened with the process of the suns." 
 
 Right prevails in the end ; crime brings punishment, 
 though often to the innocent. We have seen that, 
 if poets, they deal with phenomena, with the shows 
 of things, and, as they see and faithfully portray 
 these, the chances of life seem much at haphazard. 
 Hamlet, for all his intellect and resolve, is the sport 
 of circumstance. Rain still falls upon the just and 
 the unjust. The natural law appears the wind of 
 its ethics the destiny. Man, in his conflicts with the 
 kwof Nature. e i emen t S) w ith tyranny, with superstition, 
 with society, most of all with his own passions, is 
 still frequently overthrown. It seems as if the good 
 were not necessarily rewarded except by their own 
 virtue, or, if self-respecting, except by their own 
 pride, holding to the last ; the evil are not cast 
 down, unless by their own self-contempt, and the 
 very evil flourish without conscience or remorse. 
 The pull of the universe is upon us, physically as 
 well as morally. When all goes well, and a fair end- 
 ing is promised, then 
 
 " Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears, 
 And slits the thin-spun life."
 
 THE GRAND DRAMA 103 
 
 Thus Nature, in her drama, has no temporary pity, 
 no regret. She sets before us the plots of life, and 
 its characters, just as they are. The plots may or 
 may not be laid bare ; the characters often reveal 
 themselves in speech and action. As the stream 
 rises no higher than its fount, the ideal dramatist 
 is not more learned than his teacher. He may 
 know no more than you of his personages' secrets. 
 Thackeray confessed, you remember, that Miss 
 Sharp was too deep for him. 
 
 Tragedy, according to Aristotle and in Dryden's 
 English, is "an imitation of one entire, why tragedy 
 
 elevates the 
 
 great, and probable action, not told but soul, 
 represented, which, by moving in us fear and pity, 
 is conducive to the purging of those two passions in 
 our minds." And so its reading of the book of life, 
 even with our poor vision, is more disciplinary, more 
 instructive in ethics and the conduct of life, than 
 any theoretic preachment. The latter will be col- 
 ored, more or less, by the temper of the preacher. 
 Besides, through the exaltation to which we are 
 lifted by the poet's large utterance, our vision is 
 quickened : we see, however unconsciously, that 
 earthly tragedies are of passing import, phenome- 
 nal, formative experiences in the measureless pro- 
 gress of the human soul ; that life itself is a drama 
 in which we are both spectators and participators ; 
 that, when the curtain falls, we may wake as from a 
 dream, and enter upon a life beyond terrestrial trage- 
 dies and which fears not even a disembodied phan- 
 tom, " being a thing immortal as itself."
 
 104 CREATION AND SELF-EXPRESSION 
 
 The Greeks conceived their gods to be almost as 
 Man's victory powerless as a human protagonist to di- 
 vert the tides of circumstance, and postu- 
 lated a Destiny above them all. The dramatists 
 of Christendom, while also impelled to treat life as 
 it is, its best and its worst, recognize no conflict 
 between Deity and Destiny. Pagan and Christian 
 alike present man, the image of his Maker, as exer- 
 cising his highest -function when he rises superior to 
 fate. Thus Job rises, and thus rise Prometheus, 
 (Edipus, Brutus, Hamlet, Wallenstein, Faust, Van 
 Artevelde, and Gregory VII. ; and likewise their fine 
 heroic countertypes, Electra, Alcestis, Antigone, 
 Cordelia, Desdemona, Thekla, Jeanne D'Arc, Dona 
 Sol, and all the feminine martyrs of the grand 
 drama. 
 
 In arguing that the strength of a play is in ratio 
 The dramatic to i ts objectivity, I assume, of course, that 
 genius. other t h m g S are equal. After all, the 
 
 statements are the same, for only the poet endowed 
 with insight and passion can give a truthful, forcible 
 transcript of life. Otherwise many would outrank 
 Shakespeare, being equally impersonal, more artistic 
 in plot-structure, truer perhaps to history and to the 
 possibilities of events. They often compose success- 
 ful plays, striking as to incident and use of stage 
 accessories: but more is required the imagination 
 that creates brave personalities, the cognate high 
 poetic gifts to make a composition entirely great. 
 Add to such endowments the faculty of self-efface-
 
 SUPREME POETIC EMINENCE 105 
 
 ment, and Shakespeare stands at the head thus far. 
 His period fitted him, one of action and adventur- 
 ous zest rather than of introspection. At that time, 
 moreover, literary fame and subsistence were won 
 by play-writing. His mind caught fire by its own 
 friction, as he wrote play after play directly for the 
 stage, knowing himself to be in constant touch with 
 the people for whom and from whom he drew his 
 abundant types. 
 
 I have often thought upon the relative stations of 
 the various classes of poetry, and am dis- Grand drama 
 
 . the noblest and 
 
 posed to deem eminence in the grand most inclusive 
 
 of poetic 
 
 drama the supreme eminence ; and this structures, 
 because, at its highest, the drama includes all other 
 forms and classes, whether considered technically or 
 essentially. Its plot requires as much inventive and 
 constructive faculty as any epic or other narrative. 
 Action is its glory, and characterization must be as 
 various and vivid as life itself. The dialogue is writ- 
 ten in the most noble, yet flexible measure of a lan- 
 guage ; if English, in the blank verse that combines 
 the freedom of prose with the stateliness of accen- 
 tual rhythm. The gravest speech, the lightest and 
 sweetest, find their best vehicle in our unrhymed 
 pentameter ; again, a poetic drama contains songs 
 and other interludes which exercise the lyrical gift 
 so captivating in the works, for example, of our 
 English playwrights : the Elizabethans having been 
 lions in their heroics, eagles in their wisdom, and
 
 106 CREATION AND SELF-EXPRESSION 
 
 skylarks in their rare madrigals and part-songs. 
 Tragedy and comedy alike are unlimited with respect 
 to contrasts of incident and utterance, light and 
 shadow of experience ; they embrace whatsoever is 
 poetic in mirth, woe, learning, law, religion above 
 all, in passion and action. So that the drama is like 
 a stately architectural structure ; a cathedral that 
 includes every part essential to minor buildings, and 
 calls upon the entire artistic brotherhood for its 
 shape and beauty : upon the carver and the sculptor 
 for its reliefs and imagery ; upon the painter and the 
 decorative artist for its wall-color and stained glass ; 
 upon the moulder to fashion its altar-rail, and the 
 founder to cast the bells that give out its knell or 
 paean to the land about. The drama is thus more 
 inclusive than the epic. There is little in Homer 
 that is not true to nature, but there is no phase of 
 nature that is not in Shakespeare. 
 
 Analyze the components of a Shakespearian play, 
 and you will see that I make no overstatement. 
 
 " The Tempest," a romantic play, is as notable as 
 "The Tem- any for poetic quality and varied concep- 
 
 pest " as an , ... 
 
 illustration. tion. It takes elemental nature tor its 
 scenes and background, the unbarred sky, the sea in 
 storm and calm, the enchanted flowery isle, so 
 
 " full of noises, 
 Sounds and sweet airs that give delight and hurt not." 
 
 The personages comprise many types, king, noble, 
 sage, low-born sailor, boisterous vagabond, youth and 
 maiden in the heyday of their innocent love. To
 
 SHAKESPEARE IO/ 
 
 them are superadded beings of the earth and air, 
 Caliban and Ariel, creations of the purest imagina- 
 tion. All these reveal their natures by speech and 
 action, with a realism impossible to the tamer method 
 of a narrative poem. Consider the poetic thought 
 and diction : what can excel Prospero's vision of the 
 world's dissolution that shall leave "not a rack be- 
 hind," or his stately abjuration of the magic art ? 
 Listen, here and there, to the songs of his tricksy 
 spirit, his brave chick, Ariel : " Come unto these 
 yellow sands," " Full fathom five thy father lies," 
 "Where the bee sucks, there suck I." Then we 
 have a play within a play, lightening and decorating 
 it, the masque of Iris, Ceres, and Juno. I recapitu- 
 late these details to give a perfectly familiar illustra- 
 tion of the scope of the drama. True, this was 
 Shakespeare, but the ideal should be studied in a 
 masterpiece ; and such a play as " The Tempest " 
 shows the possibilities of invention and imagination 
 in the most synthetic poetic form over which genius 
 has extended its domain. 
 
 For one, I think that Sophocles and Shakespeare 
 have taught us, by example, that greatness impersonality 
 in the noblest of poetic structures must masted, 
 be impersonal. The magician must not directly 
 appear ; though, from reflecting upon a Prospero, 
 a Benedick, or a Hamlet, we may guess at certain of 
 his maker's traits ; and in sooth he must know his 
 own heart to read the heart of the world, even while 
 he stands so far aloof that it may be said of him, as 
 of one translated,
 
 108 CREA TION AND SELF-EXPRESSION 
 
 " Far off is he 
 
 No more subjected to the change and chance 
 Of the unsteady planets." 
 
 Yet there is a subjective drama which, as we have 
 
 Modern and learned in our day, is not without great- 
 subjective 
 drama. ness derived from the unique genius of 
 
 its constructor. The poet of England and Italy, 
 whose ashes Venice has so recently surrendered to 
 their shrine in Westminster, doubtless possessed a 
 sturdier dramatic spirit than any Briton since the 
 days of John Webster and John Ford. Browning 
 Browning. was a masterful poet in his temper and 
 insight, his flashes of power and passion, his meta- 
 phors, and distinguished for his recognition of na- 
 tional and historic types, his acceptance of life, his 
 profound conviction that the system of things is all 
 right, that we can trust it to the end. But his inces- 
 sant recurrence to this conviction was a personal 
 factor significant of many others. There are numer- 
 ous and distinct characters in his repertory, but it 
 requires study to apprehend them, for they have but 
 one habit of speech, whatsoever their age or country. 
 c -victo They all indulge, moreover, in that trick 
 pp n 2^29 7 " : f self-analysis which Shakespeare con- 
 431-433- fines to the soliloquies of special person- 
 ages at critical moments. Even Browning's little 
 maids study their own cases in the spirit of Sordello 
 or Paracelsus. Finally, his whole work is character- 
 ized by a strangely individual style and atmosphere. 
 True, it is difficult to mistake an excerpt from Shake-
 
 THE SUBJECTIVE DRAMA BROWNING 
 
 speare at his prime, But why is this ? Because 
 Shakespeare's style has unapproachable beauty, 
 strength, flexibility, within the natural method of 
 English verse ; his inimitableness is due not to 
 eccentricity, but to a grandeur of quality. His tone, 
 characterization, and dialogue are as varied as nature. 
 Browning's method hardly suggests either our native 
 order of thought or nature's universality. It seems 
 the result of a decision to compose in a peculiar way, 
 but more likely is the honest reflex of his analytic 
 mental processes. That at times it is great, and 
 above that of his contemporaries, must be acknow- 
 ledged, for his intellect was of a high order. 
 
 Swinburne calls his plays " monodramas, or soli- 
 loquies of the spirit." The subjectivity Dramatic 
 
 ,.,,,,,. . . lyrics and 
 
 which blends their various personages in monologues. 
 a common atmosphere does not detract from the 
 effect of his powerful dramatic lyrics and mono- 
 logues, each the study of a single character. The 
 most striking of these pieces, their abundance is 
 prodigal, and not one is without excuse for being, 
 from "My Last Duchess," "Bishop Blougram," 
 "Childe Roland," "Saul," to "A Forgiveness," in- 
 cluding nearly all the " Dramatic Lyrics," and 
 " Men and Women," place him among the century's 
 foremost masters. In such studies, and in certain 
 of his dramas, he has created a new type of Eng- 
 lish poetry that is second only to the Elizabethan. 
 His eminence is taken for granted when we begin to 
 measure him, if only in contrast, by Shakespeare 
 himself: a tribute rendered to scarcely any other
 
 1 10 CREATION AND SELF-EXPRESSION 
 
 poet save John Keats, and, in that instance, not on 
 the score of mature dramatic quality, but for a dic- 
 tion so prophetic of what in time might be that the 
 world thinks of his youthful shade among the blest 
 as the one permitted to sit at Shakespeare's feet. 
 
 I spoke of our sovereign dramatist as being in 
 The modem spirit with his own people, and writing di- 
 stage. rectly for their stage. Browning's earlier 
 
 plays were written for enactment, and one or two 
 were produced with some success. These, however, 
 to my mind, are not his best work, and his most 
 effective dramas are not, as we say, adapted to stage 
 performance. Yet I rebuke myself, when repeating 
 this cant of the coulisses, as I reflect upon the qual- 
 ity that does find vogue with managers and audiences 
 at the present time. Who can predict what will be 
 thought best " adapted to stage performance " when 
 Jove lets down "in his golden chain the Age of 
 better metal" for which Ben Jonson prayed, the 
 age, at least, of different metal ? Even now we fol- 
 low a grand drama, though it be one of the outlived 
 classical and recitative cast, with absorbed delight, 
 when it is revived by a Salvini. But I believe that 
 Browning himself would have written more and 
 greater dramas, and of an impersonal order, if there 
 had been a theatrical demand for his work after the 
 performances of " Straff ord " and " A Blot in the 
 'Scutcheon." Mischance, and the spirit of the time, 
 may have lost to us a modern Shakespeare. As it 
 is, we have gained a new avatar of dramatic poetry 
 in the works of our Victorian Browning.
 
 IV. 
 
 MELANCHOLIA. 
 
 WE have considered ancient poetry, the Hebraic 
 and the classic, from which we so largely subjective 
 derive, finding even in that of the Augus- $!? f 
 tan prime a marked departure from the 
 originative temper of the earlier literatures. Cen- 
 turies afterward, in Persia, the " Shah Nameh," or 
 Book of Kings, furnished a striking instance of 
 heroic composition : the work of a royal genius, 
 Firdusi, whose name, signifying Paradise, FMusi. 
 was given him by the great Mahmoud because he 
 had made that Caliph's court as resplendent as Eden 
 through his epic of " Rustem and Sohrab," his song 
 of " the rise, combats, death " 1 of the Parsee reli- 
 gion and nationality. To produce an epic deliber- 
 ately that would simulate the primitive mould and 
 manner, in spite of a subjective, almost modern, 
 spirit, seems to have been the privilege of an Ori- 
 ental, and, from our point of view, half-barbaric, 
 race. 
 
 The strength of the Homeric poems and of the 
 sagas of the North betrays the gladness out of which 
 they sprang, the joy that a man-child is born into 
 
 1 Gosse's Introduction to Miss Zimmern's Stories Retold from Fir- 
 dusi.
 
 1 1 2 MELANCHOLIA 
 
 the world. They were men-children indeed. Com- 
 Tasso, Ariosto, pared with our own recitals, with even 
 Tasso's " Jerusalem," Ariosto's " Orlan- 
 do," or the "Lusiad" of Camoens, their voice is 
 that of the ocean heard before the sighing of reeds 
 along a river's brim. Nevertheless, we must note 
 that of the few great world-poems the subjective ele- 
 ment claims its almost equal share. 
 
 As we leave the classic garden, there stands one 
 The"Divina rnighty figure with the archangelic flam- 
 commedia." ing sword After Dante it may be said 
 
 that "the world is all before" us "where to choose." 
 Behind him, strive as we may with renaissance and 
 imitation, we need not and cannot return. Heine 
 says that "every epoch is a sphinx which plunges 
 into the abyss as soon as its problem is solved." 
 After a thousand years of the fermentation caused 
 by the pouring in of Christianity upon the lees of 
 paganism, a cycle ended ; the shade of Dante arose, 
 and brooded above the deep. From his time there 
 was light again. A climacteric epoch had expired 
 in giving him birth. His own age became Dante, 
 as if by one of the metamorphoses in the "Inferno." 
 And the " Divine Comedy " is equally one with its 
 creator. The age, the poem, the poet, alike are 
 Dante ; his epic is a trinity in spirit as in form. Its 
 passion is the incremental heat that serves to weld 
 antique and modern conceptions, the old dispensa- 
 tion and the new.
 
 THE " DIVINE COMEDY" 113 
 
 It is said that great poets are always before or 
 behind their ages ; Dante was no excep- Dante, 
 tion, yet he preeminently lived within his time. 
 Above all else, his epic declares the intense person- 
 ality that must have voice ; not merely expression 
 of the emotion that inspired his minor numbers 
 themselves enough for fame addressed to Beatrice, 
 but also of his insight concerning the master forces 
 of human life and faith and the historic turmoil of 
 his era. It was composed when he had matured 
 through knowledge and experience to that ethical 
 comprehension which is the sustaining energy of 
 Job, of the Greek dramatists, of Shakespeare, Mil- 
 ton, and Goethe. Then he cast his spirit, as one 
 takes a mould of the body, in the matrix of the 
 " Divina Commedia." In this self-perpetuation he 
 interpreted his own time as no modern genius can 
 hope to do, and this is the achievement of person- 
 ality at its highest. That he might succeed, he was 
 disciplined by controversy, war, grief, exile, until 
 the scales fell from .his eyes, and he saw, within 
 the glory of his Church's exaltation, the vice, tyr- 
 anny, superstition, of that Church at that time, of 
 his people, of his native state. His heart was 
 strengthened for judgment, his manhood for hate, 
 and his vision was set heavenward for an ideal. His 
 epic, then, while dramatically creative, is The man, the 
 
 .. . . 111 a S e . and the 
 
 at the apex of subjective poetry, doubly poem. 
 
 so from its expression of both the man and the 
 
 time ; hence our chief example of the mixed type,
 
 1 14 MELANCHOLIA 
 
 that which is compounded of egoism and inventive 
 imagination. Its throes are those of a transition 
 from absolute art to the sympathetic method of the 
 new day. 
 
 Dante could effect this only by a symbolism com- 
 bining the supreme emblems of pagan and Christian 
 schools. 
 
 In his allegory of Hell, Purgatory, and, above all, 
 of Paradise, he is the most profound and aspiring of 
 ethical teachers. The feebler handling of symbol- 
 ism, for art's sake and beauty's, and with an affecta- 
 tion of the virtues, is seen in the " Faerie Queene " 
 of our courtly Spenser, the poet's poet, yet one who 
 never reached the mountain-top of absolute ethics. 
 The tinker Bunyan's similitudes and he was essen- 
 tially a poet, writing in English beyond a mere 
 scholar's mastery are more intrinsically dramatic. 
 But they illustrate a rigid creed, and are below the 
 imagery that sets forth equally human crime and 
 "On a Bust of nobleness, the vision that illumines life, 
 x.wfparsons. churchcraft, statecraft, nationality, art, 
 and religion. Within the eternal blazon of that sat- 
 urnine bard whose 
 
 " rugged face 
 Betrays no spirit of repose, 
 
 The sullen warrior sole we trace, 
 The marble man of many woes. 
 Such was his mien when first arose 
 
 The thought of that strange tale divine, 
 When hell he peopled with his foes, 
 
 Dread scourge of many a guilty line.
 
 ENGLAND'S HELICON 11$ 
 
 " War to the last he waged with all 
 The tyrant canker-worms of Earth ; 
 
 Baron and duke, in hold and hall, 
 Cursed the dark hour that gave him birth ; 
 He used Rome's harlot for his mirth ; 
 
 Plucked bare hypocrisy and crime ; 
 But valiant souls of knightly worth 
 
 Transmitted to the rolls of Time." 
 
 The antique charm, meanwhile, had fled to Eng- 
 land, ever attaching itself to the youth of From Chaucer 
 poesy in each new land. The English toMilton - 
 springtime! to be young in it is very heaven, since 
 it is the fairest of all such seasons in all climes. It 
 gladdens the meadows and purling streams of Dan 
 Chaucer's Tales and Romaunts, and in their min- 
 strelsy he forgot himself, like a child that roams 
 afield in May. With Spenser, and the Tudor son- 
 neteers, the self-expressive poetry of England fairly 
 begins. They, and their common antique and Italian 
 models, were the teachers of Milton in his youth. 
 The scholar gave us what is still in the front rank 
 of our English masterpieces and, with one exception, 
 the latest of those rhythmical creations which belong 
 to the world at large. 
 
 Milton in his epic appears less determinedly as 
 the rhapsodist in person than Dante in p aradise 
 the "Divine Comedy." He sees his vi- Lost '" 
 sion by invocation of the Muse, while the Floren- 
 tine is " personally conducted," one may say, on his 
 tour through the three phantasmal abodes. Doubt- 
 less " Paradise Lost " is the more objective work ;
 
 Il6 MELANCHOLIA 
 
 but with the unparalleled Miltonic utterance, its au- 
 thor's polemic creeds of liberty and religion are con- 
 veyed throughout. He also stands foremost among 
 the bards of qualified vision, by virtue of " Samson 
 Agonistes," a classical drama in which he himself 
 indubitably towers as the blind and fettered pro- 
 tagonist. 
 
 Milton's early verse is the flower of his passion 
 The minor po- ^ or beauty and learning, and exquisite be- 
 ems of Milton. yond that Q f any young English poet then 
 
 or now, his pupil Keats excepted. Had he died 
 after " II Penseroso," " L' Allegro," and " Lycidas," 
 he would have been mourned like Keats ; for their 
 perfection is to-day the model (though usually at 
 second hand) of artists in English verse. In " Lyci- 
 das" he freed our rhythm from its first enslavement ; 
 its second lasted from Pope's time until the Geor- 
 gian revival. One mark of the subjectivity of his 
 early poems often has been noted, they are none 
 too realistic in their transcripts of nature. Milton, 
 as in his greater work, looked inward, and drew his 
 landscape from the Arcadian vistas thus beheld. 
 Besides, he was such a master of the Greek, Latin, 
 and Italian literatures as to be native to their idioms 
 His self- an d spirit. His more resolute self-asser- 
 fn tf^great ti n came in argument and song after ex- 
 
 Puritan epic. / . i i 
 
 perience of imposing national events and 
 sore private calamities, when the man was ripe in 
 thought, faith, suffering, and all that makes for 
 character and exaltation. The universe, as he con-
 
 "PARADISE LOST" 1 1/ 
 
 ceived it, was his theme. His hero, the majestic 
 Satan of his own creation, outvies the ^schylean 
 demigod. The Puritan bard, like Dante, idealized 
 an era and a religion. In the matter and style of 
 the sublimest epic of Christendom its maker's indi- 
 viduality everywhere is felt. The blind seer seems 
 dictating it throughout. We see his head bowed 
 upon his breast ; we hear the prophetic voice re- 
 hearsing its organ-tones ; and thus we should see 
 and hear, even if we could forget that outburst at 
 the opening of the Third Book, wherein, after the 
 radiant conception of the " Eternal coeternal beam," 
 the sonorous declaration of his purposed higher 
 flight, and the pathetic references to his blindness, 
 his final invocation enables all after-time to recog- 
 nize the inward light from which his imagination 
 drew its splendor : 
 
 " So much the rather thou, celestial Light, 
 Shine inward, and the mind through all her powers 
 Irradiate, there plant eyes, all mist from thence 
 Purge and disperse, that I may see and tell 
 Of things invisible to mortal sight." 
 
 Milton's eventide sonnets, incomparable for virility 
 and eloquence, are also nobly pathetic ; His sonnets, 
 there are no personal strains more full of heroic 
 endurance. Not again was there a minstrel so re- 
 solved on personal expression, yet so creative, so 
 full of conviction that often begat didacticism, yet 
 so sensitive to impressions of beauty, until we come 
 to Shelley and his flight, alas ! was ended, while,
 
 Il8 MELANCHOLIA 
 
 as Arnold says, he was still " beating in the void his 
 luminous wings in vain." 
 
 But the nineteenth century, complex through its 
 Our modem interfusion of peoples and literatures, and 
 istic poetry of with all history behind it, has developed 
 
 self-expres- 
 sion- the typical poetry of self-expression, and 
 
 withal a new interpretation of life and landscape 
 through the impressionism of its artists and poets. 
 All this began with the so-called romantic move- 
 ment. 
 
 Kingsley, in his " Hypatia," brings the pagan 
 The Romantic Goths of the North, fair-haired worshippers 
 Movement. o f Qdin, giants in their barbaric strength, 
 to Christian Alexandria, where they loom above the 
 Greek, the Roman, and the Jew. In time they over- 
 ran and to some extent blended with the outer 
 world. It is strange how little they affected its art 
 and letters. Not until after the solvent force of 
 Christianity had done its work could the Northern 
 heart and imagination suffuse the stream of classi- 
 cism with the warm yet beclouded quality of their 
 own tide. Passion and understanding, as Menzel 
 has declared, represent the antique ; the romantic 
 the word being Latin, the quality German is all 
 depth and tenderness. To comprehend the modern 
 movement, vague, emotional, transcendental, - 
 which really began in Germany, read Heine on "The 
 Romantic School," of which he himself, younger 
 than Arnim and Goethe, was a luxuriant offshoot.
 
 THE ROMANTIC LEADERS Iig 
 
 It came into England with Coleridge, with Leigh 
 Hunt and Keats, and found its extreme in Byron. 
 Later still, it fought a victorious campaign in France, 
 under the young Hugo and his comrades. In fine, 
 with color, warmth, feeling, picturesqueness, the iri- 
 descent wave swept over Europe, and to the West- 
 ern world, affecting our own poetry and fiction 
 since the true rise of American ideality. Upon its 
 German starting-ground the imperial Goe- Goethe, 
 the was enthroned, but he has been almost the only 
 universalist and world-poet of its begetting. For he 
 not only produced with ease the lyrics that made all 
 younger minstrels his votaries, but was fertile in 
 massive and purposely objective work. The drama 
 was his life-study, and he sought to be, like Shake- 
 speare, dramatist and manager in one. " Faust," 
 the master-work of our century, is an "Faust." 
 epochal creation. Yet even " Faust " is the reflec- 
 tion of Goethe's experience as the self -elected arche- 
 type of Man, and is subjective in its ethical intent 
 and individuality. Still, the master's tranquil, al- 
 most Jovian, nature enabled him often to separate 
 his personality from his inventions. This Hugo. 
 . more rarely is the case with the only Frenchman 
 comparable to him in scope and dramatic fertility, 
 superior to him in energy of lyrical splendor. Melo- 
 dramatic power and imagination are the twin genii 
 of Hugo, and his human passion is intense ; but his 
 own strenuous, untamed temperament compels us 
 everywhere, even in his romantic and historic plays.
 
 120 MELANCHOLIA 
 
 He was the true creator of modern French litera- 
 ture, for which he furnished a new vocabulary, and 
 he brought France out of her frigid classicism into 
 line with the Northern world. Then came Lamar- 
 other French tme > w ^h his sentiment, and Musset and 
 romantics Gautier, children of Paris and Helen, 
 consecrate from birth to the abandon of emotion 
 and beauty, and equally with Lamartine to the po- 
 etry of self-expression. 
 
 Long before, in Scotland, a more spontaneous min- 
 Burns. strel also had sung out of the fulness of 
 
 the music born within him, but with a tone that sepa- 
 rated him from the choir of purely subjective poets. 
 Burns was altruistic, because his songs were those 
 of his people. In his notes amid the heather,. Sco- 
 tia's lowly, independent children found a voice. It 
 was his own, and it was theirs ; he looked out and 
 not in, or, if in, upon himself as the symbol of his 
 kind. Of all our poets, lyric and idyllic, he is most 
 truly nature's darling ; his pictures were life, his 
 voice was freedom, his heart was strength and ten- 
 derness. Yet Burns, 
 
 " who walked in glory and in joy, 
 Following his plough, along the mountain-side," 
 
 is not a child of the introspective Muse. Relatively 
 late as was his song, he stands glad and brave among 
 the simple, primitive, and therefore universal min- 
 strels. 
 
 No ; it is in Byron, with his loftier genius and 
 more self-centred emotions, that we find our main
 
 WER THERISM 1 2 1 
 
 example of voice and vision conditioned by the tem- 
 perament of their possessor. Objective Byronthe 
 poetry, being native to the youth of a race ^-"{ive 
 before self-torturing sophistry has wrought P 061 ' 
 bewilderment, seemingly should appeal to the youth 
 of an individual. And thus it does, but to the 
 youngest youth, that of a wonder-loving child, 
 whom the " Iliad " and " Odyssey," or Scott's epical 
 romances, delight, and who can make little of met- 
 rical sentimentalism. ,The world-weary veteran also 
 finds it a refreshment ; his arrogance has been les- 
 sened, and he has been taught that his griefs and 
 dreams are but the common lot. 
 
 Yet it is plain that subjective poetry, if sensuous 
 and passionate, strongly affects suscepti- The{erment 
 ble natures at a certain stage of imma- fnewwine - 
 turity. Now that town life is everywhere, we see 
 the Wei therism of former days replaced by a kind 
 of jejune sestheticism, with its own peculiar affecta- 
 tion of wit and indifference. But to the secluded 
 youth, not yet concerned with action and civic life, 
 subjective poetry still makes a mysterious appeal. 
 Sixty years ago the young poet of the period, con- 
 sciously or otherwise, became a Childe Harold, 
 among men, " but not of them ; " one who had " not 
 loved the world, nor the world " him. He found a 
 mild dissipation in contemplating his fancied miser- 
 ies, and was a tragic personage in his own eyes, and 
 usually a coxcomb in those of the unfeeling neigh- 
 borhood. This mock-heroic pose, so often without
 
 122 MELANCHOLIA 
 
 a compensating gift, was and is due to the novel 
 consciousness of individuality that comes to each 
 and all, to the over-consciousness of it which 
 many sentimentalists, against a thousand slights and 
 failures, retain by arrested development to the end 
 of their days. At its best, we have poetic sensibil- 
 ity intensified by egotism. Keats understood this 
 Keats and his clearly, even when experiencing it. In 
 seif-anaiysis. spite of the real tragedy of his career, he 
 manfully outgrew it ; his po^fry swiftly advanced to 
 the robust and creative type, as he wasted under a 
 fatal illness and even in his heart's despair. And 
 what better diagnosis of a young poet's greensick- 
 ness than these words from the touching preface to 
 " Endymion" ? 
 
 " The imagination of a boy is healthy, and the mature 
 imagination of a man is healthy ; but there is a space of 
 life between, in which the soul is in a ferment, the char- 
 acter undecided, the way of life uncertain, the ambition 
 thick-sighted : thence proceed mawkishness, and all the 
 thousand bitters which those men I speak of must neces- 
 sarily taste in going over the following pages." 
 
 It was preordained that even this limbo of life 
 should have an immortal voice, and that voice was 
 Byron. Until his time the sturdy English folk had 
 escaped the need of it. This came with a peculiar 
 agitation of the national sentiment. That Byron 
 found his fame, and the instant power to create an 
 audience for his captivating monodrama, restricted 
 him to a single and almost lifelong mood. This was
 
 BYRON 123 
 
 the more prolonged since it was thoroughly in tem- 
 per with an eager generation. The French Revolu- 
 tion led to a perception of the insufficiency and 
 brutalism of contemporary systems. Rebellion was 
 in the air, and a craving for some escape By ron and 
 to political, spiritual, and social freedom. w *P erioi 
 Byron pointed out the paths by land and sea to a 
 proud solitude, to a refuge with nature and art 
 which the blunted public taste had long forgotten, 
 and he sang so eloquently withal that he drew more 
 than a third part of the rising stars of Europe after 
 him. Their leader is the typical bard of self-expres- 
 sion, not only for the superb natural strength, and 
 directness, and passion of a lyrical genius that forces 
 us to bear with its barbaric ignorance of both art 
 and realism, but because he sustained it to the end 
 of his career in a purely romantic atmosphere. 
 This pervades even the kaleidoscopic " Don Juan," 
 the main achievement of his ripest years, strength- 
 ened as it is by the vigor of which humor is the sur- 
 plusage and an easy-going tolerance the disposition. 
 It must always be considered, in so far as his devel- 
 opment was arrested, that Byron was a lord, born 
 and bred in the British Philistinism against which 
 his nature protested, and that the protest was con- 
 tinued because the fortress did not yield to assault. 
 And he had no Byron for a predecessor, as an object- 
 lesson in behalf of naturalness and common sense. 
 
 Shelley, who came and went like a spirit, and 
 whose poetry seemed the aureole of a strayed vis-
 
 1 24 MELA NCHOLIA 
 
 itor from some translunary sphere, is even more 
 sheiiey. present to us than Byron, with whom, 
 by the law that brings the wandering moths of 
 nightfall together, his life touched closely during its 
 later years. His self -portrayal is as much more 
 beautiful and poetic than Byron's as it is more 
 truthful, unaffected, drawn wholly for self-relief. 
 That it had no theatrical motive is clear from inter- 
 nal evidence, and from his biographer's avowal that 
 he had gained scarcely fifty readers when he died. 
 Byron was consciously a soliloquist on the stage, 
 with the whole reading world to applaud him from 
 the auditorium. Again, while nothing can be more 
 His self- poignantly intense than Shelley's self- 
 delineation in certain stanzas of the 
 " Adonais," and throughout "Alastor," selfishness 
 and egotism had no foothold in his nature. He was 
 altruism incarnate. His personal sufferings were 
 emblematic of wronged and baffled humanity. Thus 
 His creative it was that when removed somewhat from 
 
 productions, 
 
 and those of the battle-field, and in the golden Italian 
 
 Keats, Landor, 
 
 and Coleridge, clime of beauty and song, his art instinct 
 asserted itself ; his poetic faculty at once became 
 more absolute, and he produced " The Cenci," 
 " Prometheus Unbound," and shorter lyrical pieces 
 more than sufficient to prove his greatness in essen- 
 tially creative work. And thus it was, as we have 
 seen, with Keats, who caught by turns the spirits of 
 Greece, of Italy, of the North. Landor did the 
 same, with his " Hellenics," with his " Pericles and
 
 SHELLE K KEA TS HEINE 1 2 5 
 
 Aspasia," " Pentameron," and "Citation of Shake- 
 speare." But Landor, with the fieriest personal tem- 
 per conceivable, was, like Alfieri, though of a totally 
 different school, another being when at work, an 
 artist to his fingers' ends. So was Coleridge at 
 times, when he shook himself like Samson : not the 
 subjective brother-in-arms of Wordsworth, but the 
 Coleridge of the imagination and haunting melody 
 and sovereign judgment unparalleled in his time, 
 Coleridge of " The Ancient Mariner," and " Christa- 
 bel," and " Kubla Khan," whose loss to the highest 
 field of poetic design is something for which one 
 never can quite forgive theology and metaphysics. 
 Of Wordsworth, the real master of the Wordsworth. 
 Victorian self-absorption, I shall speak at another 
 time, with respect to our modern conception of the 
 sympathetic quality of nature. To conclude, the 
 prodigal Georgian school, springing from The Georgian 
 a soil that had lain fallow for a hundred SchooL 
 years, was devoted as a whole to self-utterance, but 
 magnificently so. Of course a reaction set in, and 
 we now complete the more restrained, scholarly, an- 
 alytic, artistic Victorian period, a time, I fully 
 believe, of equally imaginative effort, yet of an 
 effort, as we shall see, that usually has taken, so far 
 as concerns dramatic invention, a direction other 
 than rhythmic. 
 
 Meanwhile, Heinrich Heine, of the intermediate 
 generation, and the countryman of Goethe, Heine, 
 began, one might say, where Byron left off. His
 
 126 MELANCHOLIA 
 
 whole song is the legacy of his personal mood, but 
 that was full of restless changes from tears and 
 laughter, from melody and love and tenderness, to 
 scorn and cynicism, and again from agnosticism to 
 faith. In youth, and at intervals until his death, his 
 dominant key was like Byron's, dissatisfaction, 
 longing, the pursuit of an illusive ideal, the love of 
 love and fame. There was an apparent decline, 
 after disordered years, in Byron's powers both physi- 
 cal and mental. Yet his Greek campaign bade fair 
 to bring him to something better than his best. He 
 had the soldier's temperament. Action of the he- 
 roic kind was what he needed, and might have led 
 to the "sudden making" of a still more splendid 
 name. Heine was many beings in one : a Jew by 
 race, a German by birth, a Parisian by adoption, 
 taste, and instinct for the beautiful. His outlook, 
 then, was broader than that of the English poet. 
 His writing was also a revolt, but against the age as 
 that of a Jew, and against contemporary Philistin- 
 ism as that of an Arcadian. Byron became a cos- 
 / mopolite ; Heine was born one. In the world's 
 theatre he stood behind the scenes of the motley 
 "Mostmusi- human drama. He wrought its plaint and 
 
 cal, most 11- r 
 
 melancholy." laughter into a fantastic music of his own, 
 with a genius both sorrowful and sardonic ; always 
 like one enduring life as a penance, and suffering 
 from the acute consciousness of some finer exist- 
 ence the clew to which was denied him :
 
 TEMPERAMENT I2/ 
 
 " In every clime and country 
 
 There lives a Man of Pain, 
 Whose nerves, like chords of lightning, 
 
 Bring fire into his brain : 
 To him a whisper is a wound, 
 
 A look or sneer a blow ; 
 More pangs he feels in years or months 
 
 Than dunce-throng'd ages know." 
 
 Heine felt, and avowed, that the actual song-motive 
 is a heart-wound, without which " the true poet can- 
 not sing sweetliest." His mocking note, n.e,,,^^,, 
 which from its nature was not the sanest note> 
 art, was quickly caught by younger poets, and re- 
 peated as if they, too, meant it, and for its air of ex- 
 perience and maturity. With real maturity they 
 usually hastened to escape from it altogether. 
 
 I think that the impersonal element in art may be 
 termed masculine, and that there is some- The major and 
 
 ,.,.... ,,. . , minor keys of 
 
 thing feminine in a controlling impulse to lyncsong. 
 lay bare one's own heart and experience. This is as 
 it should be : certainly a man's attributes are pride 
 and strength, strength to wrestle, upon occasion, 
 without speech until the daybreak. The fire of the 
 absolutely virile workman consumes its own smoke. 
 But the artistic temperament is, after all, androgy- 
 nous. The woman's intuition, sensitiveness, ner- 
 vous refinement join with the reserved power and 
 creative vigor of the man to form the poet. As 
 those or these predominate, we have the major
 
 128 MELANCHOLIA 
 
 strain, or the minor appeal for human sympathy and 
 the proffer of it. A man must have a notable gift 
 or a very exalted nature to make people grateful for 
 his confessions. The revelations of the feminine 
 heart are the more beautiful and welcome, because 
 the typical woman is purer, more unselfish, more 
 consecrated, than the typical man. Through her 
 ardent self-revelations our ideals of sanctity are 
 maintained. She may even, like a child, be least 
 self-conscious when most unrestrained in self-ex- 
 pression. Assuredly this was so in the case of the 
 Mrs Brown- greatest woman-poet the modern world 
 has known. Mrs. Browning's lyrics, 
 every verse sealed with her individuality, glowing 
 with sympathy, and so unconsciously and unsel- 
 fishly displaying the nobility of her heart and intel- 
 lect, have made the earth she trod sacred, and her 
 resting-place a shrine. Her impassioned numbers 
 are her most artistic. The " Sonnets from the Por- 
 tuguese," at the extreme of proud self -avowal, are 
 equal in beauty, feeling, and psychical analysis to 
 any series of sonnets in any tongue, Shakespeare's 
 not excepted. 
 
 I have alluded to Alfieri. The poets of modern 
 National Italy, romantic as they are, still derive 
 closely from the antique, and they have 
 applied themselves considerably to the drama and to 
 the higher lyrical forms of verse. Chafing as they 
 did so long under the Austrian sway, their more ele- 
 vated odes, as you will see in Mr. Howells's treatise,
 
 OVER-CONSCIOUS ART 129 
 
 have been charged with "the longing for freedom, 
 the same impulse toward unity, toward nationality, 
 toward Italy." Poetry that has been the voice and 
 force of a nation occupies, as I have said, a middle 
 ground between our two extremes. It has an altru- 
 istic quality. The same generous fervor impetu- 
 ously distinguished the trumpet-tongued lyrics of 
 our Hebraic Whittier, and the unique outgivings of 
 Lowell's various muse, in behalf of liberty and right. 
 Those were " Noble Numbers ; " and, in truth, the 
 representative national sentiment of which ideas 
 of liberty, domesticity, and religion are chief com- 
 ponents pervades the lyrics of our elder Ameri- 
 can poets from Bryant to Taylor and Stoddard. 
 Whitman's faith in the common people, in de- 
 mocracy strong and simple, has gained him world- 
 wide honor. Subjective as they are, few poets, in 
 any era or country and historians will come to 
 recognize this clearly have been more national 
 than our own. 
 
 The latest school, with its motto of art for art's 
 sake, has industriously refined music, self-conscious 
 color, design, and the invention of forms. *' 
 But its poets and painters show a kind of self-con- 
 sciousness in the ostentatious preference of their 
 art to themselves, even in their prostration at the 
 feet of "Our Lady of Beauty." Their motive is so 
 intrusive that the result, although alluring, often 
 smacks of artisanship rather than of free and natural
 
 1 30 MELANCHOLIA 
 
 art. Their early leaders, such as the young Tenny- 
 son and Rossetti in England, and Gautier in France, 
 effected a potent, a charming, a sorely needed resto- 
 ration of the beautiful. But the Laureate has lived 
 to see another example of his own saying that a 
 good fashion may corrupt the world. The French 
 Parnassiens, the English-writing Neo-Romanticists, 
 are more constructive than spontaneous, and deco- 
 rative most of all. They have so diffused the tech- 
 nic of finished verse that the making of it is no 
 Findestecie. more noteworthy than a certain excel- 
 lence in piano playing. They plainly believe, with 
 Schopenhauer, that " everything has been sung. 
 Everything has been cursed. There is nothing left 
 for poetry but to be the glowing forge of words." 
 
 This curious, seemingly impersonal poetry, corn- 
 Latter-day posed with set purpose, finds a counterpart 
 in some of the bewildering recent archi- 
 tecture. How rarely can we say of the architect 
 and his work, 
 
 " He builded better than he knew : 
 The conscious stone to beauty grew." 
 
 The artist and the builder are too seldom one. The 
 poet just quoted, when on a trip to New Hampshire, 
 found a large building going up in a country town. 
 "Who is the architect ?" he said. "Oh, there is n't 
 any architect settled upon as yet," was the reply ; 
 " I 'm just a-building it, you see, and there's a chap 
 coming from Boston next month to put the archi- 
 tecture into it." So it is with a good deal of our
 
 . FIN DE SIECLE 131 
 
 latter-day verse. It does not rise " like an exhala- 
 tion." It is merely the similitude of the impersonal, 
 and art for the artist's sake rather than its lack cf 
 
 the creative 
 
 for the sake of art. Its one claim to ob- impersonality, 
 jectivity is, in fact, the lack of any style whatever, 
 except that derived by the rank and file from their 
 study of the chiefs. It is all in the fashion, and all 
 done equally well. Even the leaders, true and indi- 
 vidual poets as they have been, Tennyson, Ros- 
 setti, Swinburne, Morris, Sully Prudhomme, Banville, 
 often have seemed to compose perfunctorily, not 
 from inspired impulse. Read "The Earthly Para- 
 dise," that seductive, tranquillizing:, pro- Morris and 
 
 Walter Scott: 
 
 longed, picturesque rehearsal of the old an illustration, 
 wonder-tales. Its phantasmagoric golden haze, so 
 often passing into twilight sadness, has veiled the 
 quality of youth in those immortal legends. What 
 is this that Morris fails to capture in his forays 
 upon the "Odyssey," the "Decameron," Chaucer, the 
 "Gesta Romanorum," the "Edda," the "Nibelungen 
 Lied " ? Can it never come again ? Has it really 
 passed away? Did it wake for the last time in those 
 lusty octosyllabic romances of the Wizard of the 
 North, such as " Marmion " and the " Lay of the 
 Last Minstrel " ? Careless, faulty, diffuse as they 
 were, those cantos were as alive as Scotland herself, 
 and fresh with the same natural genius, disdaining 
 to hoard itself, that produced the Waverley novels. 
 If Scott has had no successor, it is doubtless because 
 the age has needed none. We have moved into
 
 1 3 2 MELA NCHOLIA 
 
 another plane, not necessarily a lower but certainly a 
 different one. 
 
 With respect to style, Swinburne is the most sub- 
 jective of contemporary poets, yet he has made nota- 
 ble successes in dramatic verse, chief of all, and 
 earliest, the "Atalanta in Calydon," with whose 
 Swinburne, auroral light a new star arose above our 
 horizon. Nothing had been comparable to its im- 
 aginative music since the " Prometheus Unbound," 
 and it surpassed even that for its author had 
 Shelley for a predecessor in miracles of rhyth- 
 mic melody. The " Prometheus " surges with its 
 author's appeal from tyranny; "Atalanta" is a 
 pure study in the beautiful, as statuesque as if done 
 in Pentelican marble. Its serene verse, impressive 
 even in the monometric dialogue, its monologues 
 and transcendent choruses, conceived in the spirit 
 of Grecian art, but introducing cadences unknown 
 before, all these are of the first order. The 
 human feeling that we miss in " Atalanta " is, on 
 the other hand, a dramatic factor in Swinburne's 
 Trilogy of Mary Stuart. But in his most impersonal 
 The worth and work his fiery lyrical gift and individuality 
 
 disadvantage 
 
 of a strongly will not be suppressed. The noble dramas 
 
 individual 
 
 style. of Henry Taylor and Hengist Home are 
 
 more objective, but cannot vie with Swinburne's in 
 poetic splendor. Now, as you know, this unrivalled 
 voice is instantly recognized in his narrative ro- 
 mances, or in any strophe or stanza of his plenteous 
 odes and songs. The result is that his vogue has
 
 6" WINB URNE A RNOLD 1 3 3 
 
 suffered. His metrical genius is too specific, too 
 enthralling, to be over-long endured. Thus the 
 distinctive tone, however beautiful, which soonest 
 compels attention, as quickly satiates the public. 
 The subjective poets who restrict their fertility, or 
 who die young, are those whom the world canonizes 
 before their bones are dust. 
 
 While, then, a few modern poets, at times as 
 absorbed as Greeks in their work, have Temperament. 
 been strenuously impulsive in temper and in the 
 conduct of life, among them Alfieri, Foscolo, 
 Hugo, Landor, Horne, and various lights of the 
 art -school from Keats onward, the artist's tem- 
 perament usually in the end determines the order of 
 his product : clearly so in such cases as those of 
 Leopardi, James Thomson, Baudelaire, Poe. Sym- 
 pathetic examination of the poetry will give you the 
 poet. A fine recent instance of an intro- Arnold's 
 
 conflict with 
 
 spective nature overcoming the purpose his genius, 
 formed by critical judgment was that of Matthew 
 Arnold. A preface to the second edition of his 
 poems avowed and defended his poetic creed. Re- 
 flection upon the antique, and the study of Goethe, 
 had convinced him that only objective art is of 
 value, and that the most of that which is infected 
 with modern sentiment is dilettanteism. Art must 
 be preferred to ourselves. Action is the main 
 thing ; more than human dramatic greatness alone 
 saves even Shakespeare's dramas from being weak-
 
 1 34 MELA NCHOLIA 
 
 ened by "felicities" of thought and expression. 
 The poet-critic accordingly proffered his two heroic 
 episodes, " Balder Dead " and " Sohrab and Rustum," 
 His both " Homeric echoes," though in 
 
 objective 
 
 studies. their slow iambic majesty violating his 
 
 own canon that the epic movement should be swift. 
 These are indeed the tours de force of intellect and 
 constructive taste. There are fine things in both, 
 but the finest passages are reflective, Arnoldian, or, 
 like the sonorous impersonation of the river Oxus, 
 and the picture of Balder's funeral pyre, elaborately 
 descriptive, and unrelated to the action of the 
 poems. Now, these blank-verse structures are not 
 quite spontaneous ; they do not possess what Arnold 
 himself calls the " note of the inevitable." The 
 ancients, doing by instinct what he bade us imitate, 
 had no cause to lay down such a maxim as his, 
 that the poet "is most fortunate when he most 
 entirely succeeds in effacing himself." They worked 
 in the manner of their time. Schlegel points out 
 that when even the Greeks imitated Greeks their 
 triumph ended. A modern, who does this upon 
 principle, virtually fails to profit by their example. 
 In the end he has to yield. Arnold was beloved by 
 His more his pupils by those whom he stimulated 
 
 spontaneous 
 
 expression. as Emerson stimulated American idealists 
 for the poetry wherein he was in truth most for- 
 tunate, that is, in which he most entirely and unre- 
 servedly expressed himself ; in verse, for the tender, 
 personal, subtly reflective lyrics that seem like
 
 ARNOLDS CREED AND SONG 135 
 
 tremulous passages from a psychical journal ; most 
 of all, perhaps, for those which so convey the spirit 
 of youth, the youth of his own doubting, search- 
 ing, freedom-sworn Oxonian group a group among 
 whom he and Clough, his scholar-gypsy, were leaders 
 in their search for unsophisticated nature and life, 
 in their regret for inaction, their yearning for new 
 light, their belief that love and hope are the most 
 that we can get from this mortal existence. It was 
 Arnold's sensitive and introspective temperament, 
 so often saddening him, that brought his intellect 
 into perfect comprehension of Heine, Joubert, S6- 
 nancour, and, doubtless, Amiel. His ca- "Look in thy 
 
 heart and 
 
 reer strengthens my belief that the true write." 
 way is the natural one, that way into which the 
 artist is led by impulse, modified by the disposition 
 of his time. Burns was a force because he was not 
 Greek, nor even English, but Scottish, entirely na- 
 tional, and withal intensely personal. Scott's epics 
 are founded in the true romantic ballads of the 
 North. A few of us read and delight in " Balder 
 Dead ; " " Marmion," a less artistic poem, gave plea- 
 sure far and wide, and still holds its own. I confess 
 that this again suggests my old question concerning 
 Landor, " Shall not the wise, no less than the wit- 
 less, have their poets ? " and that, whether wise or 
 otherwise, I prefer to read " Balder Dead ; " but I 
 have observed that poetry, however admi- Aconsid- 
 rable, which appeals solely to a studious 
 class rarely becomes in the end a part of the world's
 
 136 MELANCHOLIA 
 
 literature. Palgrave, in the preface to "The Golden 
 Treasury," significantly declares that he " has found 
 the vague general verdict of popular Fame more just 
 than those have thought who, with too severe a 
 criticism, would confine judgments on poetry to 
 'the selected few of many generations.' " 
 
 Like Arnold, nearly all his famous peers of the 
 The composite recent composite period have made attrac- 
 tive experiments in the objective and an- 
 tique fields, though less openly upon conviction. 
 Yet Tennyson and Browning are essentially English 
 and modern, as Emerson, Longfellow, Whittier, are 
 American and New-English, while Lowell's memora- 
 ble verse is true to the atmosphere, landscape, na- 
 tional spirit, dialect, of his own land, and always 
 true to his ethical convictions. Our minor artists in 
 verse succeed as to simplicity and sensuousness 
 in their renaissance work, but fail with respect to 
 its passion, for to simulate that requires vigorous 
 dramatic power. The latter is rarely displayed ; its 
 substitute is the note of Self. If this be so, let us 
 make the best of it, and furnish striking individuali- 
 ties for some future age to admire, as we admire the 
 creations of our predecessors. At all events, the 
 poet must not dare anything against nature. Let 
 him obey Wordsworth's injunction, 
 
 " If thou indeed derive thy light from Heaven, 
 Then, to the measure of that heaven-born light, 
 Shine, Poet 1 in thy place, and be content."
 
 CREATIVE PROSE FICTION 137 
 
 But are there, then, no dramatic works in recent 
 literature ? Yes ; more than in any former time, if 
 you do not insist upon poetic form and rhythm. 
 While the restriction adopted for these The modern 
 lectures excludes that which is merely in- and^cWe" 1 
 
 . . mode of 
 
 ventive composition, you know that prose activity, 
 fiction is now the principal result of our dramatic 
 impulse. The great modern novels are Our prose fie- 
 
 f i c i t ' n ' *-P- 
 
 more significant than much of our best "Poets of 
 
 America": 
 
 poetry. What recent impersonal poem or P- 463- 
 drama, if you except " Faust," excels in force and 
 characterization " Guy Mannering " and the " Bride 
 of Lammermoor," " Notre Dame de Paris," " Les 
 Trois Mousquetaires," " Pere Goriot," " On the 
 Heights," " Dimitri Rudini," "Anna Karenina," 
 "With Fire and Sword," "Vanity Fair," "Henry 
 Esmond," "The Newcomes," "Bleak House," "The 
 Tale of Two Cities," "The Cloister and the Hearth," 
 "Westward Ho!" "Adam Bede," "Romola," "Lorna 
 Doone," "Wuthering Heights," "The Pilot," "The 
 Scarlet Letter," " The Deluge," and other prose 
 masterpieces with which you are as familiar as ^vere 
 the Athenians with the plays of Euripides ? More 
 than one of them, it is true, reflects the author's 
 inner life (but so does " Faust "), and is all the more 
 intense for it. The free nature of the novel seems 
 to make subjectivity itself dramatic. Certainly, the 
 individuality of a Bronte", a Thackeray, a Hawthorne, 
 or a Meredith does not lead us to prefer G. P. R. 
 James, or put them on a lower plane than the strictly
 
 1 3 8 MELANCHOLIA 
 
 objective one of De Foe, Jane Austen, Dumas. Our 
 second-rate novels are chiefly mechanical inventions 
 turned off for a market which the modern press has 
 created and is ominously enlarging. However, with 
 such an outlet for the play of the invention which, 
 three centuries ago, spent its strength upon the 
 rhythmical drama, it is no wonder that even our 
 foremost poets look out to rival ranges, with now 
 and then still another peak above them ; and these 
 lectures would seem an anachronism were it not 
 that it is a good time to observe the nature of an 
 object when it is temporarily inactive. 
 
 Except for this prose fiction superadded to the 
 best poetic achievements of the modern 
 
 The mne- 
 
 tury^iuiiter- schools, the nineteenth century would not 
 
 ary distinction. haye ^^ ^ j believe it to have been> 
 
 nearly equal in general literary significance (as in 
 science it is superior) to the best that preceded it. 
 It is difficult for critics to project themselves beyond 
 their time ; perceiving its shortcomings, they are 
 prone to underestimate what in after time may seem 
 a peculiar literary eminence. To all the splendor 
 of our greatest fiction must be united the romance of 
 the Georgian poetic school and the composite beauty 
 and thought of the Victorian, that this statement 
 may be sound with respect to the literature of our 
 own language. While poetry and fiction both have 
 to do with verities, Mill was not wrong when he said 
 that the novelist gives us a true picture of life, but 
 the poet, the truth of the soul.
 
 OUR LOSS AND GAIN 139 
 
 From our survey, after granting that only a few 
 world-poems exhibit the absolute epic and dramatic 
 impersonality, it by no means follows in spite of 
 common assertion that the worth of 
 
 other poetry is determined by an objec- thechieftest 
 
 Objectivity not 
 the chief t 
 of poetic 
 
 tive standard. The degree of self-expres- gen ' U9 ' 
 sion is of less moment than that of the poet's genius, 
 Subjective work is judged to be inferior, I take it, 
 from its morbid examples. The visits of the crea- 
 tive masters have been as rare as those of national 
 demigods, and ordinary composers fall immeasu- 
 rably short of their station. We have the perfect 
 form, historical or fanciful impersonations, but few 
 striking conceptions. The result is less sincere, 
 less inevitable, than the spontaneous utterance of 
 true poets who yield to the passion of self-expres- 
 sion. 
 
 Yet we have seen that a line can be rather clearly 
 drawn between the pagan and Christian Theojdand 
 
 . , , . _ new dispensa- 
 
 eras, and that there has been a loss. To tic, 
 think of this as a loss without some greater compen- 
 sation is to believe that modern existence defies the 
 law of evolution and is inferior as a whole to the 
 old; that the soul of Christendom, because more 
 perturbed and introspective, is less elevated than 
 that of antiquity. Contrast the two, and what do 
 we find ? First, a willing self-effacement as against 
 the distinction of individuality ; secondly, the simple 
 zest of art-creation, as against the luxury of human
 
 140 MELANCHOLIA 
 
 feeling a sense that nourishes the flame of conso- 
 lation and proffers sympathy even as it craves it ; 
 
 " That from its own love Love's delight can tell, 
 
 And from its own grief guess the shrouded Sorrow ; 
 From its own joyousness of Joy can sing ; 
 
 That can predict so well 
 From its own dawn the lustre of to-morrow, 
 The whole flight from the flutter of the wing." 
 
 This sympathy, this divinely human love, is our 
 legacy from the Teacher who read all joys and sor- 
 rows by reading his own heart, being of like passions 
 with ourselves, a process wisely learned by those 
 fortunate poets who need not fear to obey the 
 maxim, " Look in thy heart and write ! " 
 
 The Christian motive has intensified the self- 
 conventuai expression of the modern singer. That 
 introspection, fa j s subject to dangers from which the 
 pagan was exempt, we cannot deny. His process 
 may result in egotism, conceit, the disturbed vision 
 of eyes too long strained inward, delirious extremes 
 of feeling, decline of the creative gift. Probably 
 the conventual, middle-age Church, with its retreats, 
 penances, ecstasies, was the nursery of our self- 
 absorption and mysticism, the alembic of the vapor 
 which Heine saw infolding and chilling the Homeric 
 gods when the pale Jew, crowned with thorns, en- 
 tered and laid his cross upon their ban- 
 
 Dttrer's " Me- 
 
 th" C M^of quet-table. It is not the wings alone of 
 Christendom. ) Urer ' s m y S ti c Mclencolia " that declare 
 her to be a Christian figure. She sits among the
 
 THE MUSE OF CHRISTENDOM 141 
 
 well-used emblems of all arts, the ruins of past 
 achievements, the materials for effort yet to come. 
 Toil is her inspiration, exploration her instinct : she 
 broods, she suffers, she wonders, but must still ex- 
 plore and design. The new learning is her guide, 
 but to what unknown lands ? The clew is almost 
 found, yet still escapes her. Of what use are beauty, 
 love, worship, even justice, when above her are the 
 magic square and numbers of destiny, and the pass- 
 ing-bell that sounds the end of all ? Before, stretches 
 an ocean that hems her in. What beyond, and after ? 
 There is a rainbow of promise in the sky, but even 
 beneath that the baneful portent of a flaming star. 
 Could Durer's " Melencolia " speak, she might in- 
 deed utter the sweet and brave, yet pathetic, poetry 
 of our own speculative day. 
 
 Our view of the poetic temperament is doubtless 
 a modern conceit. The ancient took life Neurotic 
 as he found it, and was content. Death sensitiveness - 
 he accepted as a law of nature. Desire, the lust for 
 the unattainable, aspiration, regret, these are our 
 endowment, and our sufferings are due less to our 
 slights and failures than to our own sensitiveness. 
 Effort is required to free our introspective rapture 
 and suffering from the symptoms of a disease. Yet 
 there is no inevitable relation between disease and 
 genius, and it is chiefly in modern song that " great 
 wits are sure to madness near allied." Undoubtedly 
 at feverish crises a flood of wild imaginings over- 
 whelms us. Typical poets have acknowledged this,
 
 142 MELANCHOLIA 
 
 Coleridge, Byron, Heine, who cite also the cases 
 of Collins, Cowper, Novalis, Hoffmann, and other 
 children of fantasy and sorrow. Coleridge pointed 
 to those whose genius and pursuits are subjective, 
 as often being diseased ; while men of equal fame, 
 whose pursuits are objective and universal, the New- 
 tons and Leibnitzes, usually have been long-lived 
 and in robust health. Bear in mind, however, the 
 change latterly exemplified by Wordsworth, Tenny- 
 son, Browning, Hugo, and our vigorous American 
 Pleiad of elder minstrels, who have exhibited the 
 sane mind in the sound body. But the question of 
 neurotic disorder did not occur to the age of Sopho- 
 The health of c l es an ^ Pindar. Impersonal effort is as 
 invigorating as nature itself : so much so 
 that Ruskin recognizes the great writer by his guid- 
 ing us far from himself to the beauty not of his cre- 
 ation; and Couture, a virile figure, avowed that "the 
 decline of art commenced with the appearance of 
 personality." Goethe, in spite of his own theory, 
 admitted that the real fault of the new poets is that 
 "their subjectivity is not important, and that they 
 cannot find matter in the objective." The young 
 poets of our own tongue are not in a very different 
 category. The best critic, then, is the universalist, 
 who sees the excellence of either phase of expres- 
 sion according as it is natural to one's race and 
 period. A laudable subjectivity dwells in natural- 
 ness, the lyrical force of genuine emotions, in- 
 cluding those animated by the Zeitgeist of one's
 
 HEART ANSWERETH HEART 143 
 
 own day. All other kinds degenerate into sentimen- 
 talism. 
 
 If we have lost the antique zest, the animal happi- 
 ness, the naivete" of blessed children who Modem 
 
 rr- ' IT i ideality: the 
 
 know not the insufficiency of life, or that loss and gain, 
 they shall love and lose and die, we gain a new 
 potency of art in a sublime seriousness, the heroism 
 that confronts destiny, the faculty of sympathetic 
 consolation, and that "most musical, most melan- 
 choly" sadness which conveys a rarer beauty than 
 the gladdest joy, the sadness of great souls, the 
 art-equivalent of the melancholy of the Preacher, of 
 Lincoln, of Christ himself, who wept often but was 
 rarely seen to smile. The Christian world has added 
 the minor notes to the gamut of poesy. It discovers 
 that if indeed " our sweetest songs are those which 
 tell of saddest thought," it is better to suffer than to 
 lose the power of suffering. 
 
 Commonplace objective work, then, is of no worth 
 compared with the frank revelation of an "To thine 
 
 * f f own self be 
 
 inspiring soul. Our human feeling now true -" 
 seeks for the personality of the singer to whom we 
 yield our heart. Even Goethe breaks out with 
 " Personality is everything in art and poetry ; " 
 Schlegel declares that " a man can give nothing to 
 his fellow-man but himself ;" and Joubert whom 
 Sainte-Beuve has followed says, "We must have 
 the man. ... It is human warmth and almost 
 human substance which gives to all things that 
 quality which charms us." This fact is a strong-
 
 144 MELANCHOLIA 
 
 hold for the true impressionists. The special way in 
 which his theme strikes the artist is his latter-day 
 appeal. And what is style ? That must be subjec- 
 tive. Some believe it to be the only thing which is 
 the author's own. The modern mind understands 
 that its compensation for the loss of absolute vision 
 is the increase of types, the extension of range and 
 variousness. These draw us nearer the plan of 
 nature, that makes no two leaves alike. The value 
 of a new piece of art now is the tone peculiar to its 
 maker's genius. Death in art, as in nature, is now 
 the loss of individuality, a resolution into the ele- 
 ments. We seek the man behind the most imper- 
 sonal work ; more, the world conceives for itself 
 ideals of its poets, artists, and heroes, plainly differ- 
 ent from what they were, yet adapted to the sugges- 
 tions received from their works and deeds. 
 
 My summary, then, is that the test of poetry is 
 The essential not by its degree of objectivity. Our in- 
 
 rule of 
 
 judgment. quiry concerns the poet's inspiration, his 
 production of beauty in sound and sense, his imagi- 
 nation, passion, insight, thought, motive. Imper- 
 sonal work may be never so correct, and yet tame 
 and ineffective. Such are many of the formal dramas 
 and pseudo-classical idyls with which modern litera- 
 ture teems. Go to, say their authors, let us choose 
 subjects and make poems. The true bard is chosen 
 by his theme. Lowell "waits" for "subjects that 
 hunt me." Where the nature of the singer is noble,
 
 REALISM AND ROMANTICISM 145 
 
 his inner life superior to that of other men, the more 
 he gives us of it the more deeply we are moved. 
 We suffer with him ; he makes us sharers of his 
 own joy. In any case the value of the poem lies in 
 the credentials of the poet. 
 
 It is the same with all other speculations upon 
 art : with that, for instance, concerning Disputed 
 realism and romanticism, of late so tedi- t. 
 ously bruited. Debate of this sort, even when re- 
 lating to the Southern and the Wagnerian schools 
 of music, or to impressional and academic modes of 
 painting, is often inessential. It has, perchance, a 
 certain value in stimulating the members of oppos- 
 ing schools. The true question is, How good is 
 each in its kind ? How striking is the gift of him 
 who works in either fashion ? Genius will inevitably 
 find its own fashion, and as inevitably will pursue it.
 
 V. 
 
 BEAUTY. * 
 
 FOR the moment, and somewhat out of the order 
 of discussion, I will assume that no poem p oe tryasan 
 can have birth without that unconscious preSonTf 
 process of the soul which is recognized 
 in our use of words like " intuition," " insight," 
 " genius," " inspiration." Nor can it be brought 
 to completeness without the exercise of conscious 
 afterthought. True poetry, however, is reinforced 
 by three dynamic elements. No work of art is 
 worth considering unless it is more or less effective 
 through beauty, feeling, and imagination ; and in 
 the consideration of art, truth and ethics are a part 
 of beauty's fidelity to supreme ideals. 
 
 You will find it needful to examine the nature of 
 that which is termed Beauty, before ackowledging 
 that poetry can be no exception, but What thenj 
 rather the chief illustration, when it is isBeaut y ? 
 declared that an indispensable function of the arts 
 is the expression of the beautiful. 
 
 With respect to the artists and critics who abjure 
 that declaration, as when, for instance, The denial 
 
 of its indis- 
 
 a critic said of an American draughtsman reusability, 
 that he was too fine an artist to concern himself
 
 148 BEAUTY 
 
 about mere beauty, I am convinced that they 
 simply are in rebellion against hackneyed standards. 
 They have adopted some fresh, and therefore wel- 
 come, notion as to what is attractive. This they 
 have given a new name, to distinguish it from an 
 established and too familiar standard. They are 
 unwittingly wooing beauty in a new dress, the 
 same goddess, with more disguises than Venus 
 Mater. Some day they will recognize her, et vera 
 incessu patuit dea, and again be taught that she 
 never permits her suitors to escape. She has the 
 secret of keeping them loyal in spite of themselves. 
 This belief that they are free is a charm by which 
 she lures them to her unknown haunts, rewarding 
 them with the delight of discovery, or ironically per- 
 mitting them to set up claims for invention. One 
 may even compare beauty to the wise and charming 
 wife who encourages a fickle husband's attentions at 
 a masquerade. She has a thousand graces and co- 
 quetries. At last the masks are removed. " What, 
 is it you ? And still superior to all others ! " He 
 needs must worship her more than ever, and own 
 that none can rival her adorable and " infinite va- 
 riety." 
 
 No ; the only consistent revolt is on the part of 
 A logical but those who declare that she has no real 
 
 purely Berke- . ... 
 
 feian theory, existence, that beauty is a chimera. 
 Let me confess at once that I am not in their 
 ranks. I doubt whether any artist, or any thinker 
 who honestly loves art and has an instinct for it,
 
 WHETHER BEAUTY IS A CHIMERA 149 
 
 believes this theory of aesthetics, though he may 
 advocate it or be driven into its acceptance. An 
 argument can be made on that side, granting certain 
 premises. Even then it is a dispute about terms. 
 The claim may serve for metaphysicians, not for 
 those whose vocations relate to the expression of 
 artistic ideas in what is called tangible form. Go 
 back to Berkeley and his forebears, if you like. 
 Deny the existence of all things, for that is what 
 you must do if you deny the actuality of beauty, 
 else you are instantly routed. Your only safe claim 
 is that naught but soul exists, and this not the gen- 
 eral soul, but your own soul, your Ego. You think, 
 therefore you are ; everything else is, for all that I 
 can prove, the caprice of your own dream. Some 
 of our modern transcendentalists, vaunting their 
 Platonic allegiance to ideal beauty, af- its supporters, 
 fected indifference to its material emblems. The 
 modern impressionists, after all the most ardent 
 and ingenuous of technicists, are unwittingly their 
 direct successors. Now, the transcendentalists 
 often were speculators, and not, as they deemed 
 themselves, artists and poets. Having little com- 
 mand over the beautiful, they took refuge in dis- 
 crediting it. I speak of certain of the followers : 
 their chief was Argus-eyed. In Emerson Emerson's 
 the true poet constantly broke loose. He, ownview - 
 too, looked inward for the ideal beauty, that purest 
 discovery of the soul, but in song he always recog- 
 nized its visible reality :
 
 150 BEAUTY 
 
 " For Nature beats in perfect tune, 
 And rounds with rhyme her every rune, 
 Whether she work in land or sea, 
 Or hide underground her alchemy. 
 Thou canst not wave thy staff in air, 
 Or dip thy paddle in the lake, 
 But it carves the bow of beauty there, 
 And the ripples in rhymes the oar forsake." 
 
 But, as I say, the recantation of beauty, by tran- 
 scendentalists, realists, and impressionists alike, is 
 the search for her in some other of her many 
 impres- realms. Whatsoever kingdom the im- 
 pressionist enters, he still finds her on 
 the throne. For him she may veil herself in twi- 
 light and half-tints, or at rare instants of percep- 
 tion in still more witching drapery worn for him 
 alone. The individual impressions enrich our mu- 
 seum of her portraitures. The impressionist depicts 
 her not as she was known to Pheidias, or Raphael, 
 or Velasquez, but as she appears to his own favored 
 vision. This is the truth that makes impressionism 
 a brave factor in modern art and poetry. What 
 lessens its vantage is the delusion, absurd as Malvo- 
 lio's, of incompetents, each of whom fancies that he 
 is in special favor and that myopic vision and eccen- 
 tric technic result in impressions that are worth 
 recording. 
 
 Whenever there is a notable break from that 
 mediocrity falsely termed " correct," which lurks in 
 academic arras, it is not a rebellion but a just revo-
 
 EVOLUTION OF SCHOOLS 151 
 
 lution. This is why it has been said that "the 
 strength of Shakespeare lay in the fact Art , snew 
 that he had no taste ; he was not a man de partur e3 . 
 of letters." But men of letters now accept Shake- 
 speare as their highest master. Thus every new 
 movement or method in art has the added form of 
 strangeness at first, of a true romanticism. In 
 time this, too, becomes classicism and academic. 
 The mediocrities, the dullards of art, are ever the 
 camp-followers of its shining soldiery. In every 
 campaign, under every mode that a genius brings 
 into vogue, they ultimately pitch their ragged tents ; 
 and even if they do not sink the cause into disre- 
 pute, they make in time a new departure necessary. 
 In the greatest work, however, there will be found 
 always a fresh originality that is not radically 
 opposed to principles already established ; you will 
 have a union of classicism and romanticism. 
 
 Any poem or painting which produces a serious 
 and lasting impression will in the end be The -esthetic 
 found to have a beauty, not merely of its c 
 own, but allied to universal types and susceptible of 
 logical analysis. Its royal stamp will be detected by 
 the expert. Gainsay this, and you count out a host 
 of the elect brotherhood who make this the specific 
 test, who will forego other elements (as in reli- 
 gion the Church passes over minor matters if you 
 accept its one essential) and concentrate their force 
 upon the dogma tersely expressed by Poe when 
 he defined poetry as "the rhythmical creation of
 
 152 BEAUTY 
 
 beauty." One need not accept this as a sufficient 
 statement, but one may assert that no statement is 
 sufficient which does not pointedly include it. 
 
 Confront, however, the fact that the new aesthetic 
 _ , . is grounded in science, and see to what 
 
 .("Esthetics as 
 
 the study of ^ ls i ea d S- it opposes, for example, the 
 
 the manites- rr 
 
 artisSc f theory of those who accept the exist- 
 ence of a something which we recognize 
 as beauty, and which as a sensible and primary 
 quality can be denned only by itself, or by a syn- 
 onym, though its conditions are observable and 
 reasons can be given for it. Expression is its 
 source ; is not beauty itself, but that which gives 
 Eugene objects beauty. Now Vron, a forcible 
 
 sttfoTof^^r- expositor of the school that has in mind 
 the scientific situation, declares that 
 beauty is solely in the eye or mind of the artist, 
 and that everything turns on the expression of his 
 impression. The latter clause is true enough. The 
 beauty which the painter or poet offers us cer- 
 tainly depends upon the quality of his vision, upon 
 his ability to give us something in accord with gen- 
 
 1 Veron, in his L'ffAAiffitf, declares very justly that the definition 
 of ^Esthetics as the " Science of the Beautiful " itself requires defin- 
 ing ; that the beauty of Art does not consist in imitation, or realism, 
 or romanticism, but in effects determined by the individuality of the 
 artist ; and that herein lies the true worth of impressionism. Finally, 
 he accepts, in deference to usage, the " Science of Beauty in Art " as 
 a convenient formula, but prefers his own statement that "Esthetics 
 is the science whose object is the study and elucidation of the mani- 
 festations of artistic genius."
 
 MODERN &STHE TICS 1 5 3 
 
 eral laws, yet deriving a special charm and power 
 from the touch or atmosphere of his personal 
 genius. As each race has its specific mode of 
 vision, so for each there are as many and different 
 impressions and expressions as the race has artists ; 
 and the general or academic outlines of perfection 
 being known, the distinctive value of a poem or 
 painting does come from its maker's habit of vision 
 and interpretation. 
 
 But why, in order to advance the banner of im- 
 pressionism, or of neo-impressionism, or Yet Beamy is 
 
 no less a force 
 
 of realism, good as these may be, should existent. 
 we assume the task of denying beauty altogether ? 
 Beauty is confessedly not a substance ; you cannot 
 weigh it with scales or measure it with a yard-stick : 
 but it lies in a vibratory expression of substances. It 
 characterizes that substance which enforces upon 
 intelligence in our case, upon human intelligence 
 
 a perception of its fitness. In the mind of a crea- 
 tive poet, it is a quality of his imagined substance, 
 
 poetry dealing, as we have seen, with " the shews 
 of things " and treating them as if real. To the pure 
 idealist they are the only realities, as Emerson him- 
 self implied in his remark when called away from 
 an abstract discussion in the library to inspect a 
 farmer's load of wood : " Excuse me a moment, my 
 friends. We have to attend to these matters just 
 as if they were real." 
 
 To be sure, from the place where I stand, I can- 
 not see the rays, the vibrations, which convey to
 
 154 BEAUTY 
 
 you the aspect of something in your line of vision : 
 its vibrations the light and shape and color which con- 
 actuaiiy occur, st j tute vour impression are your personal 
 
 sensations. But the vibrations which produce them 
 are actually occurring, and the quality of the sub- 
 stance from which they emanate is operative, 
 unless, again, you choose to deny in toto the exist- 
 ence of matter, and, after every allowance has 
 been made for personal variation, if I move to your 
 point of view, they will, so far as we can know any- 
 thing, produce approximately the same effect upon 
 my mind and upon yours. It matters not through 
 and excite which of the senses impressions are re- 
 percepdon" 1 ceived : sight, hearing, smell, taste, touch, 
 
 all resolve themselves at last into spiritual 
 feeling. Form, for example, appeals to the touch as 
 well as to the eye. Note the blind Herreshoff, that 
 skilled designer of the swift, graceful hulls of yachts 
 and other cruisers. As his sensitive fingers passed 
 over, and shaped, and reshaped his model, he had 
 as keen a sense of the beauty of its lines as we 
 have in seeing them. A poem, conveyed by touch 
 to one congenitally deaf, dumb, and blind, will im- 
 press him only with the beauty of its thought, con- 
 struction, and metric concordance ; but in one who 
 has lost his sight and hearing in mature years, and 
 who retains his memories, it will excite ideas of 
 Form and sound and imagery and color. Moral and 
 
 intellectual beauty is the spiritual ana- 
 logue of that which is sensuous ; but just now we
 
 MANIFEST THROUGH VIBRATIONS 155 
 
 are regarding concrete qualities ; for example, the 
 form, the verbal and rhythmical excellence, of a 
 poet's poem. Our reference to arts that specially 
 appeal to the eye is illustrative, since they afford the 
 diagrams, so to speak, of most service in this dis- 
 cussion. 
 
 For the perception of the beautiful there must be 
 a soul in conjunction; that statement is B eautyisthe 
 irrefutable. Yet I think that the quality ^fngSTn 
 
 r i L_ i / vibrations. 
 
 of beauty exists in substances, even it 
 there be no intelligence at hand to receive an im- 
 pression of it ; that if a cataract has been falling 
 and thundering and prismatically sparkling in the 
 heart of a green forest, from time immemorial, and 
 with no human being to wonder at it, it has no less 
 the attribute of beauty ; it is waiting, as Kepler said 
 of its Creator, "six thousand years for an inter- 
 preter." Suppose that an exquisite ode by Sappho 
 or Catullus has been buried for twenty centuries in 
 some urn or crypt : its beauty is there, and may 
 come to light. Grant that our sense of material 
 beauty is the impression caused by vibrations ; then 
 the quality regulating those vibrations is what I mean 
 by the " beauty " of the substance whence they ema- 
 nate. Grant what we term the extension of that 
 substance ; the characteristics of that extension are 
 what affect us. There is no escape, you see, unless, 
 with Berkeley, you say there is no matter. 
 
 This is just what the poet, the artist, is not called 
 upon to do. He is at the outset a phenomenalist.
 
 156 BEAUTY 
 
 He sets forth his apparitions of things, idealizing 
 The oet them for the delight of himself and the 
 unTverlal to world. And as to the law of beauty, 
 phenomena. whether it lies in use or proportion or 
 what not, it all comes back to the truths of nature, to 
 the perfection of the universe, to that sense of the 
 fitness of things which is common to us all in our 
 respective degrees ; so that there are some objects 
 so perfect that we all, if of the same breed and con- 
 dition, assent to their beauty. There are women, 
 for example, who take the world with beauty at first 
 glance, and there are other objects only partly beau- 
 tiful, less perfect, about which, therefore, even crit- 
 ical judgments are in dispute. That beauty does go 
 somewhat with use is plain from its creation by 
 necessity. The vessel that is most beautiful, that 
 differs most from the lines of a junk or scow, is the 
 one best fitted safely and swiftly to ride the waves. 
 The condition is the same with everything in nature 
 and art, from a bird to a portico. If the essence of 
 Beauty the beauty lies in conformity to the law and 
 auaiity 1 of aii fitness of things, then all natural things 
 are as beautiful as they can be, that is, 
 beauty is their natural quality ; they develop it 
 unconsciously as far as possible under limitations 
 imposed by the pervading struggle for existence. 
 That is what leads Hartmann to assert that in Na- 
 ture's beauty " the individual, who is at the same 
 time marble and sculpture, realizes the Idea per- 
 fectly unconsciously ; in human artistic production,
 
 ITS UNIVERSAL RECOGNITION 1 57 
 
 on the other hand, the instigation of consciousness 
 supervenes." 
 
 The poet, through intuition and executive gift 
 realizing the normal beauty of everything, Recognition 
 
 * of it is 
 
 imaginatively sets it forth. He detects it intuitive, 
 even within the abnormal gloom and deformity im- 
 posed by chance and condition, helps it to struggle 
 to the light, restores it I may say to conso- 
 nance with the beauty of the universal soul. This 
 being partly comprehensible through empiricism and 
 logical analysis, men of talent and of little insight 
 produce tolerable work by means of trained aesthetic 
 judgment. But no art, no poetry, is a distinctive 
 addition to the world's stores unless its first concep- 
 tion be intuitive ; then only it is a fresh expression 
 of the universal beauty through one of its select 
 interpreters. Like all things else it comes to us 
 from Jove. 
 
 Even V6ron is compelled to assume the element 
 which he denies. When he begins to The schools, 
 illustrate and to criticise, he instantly talks of " the 
 perfection of parts." The despotism of established 
 art systems springs from this perfection, the aca- 
 demic sway of the antique and of Raphaelitism. 
 Much of this discussion belongs to metaphysical 
 aesthetics, and some persons may think these notions 
 antiquated. We know little of these things abso- 
 lutely. We know not the esoteric truth in matters 
 of art or nature, otherwise the schools at once 
 would cease their controversies. As it happens,
 
 158 BEAUTY 
 
 certain of the latest physicists claim that " deduced 
 facts " that is, the objects inferred from our sen- 
 sations are the true substantialities ; that only 
 our perception of them is transient ; that the world 
 of subjective feelings is the chimera, not the objec- 
 tive matters which excite perception. 
 
 One question you very properly may ask : " Why 
 
 where not ta ^ e a ^ tn ^ s ^ or granted, and go on ? 
 
 danger lies. j om e jther side, and the result is the 
 same. Eclipses were calculated readily enough upon 
 the Ptolemaic method." Not so. The theory that 
 beauty is a chimera leads to an arrogant contempt 
 for it on the part of many artists and poets, who 
 substitute that which is bizarre and audacious for 
 that which has enduring charm. It begins with 
 irreverence, and leads to discordant taste ; to some- 
 thing far beneath the excellence of noble literatures 
 and of great plastic and poetic eras. 
 
 The tentative revolts that break forth in art and 
 
 "The old letters are against methods to which, how- 
 order 
 changeth." ever fine they be and grounded in nature, 
 
 the world has become too servile. Movements in 
 poetry, like those of Blake and Whitman and Lanier 
 for greater rhythmical freedom, of the Rossettians 
 for a study of Preraphaelite methods, of Banville 
 and Dobson for a restoration of attractive forms ; 
 movements in art like those of Monticelli and Claude 
 Monet, all these are to some extent the quest for 
 values so long unwonted that they seem new ; and
 
 OUR ESTABLISHED IDEALS 159 
 
 thus art returns upon its circuit and the wisdom of 
 the Preacher is reaffirmed. Still, every race has its 
 culminating or concurrent ideal of beauty, Development 
 
 ....... . , , ... of racial and 
 
 which is attected, again, by the conditions national ideals. 
 of life in the different regions of the race's estab- 
 lishment. Each nation, like a rose-tree, draws from 
 the soil and air its strength, and wealth, and mate- 
 rial sustenance ; it puts forth branches, and leaves, 
 and sturdy thorns, and battles with the elements 
 and with the thicket that hems it in ; finally, with 
 all its hardier growth assured, it breaks into flower, 
 it develops an ideal ; its own and perfect rose of 
 beauty marks the culmination, the intent, the abso- 
 lute fulfilment, of its creative existence. Thus the 
 ideals of Grecian art and song doubtless represent 
 the South, and those of the Gothic or romantic the 
 North, in Europe ; and the two include the rarest 
 of our Aryan types. In art, these have Ultimate 
 resulted in various academic standards standards - 
 the excellence of which cannot be discredited. 
 Pater has rightly said that it is vulgar to ignore the 
 "form" of the one, and vulgar to underrate the "sub- 
 stance" of the other. The charm of the Perfection of 
 antique, for instance, is so celestial that, theanti< J ue - 
 supposing we had been deprived of it hitherto and 
 were suddenly to be introduced to it through dis- 
 covery of a new continent, the children of art would 
 go wild over its perfection. The very artists who 
 now revolt from it would in that case break from 
 other standards and lead a revolt in its favor, and a
 
 160 BEAUTY 
 
 momentous progress in art and song would be re- 
 corded. As it is, we are intellectually aware of its 
 nobility ; but anon our sense of delight in it is 
 blunted, we have no zest in its repetition, being 
 to the manner born. Zest is the sensation most 
 Fashion. Cp. worth possessing. The eager student 
 America ": instinct is right in essaying discovery 
 and revival, since only thus can zest be 
 sustained, and, for the sake of this, occasional 
 changes even to fashions of minor worth are not to 
 be scouted. The element of strangeness itself con- 
 veys a peculiar effect of beauty. This, by the way, 
 is the strength of the Grotesque, a subordinate form 
 of art and at its best accessory. 
 
 You will observe that after most revolts the 
 Renaissance, schools go back, in time, to certain 
 ideals, to those which become academic because 
 the highest. They recover zest for these, having 
 wearied of some passing fashion or revival. An 
 occasional separation is not a bad thing, after all, in 
 friendship, art, or marriage. Thus it was that the 
 classic Renaissance of Italy reopened a world of 
 beauty, and began a fresh creative period, in which 
 new styles of painting, moulding, architecture arose, 
 different from the antique, but inspired by it, and 
 possible because the spirit of beauty itself was re- 
 born. 
 
 We constantly have illustrations of the depen- 
 dence of artistic zest upon the stimulus of novelty. 
 Some of you possibly were brought up in our old
 
 HOW ZEST IS SUSTAINED l6l 
 
 towns and in those old houses where architecture, 
 furniture, wall-paper, were all "in keep- An(?ther i]lus . 
 ing." How prim and monotonous it then 'Mjoion&i" 
 seemed, and how a lad longed to get away revivaL 
 from it ! Citified folk long since got away, and with 
 zest, to something vastly inferior, to something 
 with no style at all. At last the Colonial and Revo- 
 lutionary homestead styles became rare to find in 
 their integrity. Now we see a restoration of them ; 
 now we rediscover their lightness and fitness, 
 their beauty, and are reviving them in all depart- 
 ments of taste ; until, in fact, as I recently heard an 
 artist break forth, " there is a great deal of taste, 
 and some of it is good ! " It may be that another 
 generation will tire of them, as we did, though it 
 seems heresy to say so now. 
 
 For a long time after 1775, Sir Joshua Reynolds 
 stood, in his work and " Discourses," as a Academic art. 
 representative exponent of the academic. One must 
 remember that he had no light task in promoting 
 taste among his Anglo-Saxons ; their race is not 
 endowed with the intuitive Southern perception of 
 the beautiful. The English acquire their artistic 
 taste intellectually, except in landscape-gardening, 
 although their poets seem to be even more noble 
 (perhaps because more intellectual) than those of 
 nations whose sense of material beauty sir Joshua 
 is congenital. Sir Joshua was a good deal 
 of a poet with his brush. The chief of academi-
 
 1 62 BEAUTY 
 
 cians, he had a touch, a lovely feeling, an impressive- 
 ness of his own. When he sought a foundation for 
 his discourses upon art, he wisely went to the best 
 ideals known to him. His lectures are in the main 
 sound ; no artist, even a recanter, can afford not to 
 read them ; yet the attempt to carry them out al- 
 most confirmed the English School in " correct," 
 rigid, and lifeless methods. And why ? Because 
 Sir Joshua, an original painter in his studio, in his 
 teachings did not sufficiently allow for and inculcate 
 a local, climatic, racial divergence from his revered 
 Italian models. 
 
 Now, the Indo-European ideals of beauty usually 
 Diverse ideals have been the foundation of academic 
 
 of another . 
 
 people. theoretics upon art, just as they are inter- 
 
 wrought, in sooth, with English poetry, and with 
 the great criticism thereon, from Lamb and Cole- 
 ridge to Dryden and Arnold and Lowell. But what 
 would Sir Joshua Reynolds have made of the ex- 
 treme antipodal type, that of those Asiatic Greeks, 
 our delightful Japanese ? To be sure, there were 
 Indian and Chinese cults, but these were merely 
 capricious and accessory, and not pursued to any 
 just appreciation of their ideals. Here, then, in 
 The Japanese. Japan is a race developed under distinc- 
 tive biological conditions, with types of art and life 
 almost the reverse of our own, yet perfectly con- 
 sistent throughout, and as we now see superior 
 to those of Western civilization in more than one 
 department. Its ideals are just as perfect as those
 
 THE ANTIPODAL TYPE 163 
 
 of the Greeks or Goths, yet absolutely different. 
 Here we indeed enter a new world. Ideal beauty 
 plainly lies in adaptation of the spirit to Fitness, 
 
 material and 
 
 the circumstances, though not always to spiritual, 
 the apparent material exigencies. La Farge, whom 
 I have before quoted, and upon the subject of 
 beauty the sayings of a painter or an architect 
 (mutatis mutandis] apply just as fully to poetry as 
 to his own art, La Farge says, in speaking of 
 the adaptation of Japanese buildings to resistance 
 against earthquakes, that 
 
 " like all true art, the archi- 
 tecture of Japan has found in the necessities imposed upon 
 it the motives for realizing beauty, and has adorned the 
 means by which it has conquered the difficulties to be sur- 
 mounted." 
 
 No better illustration could be given of the rela- 
 tions of fitness and beauty ; but he soon has occa- 
 sion to add : 
 
 "Everywhere the higher architecture, embodied in 
 shrines and temples, is based on some ideal needs, and 
 not essentially upon necessities." 
 
 We see, then, every people recognizing an extra- 
 mundane conception of beauty, founded in the spirit 
 of man, and this again conforms itself to the spirit 
 of each race. Through it the poets become creative 
 rather than adaptive, the beauty of their imagin- 
 ings coming from within, just as the beauty of 
 nature is the efflux of the universal spirit. So far
 
 1 64 BEAUTY 
 
 as human artists share the Divinity of that spirit, 
 their interpretations give it form to human eyes, 
 melody to human ears, and imagery and feeling 
 therewithal to move the recipient. It seems, then, 
 I say, the lot of each nation, as if an individual, and 
 specific f eacn period, as if a modish season, to 
 
 evolution. discover the beauty conformed both to 
 general laws and to specific needs and impulse ; to 
 create, moreover, its proper forms in every art, thus 
 making new contributions to the world's thesaurus 
 of poetry and design. This is acknowledged by all, 
 as concerns the every-day art of dress. A Japanese 
 gentleman is dignified in his national costume ; his 
 wife and daughters are charming in their clinging 
 and curving robes. Attire them and that is the 
 shameful thing which our invasion is effecting in 
 the dapper broadcloth, the Parisian gown, and their 
 comeliness often is gone. A pitiful incongruity is 
 apt to take its place. I believe that such a race as 
 theirs also develops its fine arts, manners, govern- 
 ment, literature, yes, even religion, to its foreor- 
 dained capacity ; that if you force or coax it to adopt 
 the modes of a divergent people, you sound the 
 death-knell of its fair individuality. If the tempter 
 race is the superior, the one that surrenders its 
 own ideals is doomed to be absorbed, at least, to 
 lose its national distinction. Possibly with the pro- 
 , ,. gressive modern intercourse of peoples a 
 
 What distant 
 
 goal? general blending is to result. Languages, 
 
 arts, races, may react upon one another and produce
 
 DIVERGENT RACIAL STANDARDS 165 
 
 a cosmic mongrelism. If this is according to the 
 law of progress, something grand will come out of 
 it, a planetary and imposing style. But during cen- 
 turies of transition the gradual loss of national indi- 
 vidualities will seem pathetic indeed. Something of 
 this passed through my mind as I watched, half sor- 
 rowful and half amused, an accomplished Japanese 
 lady, the adopted daughter of an American, yielding 
 to the influence of our Western ideals. A natural 
 artist, like so many of her blood, she is impressible 
 by beauty of a novel type. As far as per- ^he assimiia- 
 sonal experience is concerned, she doubt- tlve process - 
 less adds to the worth of her own life by assimilat- 
 ing the results of an art no more perfect in its kind 
 than the decorative and therefore secondary art 
 of her own race, yet one far beyond the power of 
 her race to originate, or to pursue in competition 
 with its originators. Therefore it seemed almost a 
 pity to find her at work upon a lesson from the Art 
 Students' League, copying in crayon an antique 
 Apollo, with deft fingers, which to my thinking 
 should be tracing designs in lacquer or in cloisonne 
 on bronze, or painting some group of Japanese men 
 and maidens, in their flexible costume, by the bay- 
 side, on a terrace, with herons stalking among sacred 
 lilies in the near distance, and the eternal peak of 
 Fujiyama meeting the blue sky beyond. 
 
 Meanwhile our present standard of beauty is the 
 European, with modifications. To comprehend any 
 other you must enter into its spirit by adoption, by
 
 1 66 BEAUTY 
 
 a certain naturalization ; until then you will find it 
 Taste is con- as hard to master as the idioms of a lan- 
 cStllaJe. guage not your own. These seem grotesque 
 and childish until you speak, even think, in their 
 tongue without mentally translating it. A transla- 
 tion will give you the imagination, action, thought, 
 of a poem, for instance, but not its native and essen- 
 tial beauty. Esthetics relate to the primal sense, 
 and must be taken at first hand. This is all the 
 truth there is in the maxim De gustibus. If the 
 rays of our sun were as green as those of the star 
 /3 Librae, beauty would exist and have its standard 
 in conformity. Taste would be as intuitive as now, 
 and just as open to cultivation. 
 
 These general principles should entitle us to our 
 Poetic beauty, surmise respecting the ultimate value of 
 a poem. A mode attractive for its novelty may be 
 only the vogue of a generation, or of a brief season. 
 I take endurance to be the test of art. History will 
 show, I think, that if a poem had not the element of 
 beauty, this potency in art, its force could not en- 
 dure. Beauty partakes of eternal youth and conveys 
 its own immortality. Passion and imagination in- 
 tensify much of the poetry that has survived; but 
 under their stress the poet summons beauty to his 
 aid. Wisdom and morals do not so inevitably take 
 . on grace : their statements, impressive at 
 
 Its conserving 
 
 power. tne ti mC) m ust be recast perpetually. 
 
 The law of natural selection conserves artistic beauty
 
 ENDURANCE THE TEST OF ART 167 
 
 in the poem as in the bird and butterfly. Besides, 
 just as gems and gold are hoarded while iron is left 
 to rust, and as paintings that are beautiful in line 
 and color grow costlier with time, so the poetry that 
 has the beauty of true art becomes the heirloom of 
 generations. For beauty seems to consecrate both 
 makers and possessors. Just as all the world clings 
 to the legends of Helen and Cleopatra and Mary 
 Stuart, so it has a fondness for the Cellinis and Vil- 
 lons and Marlowes and Lovelaces, the ne'er-do- 
 weels of art and song. This is because it reads the 
 artist's higher self in his work; there alone it is 
 expressed, and we give him credit for it. The truth 
 of fairy tales is that of beauty ; the Florizels and 
 Cinderellas and Percinets are its ideals. Beauty 
 loves the Beast, but the Beast is beauty in Art {or art , s 
 disguise. Thus creative taste holds the sake ' 
 key to the future, and art for art's sake is a sound 
 motto in so far as beauty is a legitimate end of art. 
 That it is not the sole end of art -life is the lesson of 
 Tennyson's " The Palace of Art." One who thought 
 otherwise at last found need to throw her royal robes 
 away : 
 
 " Make me a cottage in the vale," she said, 
 " Where I may mourn and pray. 
 
 " Yet pull not down my palace towers, that are 
 
 So lightly, beautifully built : 
 Perchance I may return with others there 
 When I have purged my guilt." 
 
 All in all, if concrete beauty is not the greatest
 
 1 68 BEAUTY 
 
 thing in poetry, it is the one thing indispensable, 
 and therefore we give it earliest consideration. Be- 
 sides, it so depends on the elements of emotion and 
 truth that when these are not expressed in a poem 
 you may suspect the beauty to be defective and your 
 sense of it mistaken. It may be said to symbolize 
 truth in pure form. 
 
 The young poet, as instinctively as a plant seeks 
 The poet's t ^ ie ^g^t, feels that he must worship and 
 express the beautiful. His passion for it, 
 both in his life and in his art, is his greatest strength 
 and danger. It is that which must distinguish him 
 from other men ; for many will have more wisdom, 
 more virtue, than himself, while only he who can 
 inform these with beauty by that token is the poet. 
 In the early poems of Shakespeare, Milton, Goethe, 
 Tennyson, Rossetti, thought is wreaked "upon ex- 
 pression." Even the lyrists whose development 
 stops at this point, such as Herrick, the cavalier 
 singers, the Provencal minstrels, have no obscure 
 stations in the hemicycle of song. 
 
 Why is it that all the relics of Grecian poetry 
 survival of the have such beauty ? Were there no dul- 
 
 fittest and most , . / 
 
 beautiful. lards, was there no inartistic versifying, 
 even in Athens ? It is my belief that for every poet 
 whose works have reached us a score passed into 
 obscurity, and their writings were lost ; furthermore, 
 that, in spite of the burning of the Alexandrian 
 library, comparatively little has been lost since the
 
 "BUILDED FAR FROM ACCIDENT" 169 
 
 time of Herodotus that was worth saving. Only 
 the masterpieces, large and small, were copied and 
 recopied, and treasured in men's hearts and homes. 
 And those were. The ugly statues, also, went to 
 ruin. It is the Venus of the Louvre that is piously 
 buried when danger threatens, whether in Melos or 
 by the Seine ; and it is she who always rises again 
 and comes to light. Doubtless we have the most 
 beautiful dramas of even vEschylus and Sophocles, 
 and some of the choicest verse of even yEolian and 
 Dorian lyrists. Belief in this is not shaken by the 
 recovery of classical fragments through our archaeo- 
 logical explorations ; for, if something fresh and fair 
 a portion of the Antiope, for instance is occa- 
 sionally gained, it is surprising how many passages 
 from works already in our hands are quoted in the 
 writings upon new-found tablets and papyri. Time 
 and fate could not destroy the blooms of the antho- 
 logy, the loveliest Syracusan idyls, the odes of Ca- 
 tullus and Horace. By chance something less attrac- 
 tive has remained : we keep Ausonius and Quintus 
 on the archaic shelves, but they have no life ; they 
 are not cherished and quoted, they cannot be said 
 to endure. 
 
 All service is in a sense acceptable, and hence the 
 claim that the intent, rather than the out- Motive and 
 
 . accomplish- 
 
 come, crowns the work. Thus Browning ment. 
 in his paper on Shelley and in certain poems shows 
 himself to be a pure idealist in his estimate of art. 
 Professor A. H. Smyth explains that the object of
 
 1 70 BE A UTY 
 
 Browning's " Old Pictures in Florence " is " to show 
 that Greek art in all its matchless perfection is no 
 more admirable than dim and almost undecipherable 
 ruins of efforts merely monastic, on smoke-stained 
 walls of Christian churches." But to me the latter 
 suggest merely faith and aspiration, without that 
 perfected beauty which adds the grandeur of attain- 
 ment and completes the trinity of art. 
 
 The poetry of our own tongue is sufficient to test 
 Beauty of our the law of durability. Its youth, as if that 
 poe g tr^. of a poet, was pledged to the mastery of 
 
 the beautiful as soon as it grew out of half-barbaric 
 minstrelsy and displayed a conscious intent. Chau- 
 cer is a poet of the beautiful ; always original in his 
 genius, and sometimes in his invention, he for the 
 most part simply tells old tales with a new and 
 English beauty. Five hundred years later his pupil, 
 Morris, renews the process. Spenser's rare and ex- 
 haustless art makes him a poet for poets. Passing 
 by Shakespeare as we would pass by nature, what 
 we cull again and again from the Elizabethan garden 
 are those passages in the dramatists, beautiful for 
 rhythm and diction, which furnish examples for the 
 criticism of Coleridge and Lamb. From the skylark 
 melodies and madrigals of that English Arcady those 
 which are most beautiful are ever chosen first by the 
 anthologists. We never tire of them : they seem 
 Things "to more perfect and welcome with each re- 
 
 full perfection 
 
 brought.- move. Too few read Ben Jonson s plays ; 
 who does not know " To Celia," " The Triumph of
 
 "DO THY WORST, OLD TIME'" I /I 
 
 Charis," and "Drink to me only with thine eyes"? 
 The song, "Take, O take those lips away," even 
 were it not embalmed by Shakespeare, would outlast 
 the dramas of John Fletcher. Suckling's " Why so 
 pale and wan, fond lover ? " and his verses on a wed- 
 ding ; Lovelace's "To Lucasta" and "'To Althaea, 
 from Prison," such are the gems in whose light 
 the shades of courtier-poets remain apparent. More 
 of Herrick's endure, because with him beauty of 
 sound and shape and fancy was always first in heart, 
 and always fresh and natural. I have written a 
 paper on Single-Poem Poets, but the greater number 
 of them were no less the authors of a mass of long- 
 forgotten verse. Of Waller's poetry we remember 
 little beyond the dainty lyrics, " Go, lovely rose " 
 and " On a Lady's Girdle." ' From time to time the 
 saddest and gladdest and sweetest chansons of Vil- 
 lon and Ronsard and Du Bellay are retranslated by 
 deft English minstrels, as men take out precious 
 things from cabinets and burnish them anew. A 
 ponderous epic disappears ; some little song, once 
 carolled by Mary Stuart, or a perfect conceit of im- 
 agery and feeling, whose very author is unknown, 
 becomes imperishable. For instance, 
 
 THE WHITE ROSE. 
 Sent by a Yorkish Lover to his Lancastrian Mistress. 
 
 " If this fair rose offend thy sight, 
 Placed in thy bosom bare,
 
 1/2 BEAUTY 
 
 'T will blush to find itself less white, 
 And turn Lancastrian there. 
 
 " But if thy ruby lip it spy, 
 As kiss it thou mayest deign, 
 With envy pale 't will lose its dye, 
 And Yorkish turn again." 
 
 The few lyrics I have named are among the most 
 familiar that occur to you and me ; but what has 
 made them so if it be not their exceeding loveli- 
 ness ? 
 We have but one poet of the first order, but one 
 
 From shake- strong pier of the bridge, between Shake- 
 speare tO ! 
 
 Wordsworth, speare and our own century. Milton in 
 his early verse, which has given lessons to Keats 
 and Tennyson, displays the extreme sense and ex- 
 pression of poetic beauty. Dryden and Pope have 
 values of their own ; but from Pope to Burns, only 
 Goldsmith, for his charms of simplicity and feeling, 
 and Collins and Gray, who achieved a certain perfec- 
 tion even in conventional forms, are still endeared 
 to us. Examine the imposing mass of Wordsworth's 
 poetry. With few .exceptions the imaginative and 
 elevated passages, the most tender lyrics, have a 
 peculiar beauty of rhythm and language, have 
 sound, color, and artistic grace. Take these, and 
 nearly all are chosen for Arnold's " Selection " and ' 
 Palgrave's " Golden Treasury," and you possibly 
 have the most of Wordsworth that will be read here- 
 after. 
 
 A revival of love for the beautiful culminated in
 
 THE NEW CASTALIA 1/3 
 
 the modern art school. Naturalness had come back 
 with Burns, Cowper, and Wordsworth ; in- Modern 
 tensity and freedom with Byron ; then * stheticis - 
 the absolute poetic movement of Coleridge, Shel- 
 ley, Keats, and of that aesthetic propagandist, Leigh 
 Hunt, began its prolonged influence. Poetry is 
 again an art, constructed and bedecked with pre- 
 cision. So potent the charm of this restoration, 
 that it has outrun all else : there is a multitude of 
 minor artists, each of whom, if he cannot read the 
 heart of Poesy, casts his little flower beside her as 
 she sleeps. Who can tell but some of " L'an robuste 
 these blossoms may be selected by Fame nw. 
 and Time, that wait upon her ? Ars Victrix wears 
 her little trophies as proudly as her great. Dob- 
 son's paraphrase on Gautier became at once a pro- 
 verb, from instant recognition of its truth : 
 
 " All passes. Art alone 
 Enduring stays to us ; 
 The Bust outlasts the throne, 
 The Coin, Tiberius; 
 
 Even the gods must go ; 
 
 Only the lofty Rhyme 
 Not countless years o'erthrow, 
 
 Not long array of time." 
 
 In this one lecture, you see, I dwell upon the 
 technical features that lend enchantment Elements of 
 
 concrete poetic 
 
 to poetry in the concrete. How, then, beauty. 
 does the beauty of a poem avail? Primitively, as
 
 174 BEAUTY 
 
 addressed to the ear in sound ; that was its normal 
 
 Melody, as method of conveying its imagery and pas- 
 heard or 
 symbolized. sion to the human mind, and we have 
 
 already considered the strange spell of its vocal 
 music. But with the birth of written literature it 
 equally addressed the eye, and since the invention 
 of printing, a thousand times more frequently ; so 
 that the epigram is not strained which declares that 
 " It is read with the ear ; it is written with the 
 voice ; it is heard with the eyes." The mind's ear 
 conceives the beauty of those seen but " unheard 
 melodies " which are " the sweetest." The look of 
 certain words conveys certain ideas to the mind ; 
 they seem as entities to display the absolute color, 
 form, expression, associated with their meanings, 
 just as their seen rhythm and melody sound them- 
 constructive selves to the ear. The eye, moreover, 
 finds the architecture of verse effective, 
 realizing a monumental, inscriptionary beauty in 
 stanzaic and ode forms. Shape, arrangement, pro- 
 portion compose the synthetic beauty of Construc- 
 tion. Thus poetry has its architecture and shares 
 that condition celebrated by Beatrice in the " Para- 
 diso " : "All things collectively have an order among 
 themselves, and this is form, which makes the uni- 
 verse resemble God." * Beauty of construction is 
 still more potent in the effect of plot and arrange- 
 ment. Simplicity, above all, characterizes alike the 
 
 1 Thus cited by Dr. W. T. Harris in The Spiritual Sense of Dante's 
 Divina Commedia.
 
 MELOD Y CONSTRUCTION SIMPLICITY 1 75 
 
 noblest and the loveliest poems, simplicity of art 
 and of feeling. There are no better ex- simplicity, 
 amples of this, as to motive and construction, than 
 those two episodes of Ruth and Esther. Written in 
 the poetic Hebrew, though not in verse, ExampleS)and 
 they fulfil every requisition of the prose aco " trast - 
 idyl : the one a pure pastoral, the other a civic and 
 royal idyl of the court of a mighty king. There is 
 not a phrase, an image, an incident, too much or too 
 little in either ; not a false note of atmosphere or 
 feeling. These works, so naively exquisite, are 
 deathless. Their charm is even greater as time 
 goes on. Now, a remarkable novel has been written 
 in our own day, "Anna Kare"nina," which chances 
 to be composed of two idyls, one distinctly of the 
 city and the court, the other of the country and the 
 harvest-field. These two cross and interweave, and 
 blend and separate, until the climacteric tragedy and 
 lesson of the book. Powerful as this work is, it has 
 little chance of great endurance, inasmuch as its 
 structure and detail are complex even for this com- 
 plex period. It is at the opposite extreme from the 
 simplicity of those matchless idyls of the Old Tes- 
 tament. 
 
 Nevertheless, that idyllic perfection came from a 
 really advanced art. However spontane- Nature of 
 
 the antique 
 
 ous of impulse, it was not perpetuated simplicity, 
 through the uncertain process of oral transmission, 
 but by a polished scriptural text. Absolutely primi- 
 tive song was often a rhapsody, and not suited to
 
 176 BEAUTY 
 
 textual embodiment. When finally gathered up from 
 traditions, it owed as much to the compiler as a rude 
 folk-melody owes to a composer who makes it a 
 theme for his sustained work. The judge of such 
 poetry, then, must consider it as both an art and an 
 impulse, and even as addressed to both the eye and 
 the ear. And while it is true that the simplicity of 
 the ancients, of purely objective art, is of the great- 
 est worth, we must remember that the works in 
 question were the product of an age of few "values," 
 Ourcompen- as a painter would say. In our passage 
 
 sation for its 
 
 loss. from the homogeneous to the complex, 
 
 the loss in simplicity is made up by the gain in vari- 
 ety and richness. We return to simplicity, ever and 
 anon, for repose, and for a new initiative, as a sonata 
 returns to its theme. Refreshed, we advance again, 
 to still richer and more complex inventions. In 
 place of the few Homeric colors we have captured a 
 hundred intermediate shades of the spectrum, and 
 we possess a thousand words to recall these to the 
 imagination. The same progression affects all the 
 arts. What modern painter would be content with 
 the few Pompeian tints ; what musician with the 
 five sounds of the classic pentachord ? 
 
 Artistic simplicity, then, must be attained through 
 The natural naturalness ; and from that grace of graces 
 modern complexity of material and emo- 
 tion cannot debar us. If a poet, imitating antique 
 or foreign methods, confines himself baldly to a few 
 " values," he may incur the charge of artifice ; and
 
 DECORATION 177 
 
 artificiality is the antithesis of naturalness. You 
 may exhibit an apparent simplicity of style and dic- 
 tion, which Mrs. Browning, for instance, failed 
 of altogether, and ^et have no sincere motive and 
 impulse, in respect of which her lyrics and sonnets 
 were beyond demur. 
 
 In poetry true beauty of detail is next to that 
 of construction, but non-creative writers T 
 
 Beauty of 
 
 lavish all their ingenuity upon decoration detaU - 
 until it becomes a vice. You cannot long disguise 
 a lack of native vigor by ornament and novel effects. 
 Over-decoration of late is the symptom of over-pro- 
 longed devotion to the technical sides of both poetry 
 and art. Sound, color, word-painting, over-ekbora- 
 verse-carving, imagery, all these are ''victomn 
 
 ,. ... Poets": 
 
 rightly subordinate to the passion of a p. 289. 
 poem, and must not usurp its place. Landscape, 
 moreover, at its best, is but a background to life and 
 action. In fine, construction must be decorated, but 
 decoration is not the main object of a building or a 
 poem. "The Eve of St. Agnes" is perhaps our 
 finest English example of the extreme point to 
 which effects of detail can be carried in a romantic 
 poem. The faultless construction warrants it. Some 
 of Tennyson's early pieces, such as the classico- 
 romantic "CEnone" and "The Lotos-Eaters," stand 
 next in modern verse. But I forego a disquisition 
 upon technique. All of its countless ef- One thing 
 fects are nothing without that psychical needful - 
 beauty imparted by the true poetic vitality, are of
 
 1/8 BEAUTY 
 
 less value than faith and works without love. The 
 vox humana must be heard. That alone can give 
 quality to a poem ; the most refined and artistic 
 verse is cold and forceless without it. A soulless 
 poem is a stained-glass window with the light shin- 
 ing on and not through it. 
 
 Since a high emotion cannot be sustained too 
 Mill's canon ^ on S without changing from a rapture to a 
 sustehfedby P an g> many have declared that the phrase 
 "a long poem " is a misnomer. Undoubt- 
 edly, concentration- of feeling must be followed by 
 depression or repose. The fire that burns fiercely 
 soon does its work. Yet he who conceives and 
 makes a grand tragedy or epic so relieves his work 
 with interludes and routine that the reader moves as 
 from wave to wave across a great water. It may be, 
 as alleged, a succession of short poems, but these 
 are interwrought as by one of nature's processes for 
 the building of a master-work. However, let me 
 select the beauty of a short and lyric poem, as the 
 kind about which there is no dispute, for the only 
 type which I can here consider. 
 
 Lyrical beauty does not necessarily depend upon 
 Lyncai tne obvious repetends and singing-bars of 
 
 a song or regular lyric. The purest lyrics 
 are not of course songs ; the stanzaic effect, the use 
 of open vowel sounds, and other matters instinctive 
 with song -makers, need not characterize them. 
 What they must have is quality. That their rhyth- 
 mic and verbal expression appeals supremely to the
 
 OF THE PURE LYRIC 179 
 
 finest sensibilities indicates, first, that the music of 
 speech is more advanced, because more subtly vary- 
 ing, than that of song ; or, secondly, that a more 
 advanced music, such as the German and French 
 melodists now wed to words, is required for the 
 interpretation of the most poetic and qualitative 
 lyric. A profound philosophy of sound and speech 
 is here involved, not yet fully understood, and into 
 which we need not enter. 
 
 But you know that rare poetic types, whether of 
 the chiselled classic verse, or of the song itssubtile 
 and lyric, have a grace that is intangible. " B| * 
 There is a rare bit of nature in "The Reapers" of 
 Theocritus. Battus compares the feet of his mis- 
 tress to carven ivory, her voice is drowsy sweet, 
 "but her air," he says, "I cannot express it !" 
 And thus the gems of Greek and Latin verse, the 
 cameos of Landor and Hunt and Gautier, the Eng- 
 lish songs from Shakespeare to Procter and Tenny- 
 son and Stoddard, the love-songs of Goethe and his 
 successors, the ethereal witching lyrics of Shelley 
 and Swinburne and Robert Bridges, all these have 
 one impalpable attribute, light as thistle-down, po- 
 tent as the breath of a spirit, a divine gift unat- 
 tainable by will or study, and this is, in one word, 
 Charm. Charis, Grace herself, bestows charm. 
 it, blending perfect though inexplicable beauty of 
 thought with perfect though often suggested beauty 
 of feeling. To these her airy sprites minister with 
 melody and fragrance, with unexpectedness and
 
 l8o BEAUTY 
 
 sweet surprises, freedom in and out of law, naivete", 
 aristocratic poise, lightness, pathos, rapture, all 
 gifts that serve to consecrate the magic touch. 
 However skilled the singer, quality and charm are 
 inborn. Something of them, therefore, always graces 
 the folk-songs of a peasantry, the ballads and songs, 
 let us say, of Ireland and Scotland. Theirs is the 
 wilding flavor which Lowell detects : 
 
 " Sometimes it is 
 
 A leafless wilding shivering by the wall ; 
 But I have known when winter barberries 
 Pricked the effeminate palate with surprise 
 Of savor whose mere harshness seemed divine." 
 
 When to this the artist -touch is added, then the 
 The pure wandering, uncapturable movement of the 
 5tarchcomp!>? P ure lyic more beautiful for its breaks 
 and studied accidentals and most effec- 
 tive discords is ravishing indeed : at last you 
 have the poet's poetry that is supernal. Its per- 
 vading quintessence is like the sheen of flame 
 upon a glaze in earth or metal. Form, color, sound, 
 unite and in some mysterious way become lambent 
 with delicate or impassioned meaning. Here beauty 
 is most intense. Charm is the expression of its 
 expression, the measureless under - vibration, the 
 thrill within the thrill. We catch from its sugges- 
 tion the very impulse of the lyrist ; we are given the 
 human tone, the light of the eye, the play of feature, 
 all, in fine, which shows the poet in the poem and 
 makes it his and not another's.
 
 CHARM l8l 
 
 Just as this elusive beauty prevails, the song, or 
 lyric, will endure. Art is in truth the Art's 
 
 beauteous 
 
 victress when she fulfils Ruskin's demand paradox, 
 and is able "to stay what is fleeting, and to en- 
 lighten what is incomprehensible ; to incorporate 
 the things that have no measure, and immortalize 
 the things that have no duration." And yet, recog- 
 nizing her subtle paradoxy, and if asked to name 
 one suggested feeling which more than others 
 seems allied with Charm and likely to perpetuate its 
 expression (for I can name only one to-day), I select 
 that which dwells not upon continuance, but upon 
 our perishableness. Think of it, and you Most fair 
 
 .., , i , T~. r ! because most 
 
 will see that Evanescence is an unfailing fleeting. 
 source of charm. Something exquisite attaches to 
 our sense of it. The appeal which a delicate and 
 fragile thing of beauty makes to us depends as much 
 upon its peril as upon its rarity. In the fulness of 
 life we may have other things as fair and cherished; 
 but that one individuality, that grace and sweetness, 
 cannot be repeated. In time we must say of it : 
 
 " Like the dew on the mountain, 
 Like the foam on the river, 
 Like the bubble on the fountain, 
 Thou art gone, and forever ! " 
 
 We marvel at the indestructible gem, but love the 
 flower for its share in our own doom. If the violet, 
 the rose-gerardia, the yellow jasmine, were unfading, 
 imperishable, what would their worth be ? Mimic 
 them exactly in wax, reproduce even their fragrance,
 
 1 82 BEAUTY 
 
 and the copies smack of embalmment. We have, 
 indeed, blooms that do not wither, that do not waste 
 themselves in exhalations ; we call them immor- 
 telles, but we feel that these amaranthine, husky 
 blossoms are emblems not of life but of death ; they 
 cannot have souls, else they would not be so change- 
 less. Not theirs 
 
 "The unquiet spirit of a flower 
 That hath too brief an hour." 
 
 The ecstatic charm of nature lies in her evanish- 
 ments. Each season is too fair to last ; no sunrise 
 stays; "the rainbow comes and goes;" the clouds 
 change and fleet and fade to nothingness. Thus 
 sadness dwells with beauty, 
 
 " Beauty that must die ; 
 And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips 
 Bidding adieu." 
 
 The height of wisdom, then, is to make the most of 
 life's best moments, to realize that " it is their evan- 
 Morimri escence makes them fair." So it is with 
 saiutamus. a }} mor t a l existence : we idealize the un- 
 alterable fact of its mortality. Time passes like a 
 bird, joy withers, even Love dies, and the Graces 
 ring us to his burial. We ask, with the Hindu 
 Prince, concerning life, - 
 
 " Shall it pass as a camp that is struck, as a tent that is gathered and 
 
 gone 
 From the sands that were lamp-lit at eve, and at morning are level 
 
 and lone ? "
 
 " WILD WITH ALL REGRET" 183 
 
 We ask with sighs and tears, but would we have it 
 otherwise ? If Poe was wrong in restricting poetry 
 to the voices of sorrow and regret, he was right, 
 methinks, in feeling these to be among the most 
 effectual of lyrical values. The word Irreparable 
 suggests a yearning as infinite as that for the Un- 
 attainable, under the spell of which Richter fled as 
 from a passion too intense to bear. Yes ; From c , s 
 the sweetest sound in music is " a dying 
 fall." " Mimnermus in Church " weighs the preach- 
 er's adjuration, and makes an impetuous reply: 
 
 " Forsooth the present we must give 
 
 To that which cannot pass away ! 
 All beauteous things for which we live 
 
 By laws of time and space decay. 
 But oh, the very reason why 
 
 I clasp them is because they die." 
 
 Among priceless lyrics from the Greek anthology 
 to our own, those of joy and happy love and hope 
 are fair indeed, but those which haunt the memory 
 turn upon the escape not the retention of that 
 which is " rich and strange." Their charm is poign- 
 ant, yet ineffable. The consecration of such en- 
 during melody to regret for the beloved, whose 
 swift, inexplicable transits leave us dreaming of all 
 they might have been, is the voice of our desire 
 that their work, even though perfecting in some 
 unknown region, may not wholly fail upon earth, 
 that their death may not be quite untimely. 
 
 How subtile the effect, even in its English ren-
 
 1 84 BEAUTY 
 
 dering, of Villon's " Ballade of Dead Ladies " 
 The ecstasy " Where are the snows of yester-year?" 
 of pathos. ^ re any iy r i cs more captivating than our 
 English dirges, the song dirges of the dramatists : 
 " Come away, come away, Death." " Call for the 
 robin redbreast and the wren," " Full fathom five 
 thy father lies," and the like ? Collins' " Dirge for 
 Fidele," a mere piece of studied art, acquires its 
 beauty from a flawless treatment of the master- 
 theme. Add to such art the force of a profound 
 emotion, and you have Wordsworth in his more 
 impassioned lyrical strains : " She dwelt among the 
 untrodden ways," " A slumber did my spirit steal ; " 
 and the stanzas on Ettrick's " poet dead." Lander's 
 " Rose Aylmer " owes its spell to a consummate 
 union of nature and art in recognition of the una- 
 vailability of all that is rarest and most lustrous : 
 
 " Ah, what avails the sceptred race ! 
 
 Ah, what the form divine ! 
 What every virtue, every grace ! 
 
 Rose Aylmer, all were thine. 
 Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes 
 
 May weep, but never see, 
 A night of memories and of sighs 
 
 I consecrate to thee." 
 
 Of memories and of sighs, yet not of pain, for 
 such vigils have a rapture of fheir own. The per- 
 ished have at least the gift of immortal love, remem- 
 brance, tears ; and at our festivals the unseen guests 
 are most apparent. Thus the tuneful plaint of sor- 
 row, the tears "wild with all regret," the touch that
 
 THE NOTE OF EVANESCENCE 185 
 
 consecrates, the preciousness of that which lives 
 but in memory and echo and dreams, move the 
 purest spirit of poesy to sweep the perfect minstrel 
 lute. To such a poet as Robert Bridges ,, M son be 
 the note of evanescence is indeed the ifceanair!" 
 note of charm, and in choosing the symbols of it for 
 the imagery of his most ravishing song, 1 he knows 
 that thus, and thus most surely, it shall haunt us 
 with its immortality : 
 
 " I have loved flowers that fade, 
 
 Within whose magic tents 
 Rich hues have marriage made 
 
 With sweet unmemoried scents 
 A honeymoon delight 
 A joy of love at sight, 
 That ages in an hour: 
 My song be like a flower ! 
 
 " I have loved airs that die 
 
 Before their charm is writ 
 Upon a liquid sky 
 
 Trembling to welcome it. 
 Notes that, with pulse of fire, 
 Proclaim the spirit's desire, 
 Then die and are nowhere : 
 My song be like an air ! 
 
 " Die, song, die like a breath 
 
 And wither as a bloom : 
 Fear not a flowery death, 
 
 Dread not an airy tomb ! 
 Fly with delight, fly hence ! 
 'T was thine love's tender sense 
 To feast, now on thy bier 
 Beauty shall shed a tear." 
 
 1 Poems by Robert Bridges. Oxford, 1884.
 
 VI. 
 
 TRUTH. 
 
 IF all natural things make for beauty, if the 
 statement is well founded that they are as what is 
 beautiful as they can be under their con- Unity' o/* 
 ditions, then truth and beauty, in the ftST* 
 last reduction, are equivalent terms, and beauty is 
 the unveiled shining countenance of truth. But a 
 given truth, to be beautiful, must be complete. 
 Tennyson's line, 
 
 " A He which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies," 
 
 will bear inversion. Truth which is half a lie is 
 intolerable. A certain kind of preachment, antipa- 
 thetic to the spirit of poesy, has received the name 
 of didacticism. Instinct tells us that it is The didact j c 
 a heresy in any form of art. Yet many heresy- 
 persons, after being assured by Keats that the unity 
 of beauty and truth is all we know or need to know, 
 are perplexed to find sententious statements of un- 
 disputed facts so commonplace and odious. Note, 
 meanwhile, that Keats' assertion illustrates itself by 
 injuring the otherwise perfect poem which contains 
 it. So obtrusive a moral lessens the effect of the 
 "Ode on a Grecian Urn." In other words, the
 
 1 88 TRUTH 
 
 beauty of the poem would be truer without it. 
 Now, why does a bit of didacticism take the life out 
 of song, and didactic verse proclaim its maker a 
 proser and not a poet ? Because pedagogic formulas 
 of truth do not convey its essence. They preach, 
 Haif-truths as ^ have said elsewhere, the gospel of 
 are odious. half-truths, uttered by those who have not 
 the insight to perceive the soul of truth, the expres- 
 sion of which is always beauty. This soul is found 
 in the relations of things to the universal, and its 
 correct expression is beautiful and inspiring. 
 
 While the beautiful expresses all these relations, 
 the didactic at the best is the expression of one or 
 more of them, often of arbitrary and temporal, 
 not of essential and infinite, relations. We there- 
 fore detest didactic verse, because, though made by 
 well-intentioned people, it is tediously incomplete 
 and false. 
 
 Poets will interpret nature truthfully, within their 
 liberties; they do not assume to be on as close 
 terms with her, or with her Creator, as some of the 
 teachers and preachers. They are content to find 
 the grass yet bent where she has passed, the bough 
 still swaying which she brushed against. They feel 
 that 
 
 " What Nature for her poets hides 
 'T is wiser to divine than clutch." 
 
 The imaginative poets, who read without effort 
 the truth of things, have been more faithful in even
 
 DIDACTICISM FACULTY 189 
 
 their passing transcripts of nature and life than 
 many who conscientiously attempt a por- Trutha 
 trayal. Where they make comments, it is ^,^ the 
 as if by anticipation of the reader; it is bestart - 
 not so much their own conclusion as that of the 
 observing world. The truth, moreover, is less in 
 the comment than in the poetry, is rather in the 
 song than in the obligate. With the epic or dra- 
 matic poet the motive is not truth of description, 
 but truth of life. Yet how much surer the scenic 
 touches of the best narrative and drama than the 
 word-painting of the so-called descriptive poets ! 
 Compare the sudden landscape, the life of its popu- 
 lous under-world, the sky and water, the sunlight 
 and moonlight and storm, in "A Winter's Tale" 
 and " Midsummer Night's Dream," with the pro- 
 longed and pious descriptions in Thomson's " Sea- 
 sons." In the dramas the scenic truth is incidental, 
 yet almost incomparable for beauty ; in the descrip- 
 tive poem it is elaborate and tame. You are com- 
 paring, to be sure, the greatest of poets with one 
 relatively humble, but the latter is on his chosen 
 ground, and gives his whole mind to his business. 
 Something more than sincerity and know- Faculty 
 ledge, then, is needed for the expression intention. 
 of truth. Superadd noble contemplation and the 
 anointed vision that reads the life of nature, and you 
 have Wordsworth, a poet and painter indeed. In his 
 greater moods he assuredly sets us face to face with 
 unadulterate truth. Even Wordsworth does this
 
 190 TRUTH 
 
 m t 
 
 less effectively, when his interpretation is premedi- 
 tated, than certain bards whose side-glimpses of the 
 outdoor world we interpret for ourselves. Their 
 chance strokes are matchless. The classic isles and 
 waters are all before us in the " Odyssey," charac- 
 terized broadly and truthfully by essential traits. 
 Attica glows and glooms in the choruses of " CEdi- 
 pus at Colonos" and "The Clouds;" we have the 
 atmosphere that suffuses her landscape, action, 
 personages. Its tone is just as capturable now as 
 two thousand years ago under the sky of Sophocles 
 and Aristophanes. The phonograph passes no more 
 intelligibly to after time the living voice of a Glad- 
 " Descriptive" stone or 3. Browning. Rarely is there an 
 ^poetso/ > ' avowedly descriptive poet who achieves 
 P. 46. much more than the asking you to take 
 
 his word for a mass of details. To come near home, 
 this was what such American landscapists as Street 
 and Percival usually succeeded in doing ; while 
 Lowell, with his quick eye and Greek good-fellow- 
 ship with nature, always keeps us in mind of her as 
 a blithe companion by his side when he chats to us, 
 and whether on the rocks of Appledore, or under 
 the willows, or along the snow-paths of a white New 
 England night. Cowper got nearer to truth than 
 Thomson ; he pointed to the naturalness that 
 Wordsworth sought in turn, and found. As for 
 Burns, he lay in nature's heart, and whether with 
 or without design expressed her as simply and 
 surely as the bards of old.
 
 PHYSICAL NATURE HUMAN LIFE 19 1 
 
 Of both truth to life and truth to physical nature 
 there are two poetic exhibits : the first, Breadth and 
 broad; the second, minute and analytic. universa>lit y- 
 The greater the poet, the simpler and larger his 
 statement, however fine in detail when need be. 
 Seeking that presentment of human character and 
 experience which is universal, we go to the poets 
 and idylists of the Bible, to Homer and the Attic 
 dramatists, to Cervantes and Shakespeare, to Mo- 
 liere, and to the great novelists of the modern age. 
 In poetry life has never been treated at once with 
 so much intensity and truth, by many contempora- 
 ries, as in the Elizabethan period. This T^E,^. 
 was inevitable. Our early dramatists ^thans. 
 wrote for instant stage production ; their poetic text 
 was of much import in default of the perfected act- 
 ing and accessories which now render the text less 
 essential, in fact, far too subordinate. In such 
 "effects" as the stage production then made practi- 
 cable, Shakespeare and his group have not been 
 excelled. But life truth of life and character 
 then was all in all ; a false transcript was instantly 
 detected ; the dramatic poet, however exuberant, 
 founded his work in unflinching realism. Situations 
 and trivial sentiment now make the playwright, and 
 even Tennyson and Browning have been unable to 
 restore the muse conspicuously to the stage. The 
 laureate's genius, to be sure, is the reverse of dra- 
 matic. Browning had the requisite passion and 
 dramatic instinct ; life and motive engrossed him
 
 IQ2 TRUTH 
 
 beyond all else. But contrast the bold, direct Eliza- 
 The analytic bethan characters with Browning's per- 
 
 method. Cp. . 
 
 "Victorian sonages, whose thought and action are 
 p-432- analyzed by him to the remotest detail. 
 
 His drama is unique, but not in the free and instant 
 spirit of poetry ; it is not so much life as biology. 
 The distinction recalls that tradition of the Massa- 
 chusetts bar. Webster and Choate often were op- 
 posed in leading cases. The former brought his 
 power and learning to bear upon the main issue of a 
 case, and brushed aside the inessentials. Choate 
 delighted to follow every trail to the uttermost, and 
 in a manner as analytic as that of " The Ring and 
 the Book." The jurors marvelled at Choate's intel- 
 lectual dexterity and glitter, but Webster usually 
 won the verdict. The jury of an author is the read- 
 ing world. In prose romance America puts forward 
 a counterpart to Browning, Mr. Henry James, ex- 
 cept that he never sacrifices an imperturbable refine- 
 ment of style ; besides, with reference to his novels 
 at least, he usually avoids, as if on principle, the con- 
 centrated passion and the dramatic situations that 
 at times make Browning so impressive. 
 
 On the other hand, when Browning, the anatomist 
 Browning, ^ numan life* interests himself with side- 
 Tennyson', etc. g ii mpses o f na ture, he is full of simple 
 
 truth, and with a sure instinct for essentials. His 
 lyrics abound in these beautiful surprises. He for- 
 gets the laboratory when he touches landscape and 
 outdoor life, and is all the artist. Nature has but
 
 ANALYSIS DIRECT STATEMENT 193 
 
 one truer painter among the dramatists, and the 
 best touches of both seem incidental. When Brown- 
 ing thinks of birds and beasts they suddenly, as in 
 the Arabian Nights, become almost human. He 
 reads the heart, one might say, of a bird, a horse, or 
 a dog. This Tennyson does not do, nor does he 
 usually give us vivid personal characters, admirably 
 as he draws conventional types. His truth to nature 
 is positive ; he has the eye of a Thoreau, and the 
 pastoral fidelity which befits one who is not only the 
 pupil of Milton and Keats, but of Theocritus and 
 Wordsworth. He can treat broadly, and imagina- 
 tively withal, " the league-long roller thundering on 
 the reef" and "the long wash of Australasian seas;" 
 but his frequent over-elaboration led the way to a 
 main fault of the younger schools. 
 
 While a poet cannot be too accurate, his method, 
 to be natural, must seem unconscious. Naturalness. 
 The virtue of a truth is spoiled by showing it off. 
 Tennyson, the idylist, pauses at critical moments, 
 not perhaps to moralize on the situation, but to 
 make a picture suggesting the feeling which the 
 action itself ought to convey. This practice, for a 
 time so fascinating, has been carried to extremes. 
 Now, in a class of his poems of which "Dora" is a 
 fine example, he has shown that nothing can be 
 more effective than a story simply told. A direct 
 
 statement, through its truth, often has ex- Force of a di- 
 rect and sim- 
 
 ceeding beauty, the beauty, pathetic or pie method, 
 otherwise, of perfect naturalness. You find it every- 
 where in the Scriptures ; for example :
 
 194 TRUTH 
 
 " I shall go to him, but he shall not return to me ; " 
 
 and everywhere in Homer : 
 
 " A thousand fires burned in the plain, and by the side of each sate 
 fifty in the gleam of blazing fire." 
 
 " A deep sleep fell upon his eyelids, a sound sleep, very sweet, and 
 most akin to death." 
 
 All genuine epics and ballads are charged with it, as 
 in " The Children in the Wood : " 
 
 " No burial this pretty pair 
 
 Of any man receives, 
 Till Robin-redbreast piously 
 Did cover them with leaves." 
 
 In the heroic vein, Arnold's " Sohrab and Rustum " 
 has a primitive directness : 
 
 " So said he, and his voice released the heart 
 Of Rustum ; and his tears broke forth ; he cast 
 His arms around his son's neck, and wept aloud, 
 And kissed him. And awe fell on both the hosts 
 When they saw Rustum's grief." 
 
 The finest touch in Lady Barnard's ballad is the 
 simplest, that of the line, 
 
 " For auld Robin Gray is kind unto me." 
 
 But I need not multiply such examples of the beauty 
 of direct statement of unsophisticated truth. It is 
 too rare a grace among the analytic and decorative 
 poets. 
 
 When we come to the reflective poetry of nature, 
 the broad effects of Wordsworth and Bryant are
 
 AMERICAN LANDSCAPE SCHOOL 195 
 
 both true and imaginative, and therefore excellent 
 realism. For Nature does not differen- Truth to visi- 
 tiate her beauties ; she combines them. It ble Nature " 
 is hard to better the truth " by her own sweet and 
 cunning hand put on." Bryant's succes- Excellence of 
 
 the American 
 
 sors Whittier, Lowell, Whitman, La- school. 
 nier, Taylor have great fidelity to nature. How 
 can they help it, brought up in her own realm ? 
 Their touches are spontaneous, and that is every- 
 thing. A city-bred poet is apt to strike false notes 
 as soon as he hints at an intimacy with nature, and 
 a false note is as quickly detected in poetry as in 
 music, even by those who cannot sound the true 
 one. As for truth to life that depends on the 
 poet's sympathetic perception. It was native to 
 Burns ; it was impossible with the self-absorbed 
 Byron. Most poets, whether cockney or rustic, can 
 draw only the types under their direct observation. 
 Whitman's out-of-door poetry should be Wh . :tmanand 
 familiar to you. His admirers, including Lanier - 
 very authoritative judges at home and abroad, make 
 almost every claim for him except that to which, in 
 my opinion, he is entitled above other American 
 poets. I know no other who surpasses him as a 
 word-painter of nature. His eye is keen, his touch 
 is accurate. No one depicts the American sky, 
 ocean, forest, prairie, more characteristically or with 
 a freer sense of atmosphere ; no one is so inclusive 
 of every object, living or inanimate, in the zones 
 covered by our native land. His defects lie in his
 
 196 TRUTH 
 
 theory of unvarying realism. Nature's poet must 
 adopt her own method ; and she hides the processes 
 that are unpleasant to see or consider. Whitman 
 often dwells upon the under side of things, the 
 decay, the ferment, the germination, which nature 
 conducts in secret, though out of them she produces 
 new life and beauty. Lanier, with equal fidelity, 
 avoids a refined and spiritual genius needs must 
 avoid this irritating mistake. His taste made him 
 an open critic of the robust poet of democracy : but 
 it is manifest that the two (as near and as different 
 as Valentine and Orson) were moving in the same 
 direction ; that is, for an escape from conventional 
 trammels to something free, from hackneyed time- 
 beats to an assimilation of nature's larger rhythm, 
 to limitless harmonies suggested by the voices of 
 her winds and the diapason of her ocean billows. 
 The later portions of Whitman's life-work, his sym- 
 phonies of " starry night," of death and immortality, 
 have chords that would have thrilled Lanier pro- 
 foundly. 
 
 In certain poems which have been humorously 
 
 True realism compared to " catalogues," Whitman sup- 
 is not a state- 
 ment of facts, phes an example of the uselessness of a 
 
 display of mere facts. Facts, despite Carlyle's eu- 
 logy upon them, are not " the one " and only " pabu- 
 lum." They are the stones heaped about the mouth 
 of the well in whose depth truth reflects the sky. 1 
 
 1 " There is a way of killing truth by truths. Under the pretence 
 that we want to study it more in detail, we pulverize the statue." 
 AMIEL.
 
 ILLUMINATIVE REALISM 197 
 
 I recall the words of Sir William Davenant, who 
 wrote the feeblest of epics on a theory, yet pre- 
 luded it with a chapter of noble prose wherein, 
 among other fine discriminations, he says : " Truth, 
 narrative and past, is the idol of historians (who 
 worship a dead thing), and truth, operative and by 
 its effects continually alive, is the mistress of poets, 
 who hath not her existence in matter but in reason." 
 A masterwork appeals, in time if not immediately, 
 to the people at large as well as to the elect few, 
 to the former, doubtless, by its obvious intent and 
 fidelity ; to the critical, by its ideal and artistic 
 truth ; yet I think that the more esoteric quality is 
 felt, if not comprehended, even by the masses, 
 that this makes, however vaguely and mysteriously, 
 an impression upon their natures. Realism, in the 
 sense of naturalism, is the firm ground of all the 
 arts, but the poet, then, is not a realist merely as 
 concerns the things that are seen. He draws these 
 as they are, but as they are or may be at their best. 
 This lifts them out of the common, or, noraservile 
 rather, it is thus we get at the "power imitation - 
 and mystery of common things." His most auda- 
 cious imaginings are within the felt possibilities of 
 nature. But the use of poetry is to make us believe 
 also in the impossible. Raphael said that he painted 
 " that which ought to be." And Browning writes : 
 
 " In the hall, six steps from us, 
 One sees the twenty pictures there 's a life 
 Better than life and yet no life at all."
 
 TRUTH 
 
 Lord Tennyson is reported as saying, with respect 
 it i vital with to certain contemporary writers : " Truth, 
 
 suggestion and . 
 
 interpretation, as they understand it, is not the essential 
 thing in poetry. For me verses have no other aim 
 than to call to life nobler and better sentiments than 
 we feel, and express in every-day life. If they can 
 suggest pictures worthy of an artist's eye, so much 
 the better." Even the first English writer upon the 
 topic George Puttenham, whose "Arte of Eng- 
 lish Poesie " was published anonymously in the year 
 1589 said that "Arte is not only an aide and 
 coadjutor to nature in all her actions, but an alterer 
 of them, so as by meanes of it her owne effects shall 
 appeare more beautiful or straunge and miraculous." 
 And so there is nothing more lifeless, because no- 
 thing is more devoid of feeling and suggested move- 
 ment, than servilely accurate imitation of nature. 
 Moreover, in poetry as in all other art, a certain 
 deviation from fact is not only justifiable, but re- 
 quired. Some things must be told or painted not 
 Tnuh of as ^ey are b ut as tne Y affect the eye or 
 thlfhumln the imagination. The photograph reveals, 
 indeed, the absolute position of the horse's 
 legs at a given instant ; by its aid the spokes of 
 the revolving wheel are defined. Without doubt, 
 art has learned most important facts through the 
 photographic demonstration of actual processes ; 
 our animal- and figure-painters, our sculptors, can 
 never repeat the absurd untruths which have be- 
 come almost academic in the past. They will not,
 
 OF PERSONAL SENSATION 199 
 
 and need not, however, go to the other extreme. To 
 the human eye, with its halting susceptibilities, the 
 horse and the wheel do not appear exactly as when 
 caught by Mr. Muybridge's camera, and the artist's 
 office is to present them as they seem to us. In the 
 prosaic photograph they are struck with death : the 
 idea of life, of motion, can only be conveyed by 
 blending the spokes of the wheel as they are blended 
 to the human vision, and by giving a certain un- 
 reality of grace to the speeding animal. Otherwise, 
 you have the fact, which is not art. 
 
 Thus every workman must be a realist in know- 
 ledge, an idealist for interpretation, and Poetic truth is 
 
 . . . , both realistic 
 
 the antagonism between realists and ro- and ideal. - 
 
 See, also, 
 
 mancers is a forced one ; and when any p- 145- 
 one rules the poet out of debate, as of course a 
 feigner, he is in error, for the same law applies to 
 all the arts. The true inquiry concerns the quality 
 of the writer, his power of expression, the limits of 
 his character. For no small and limited nature can 
 enter into great passions and experiences. 
 
 It is a fine thing for a poet to express the life, 
 feeling, ideal, of his own people; by so Truth of 
 doing, he betters his chance of commend- environment - 
 ing himself to after times. This is what the Greeks 
 did, but in our century we find poet after poet ex- 
 ercising his skill upon reproductions, working the 
 Grecian myths and legends over and over again 
 in pseudo-classical lyrics, idyls, and dramas. The
 
 200 TRUTH 
 
 appeal of the loveliest and most successful nova 
 antica of a poem like "The Hamadryad" or 
 "CEnone" is to the aesthetic sense chiefly, and 
 therefore in some measure restricted. After Lan- 
 Raison d'etre, dor and Keats and Tennyson and Swin- 
 burne, our younger school cannot find a real need 
 for this sort of thing. I remember my own cha- 
 grin, twenty years ago, when Mr. Lowell wrote a 
 most judicious notice of one of my books, and failed 
 to mention a blank-verse poem, with a classical 
 theme, upon which I had expended the technical 
 "Local skill and imagery at my command. On 
 
 flavor" not to , L j 
 
 be contemned, the other hand, he was more than kind to 
 my native, if homely, American lyrics and ballads, 
 written with less pains, yet more spontaneously ; 
 and he told me very frankly that he thought the 
 simple home-fruit of more real significance than my 
 attempt to reproduce some apple of the Hesperides. 
 He was right, and I have not forgotten the lesson. 
 With respect to another art, I wonder that the 
 A home-field. American sculptor does not still more 
 frequently make a diversion from his imitations of 
 the mediaeval and the antique. What subjects he 
 has close at hand, such as a Greek, if he now 
 could chance upon them, would handle with eager- 
 ness and truth ! Surely our American workman, at 
 labor and in repose, our young athletes, our beasts 
 of the forest and of the field, are available models ; 
 and Ward's " Indian Hunter," Donoghue's " The 
 Boxer," and Tilden's "The Ball-Thrower," at least
 
 OF ENVIRONMENT 2OI 
 
 convey their suggestion of what should and will be 
 done. There is a certain lack of sincer- sincerity, 
 ity, despite their artistic beauty, in the foreign and 
 antique exploits of many poets and artists ; and 
 lack of sincerity is always Jack of truth. But, while 
 they should favor their own time, they must avoid 
 expression of its transient passions and character- 
 istics. Seize upon the essential, lasting traits, and 
 let the others be accessory. If the general spirit 
 of the time be not embodied, a work is soon out of 
 date. 
 
 Against all this, the widest freedom is permitted 
 to that chartered libertine, the poet's But nothing is 
 
 ... _ _ - 11- forbidden to 
 
 imagination. .Nature and the soul being theimagina- 
 
 tion, and a 
 
 the same forever, we care nothing for poet may 
 
 follow his 
 
 Shakespeare's anachronisms and impossi- beat - 
 ble geography ; we find nothing strange and unnat- 
 ural in his assembly of mediaeval fays and antique 
 heroes and amazons, of English clowns and mechan- 
 ics in Grecian garb, all commingled to enact a fan- 
 tastic marvel of comedy and poesy in the palace 
 and forests of a " Midsummer Night's Dream." We 
 confess the poet's witchcraft, and ourselves are of 
 the blithe company, denizens of an enchanted 
 land, where everything has the truth of possibility. 
 A conception is not vitiated by the most novel form 
 it may assume, provided that this be artistic and not 
 artificial. For art, as Goethe and Haydon have said, 
 is art because it is not nature. That method is most 
 true which, invoking the force of nature, directs it
 
 202 TRUTH 
 
 by its own device ; just as, in mechanics, the screw- 
 Art has a propeller is more than the equivalent 
 
 truth of its * 
 
 own. of the fish's flukes or the bird's wing. 
 
 Our delight in art proceeds from a knowledge that 
 it is not inevitable, but designed ; a human, not a 
 natural, creation ; the truth of nature's capabilities, 
 seen by man's imagination, captured by the human 
 hand, expressed and illumined when our Creator, 
 intrusting his own wand to us, bids us test its power 
 ourselves. 
 
 What is called descriptive poetry never can be 
 The poet very satisfying, since the painter is so 
 
 inferior to the , ,. , , - 
 
 painter in much more capable than the poet of 
 nature; transferring the visible effects of nature, 
 
 those addressed to the eye. I suppose it is out of 
 the power of one not reared in England, and in that 
 very part of England which lies between Derwent- 
 water and the Wye, to comprehend thoroughly the 
 truth and beauty of Wordsworth's pastoral note and 
 landscape. Neither can a foreigner rightly estimate 
 the American idylists ; the New World scenery and 
 atmosphere are so different from the European that 
 they must be seen before their quality can be felt. 
 Aside from this limitation, the poet expresses what 
 he finds in nature, to wit, that which an- 
 
 but unsur- 
 
 suDjectiv S e her swers to his own needs and temper. Her 
 interpreter. interpretation has been, it may almost be 
 said, a special function of the century now closing. 
 Nature moved Coleridge to eloquence, rhapsody,
 
 SUBJECTIVE INTERPRETATION 203 
 
 worship, and, as an artist, to imaginative mysticism. 
 Heine, Longfellow, Swinburne, have read the secret 
 of the sea. To Landor, Emerson, and Lowell the 
 tree is animate ; in their presence the illustrations, 
 flower has rights : they would not fell the one nor 
 pluck the other. But there were two English poets 
 whose respective temperaments answered perfectly 
 to the two conditions of nature embraced in Lord 
 Bacon's profound observation, that " In nature 
 things move violently to their place and calmly in 
 their place." Byron's fitful genius was Byron's 
 
 impetuous 
 
 stirred by her violence of change. The unrest, 
 rolling surges, the tempest, the live thunder leaping 
 from peak to peak, mated the restlessness of a spirit 
 charged with their own intensity of motion and de- 
 sire. Wordsworth felt the sublimity of Wordsworth s 
 the repose that lies on every height, of v1s^far^ d 
 nature's ultimate subjection to law. His p 
 imagination comprehended her reserved forces ; and 
 before his time her deepest voice had no apt inter- 
 preter, for none had listened with an ear so patient 
 as his for mastery of her language. His announce- 
 ment that 
 
 " he who feels contempt 
 For any living thing, hath faculties 
 Which he has never used," 
 
 was like a revelation. That he had purged himself 
 of all such baseness was his absolute conviction ; in 
 such matters he was a kind of Gladstone among the 
 poets of his day. Therefore, self -contemplation, or,
 
 204 TRUTH 
 
 to be more exact, the transcription of nature's effect 
 upon himself, seemed to him a sane, even a sacred 
 vocation. In fact, a lofty, if not inventive, imagina- 
 tion, and 
 
 " An eye made quiet by the power of harmony," 
 
 gave him for this faith a warrant which all his pon- 
 derous homiletics could not render null. As he let 
 The modem " the misty mountain winds" blow on 
 
 return to . . . 
 
 nature. him, he was nature s living oracle. And 
 
 the world soon yielded to the force of that "pathetic 
 fallacy " which has imparted to modern thought a 
 distemper and a compensation : the refuge, be it real 
 or illusionary, still left to us, and so compulsive that 
 neither reason nor science can quite rid us of it 
 when face to face with nature, when soothed by 
 the sweet influences of our mother Earth. It is true, 
 in Lander's words, that 
 
 " We are what suns and winds and waters make us ; 
 The mountains are our sponsors, and the rills 
 Fashion and win their nursling with their smiles." 
 
 But Ruskin avers that the illusion under which we 
 fondly believe nature to be the sympathetic partici- 
 pator of our sentiment or passion, and which he 
 terms the pathetic fallacy, is incompatible with a 
 clear-seeing acceptance of the truth of things. 
 Now, that there is a solace a companionship 
 m nature none can doubt. It is as 
 
 The " athetk 
 
 fallacy." o \ as t h e f a bi e o f Antaeus. Primitive 
 
 races feel it so strongly that they inform all natural
 
 THE PATHETIC FALLACY 205 
 
 objects with sentient individual lives ; our more ad- 
 vanced intelligence conceives of a universal spirit 
 that comprehends and soothes Earth's children. In 
 our own youth, nature haunts us " like a passion ; " 
 and as concerning the youth of a race we "cannot 
 paint what then " we were, in mature years each of 
 us can say, 
 
 " And I have felt 
 
 A presence that disturbs me with the joy 
 Of elevated thoughts ; a sense sublime 
 Of something far more deeply interfused, 
 Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, 
 And the round ocean and the living air, 
 And the blue sky, and in the mind of man. 
 A motion and a spirit, that impels 
 All thinking things, all objects of all thought, 
 And rolls through all things." 
 
 This has never been expressed so well as in Words- 
 worth's elevated phrases. They must always be 
 cited. But a disenchantment is at last Expressions 
 upon us, and we are sternly questioning i*^ nd 
 our reason. Is not nature's apparent sym- thenewdoubt - 
 pathy, we ask, a purely subjective illusion? The old 
 belief, the new doubt, are well conveyed in the early 
 and later treatment of a favorite theme, the moan- 
 ing of a sea-shell held to the ear. In Landor's 
 " Gebir " we have it thus : 
 
 " But I have sinuous shells of pearly hue ; The shell's 
 
 murmur, as 
 idealized by 
 
 Shake one and it awakens, then apply Wordsworth 
 
 Its polished lips to your attentive ear, 
 
 And it remembers its august abodes, 
 
 And murmurs as the ocean murmurs there."
 
 206 TRUTH 
 
 Landor complained that Wordsworth stole his shell, 
 and " pounded and flattened it in his marsh " of 
 " The Excursion " : 
 
 " I have seen 
 
 A curious child, who dwelt upon a tract 
 Of inland ground, applying to his ear 
 The convolutions of a smooth-lipped shell ; 
 To which, in silence hushed, his very soul 
 Listened intensely ; and his countenance soon 
 Brightened with joy ; for from within were heard 
 Murmurings, whereby the monitor expressed 
 Mysterious union with its native sea." 
 
 Byron acknowledged his obligations to "Gebir" for 
 his lines in "The Island," beginning, 
 
 " The Ocean scarce spake louder with his swell, 
 Than breathes his mimic murmurer in the shell." 
 
 And now, as we near the close of the century which 
 " Gebir " initiated, Eugene Lee-Hamilton 
 
 And as now 
 
 reinterpreted devotes one of his remarkable sonnets to 
 
 by Lee-Hamil- 
 
 this same murmur of the shell, and I can- 
 not find a more poetic, more impassioned recogni- 
 tion of the veil which modern doubt is drawing be- 
 tween our saddened eyes and the beautiful pathetic 
 fallacy : 
 
 " The hollow sea-shell which for years hath stood 
 On dusty shelves, when held against the ear 
 Proclaims its stormy parent ; and we hear 
 
 The faint far murmur of the breaking flood. 
 
 We hear the sea. The sea ? It is the blood 
 In our own veins, impetuous and near, 
 And pulses keeping pace with hope and fear 
 
 And with our feelings' ever-shifting mood.
 
 THE SHELLS MURMUR 207 
 
 " Lol in my heart I hear, as in a shell, 
 
 The murmur of a world beyond the grave, 
 Distinct, distinct, though faint and far it be. 
 Thou fool ! this echo is a cheat as well, 
 
 The hum of earthly instincts ; and we crave 
 A world unreal as the shell-heard sea." 
 
 How beautiful this ecstasy of disenchantment, 
 beautiful in its sad sincerity, and yet Truth ^fore 
 how piteous ! Here is a fine spirit, for all> 
 the moment baffled, heroically demanding the truth, 
 the truth. More trustfully leaving the future to 
 "the Power that makes for good," Lowell also con- 
 fronts the scientific analysis of our attitude toward 
 nature : 
 
 " What we call Nature, all outside ourselves, 
 Is but our own conceit of what we see, 
 Our own reaction upon what we feel ; 
 The world 's a woman to our shifting mood, 
 Feeling with us, or making due pretence ; 
 And therefore we the more persuade ourselves 
 To make all things our thoughts' confederates, 
 Conniving with us in whate'er we dream." 
 
 The poet, to be aware of this, must have drifted 
 quite away from the antique point of view, though with 
 The Greek certainly made nature popu- ment. 
 lous with dryads, oreads, naiads, and all the daugh- 
 ters of Nereus ; but these had a joy and, like Jaques, 
 a melancholy of their own, not those of common 
 mortals. Doubtless the Greek felt the charm of the 
 hour when twilight descended on his valley, but not 
 the pensive suggestions of the Whence and Whither 
 which it excites in you and me. " No young man,"
 
 208 TRUTH 
 
 said Hazlitt, " ever thinks he shall die." He recog- 
 nizes death, but it concerns him not. The Greek 
 accepted it as a natural process ; he yielded to na- 
 ture ; we adjure her, as Manfred adjured his spirits, 
 and fain would compel her to our service and demand 
 her to surrender the eternal secret. 
 
 Nature, even in her most tranquil mood, is palpi- 
 wh y Nature tant w ^^ mot i n > m y i ew of which Hum- 
 
 and d c S ompa C n- D ldt WaS at timeS a P et - Motion is life, 
 
 ionswp, and therefore fellowship. Herein lies the 
 spell of the sea, which has mastered Heine and 
 Shelley and every poetic soul. Its perpetual change, 
 eternal endurance these image both life and im- 
 mortality ; its far-away vessels moving to unknown 
 climes, its unbounded horizon suggesting infinity, 
 buoy the imagination, and thence come human pas- 
 sion and thoughts " too deep for tears." We have 
 conquered it, and it is the modern poet's comrade, 
 as it was the ancient's fear and marvel. But what 
 is the sea? Tennyson's "still salt pool, lock'd in 
 with bars of sand," would be an ocean to a man re- 
 duced to insect size, a stretch of water, infused 
 with salt, and roughened into wavelets by the air 
 that moves across it. We have learned that the 
 effect of the sea, of a prairie, of a mountain, is purely 
 relative. One of the latest "Atlantic" novelists, 
 with youth's contemporaneousness, realizes both the 
 fact and the dream. Her lovers are watching "a 
 big, red, distorted moon above the illimitable palpi- 
 tating waste " of the ocean :
 
 "A MOTION AND A SPIRIT" 209 
 
 " A waning moon is so melancholy," said Felicia, look- 
 ing at it with wide, soft eyes that had grown melancholy, 
 too. " I wonder why ? " 
 
 " I don't see that it is melancholy," Grafton declared. 
 
 " No, I suppose not," she rejoined. " I dare say you 
 see a planet which suggests to you apogee, or perigee, or 
 something wise. I see only the rising moon, and it seems 
 to me particularly ominous to-night. I am afraid. Some- 
 thing unexpected perhaps something terrible is going 
 to happen." 
 
 You will note, by the way, that our debutante is sci- 
 entifically accurate upon a matter in re- andthisin 
 spect to which many a good writer has ^entific ur 
 gone wrong. She sees the moon where read J ustraent - 
 it should be of an evening in its third quarter, to 
 wit, rising in the east. Giving the author of " Feli- 
 cia" credit for this unusual feat, I believe that rea- 
 son never can greatly lessen the influence of nature 
 upon our feelings, and this in spite of her stolid 
 indifference, her want of compassion, her stern laws, 
 her unfairness, unreason, and general unmorality. 
 To the last, man will be awed by the ocean and sad- 
 dened by the waning moon, and will find the sun- 
 kissed waves sparkling with his joy, and the stars of 
 even looking down upon his love. One may con- 
 ceive, moreover, that before a vast and various land- 
 scape we are affected by the very presence of divin- 
 ity revealed only in his works ; that, face to face 
 with such an expanse of nature, we recognize more 
 of a pervading spirit than when more closely pent :
 
 210 TRUTH 
 
 as in a house of worship, with a host of others like 
 ourselves, we have more of him incarnate in human- 
 ity; whence comes a strange exaltation, and at times 
 almost a yearning to be reabsorbed in the infinite 
 being from which our individual life has sprung. 
 
 The aspect and sentiment of nature, more than 
 Nature the other incentives to mental elevation, have 
 modera g art f supplied a motive to the artistic expres- 
 
 andsong. 
 
 mains of the painter and the poet, and on both sides 
 of the Atlantic, the idealization of nature has been, 
 as never before, supreme. Never has she been por- 
 trayed on canvas as by Turner and his successors ; 
 never has she received such homage in song as that 
 of the English and American poets from the time of 
 Wordsworth. Two significant advantages confirmed 
 Wordsworth's influence : first, that of longevity, 
 which, in spite of the ancient proverb, is the best 
 gift of the gods to an originative leader ; second, the 
 fact that, with brief exceptions, he made verse his 
 only form of expression. No wonder that he pro- 
 duced an "ampler body "of good poetry and of 
 prosaic verse as well than " Burns, or Keats, or 
 Manzoni, or Heine." But in this country, also, the 
 force of nature has been sovereign, since Bryant 
 first gave voice to the spirit of the glorious forest 
 and waters of a relatively primeval land. During an 
 idyllic yet speculative period, the maxim that "the 
 proper study of mankind is man " has for many rea- 
 sons been almost in abeyance. At last it is again
 
 A LIFE-SCHOOL DEMANDED 211 
 
 evident that we cannot live by bread alone, even 
 at the hands of the great mother. There Her triumph 
 
 , , , r .. too prolonged. 
 
 is a longing and a need for emotion ex- cp. " Poets 
 
 m m- f m of America": 
 
 cited by action and life, for a more im- PP. 464-466. 
 passioned and dramatic mode, that of a figure- 
 school, so to speak, in both poesy and art. Not to 
 "fresh woods and pastures new," but to human life 
 with its throes and passions and activity, must the 
 coming poet look for the inspirations that will estab- 
 lish his name and fame. 
 
 In my censure of didacticism I used that word in 
 the usually adopted sense. Its radical Phi i OSO p hic 
 meaning is not to be dismissed so lightly. ^heV 
 If there is a base didacticism false to 
 beauty and essentially commonplace, there is a 
 nobly philosophic strain which I may call the 
 poetry of wisdom. There is an imagination of the 
 intellect, and its utterance is of a very high order, 
 often the prophecy of inspiration itself. 
 
 Were this not so, we should have to reverse time's 
 judgment of intellectually poetic masterpieces from 
 which have been derived the wisdom and the ru- 
 brics of many lands. Shall we rule out Ecciesiastes. 
 the lofty voice of the Preacher, whose lesson that all 
 save the fear of God is vanity has been reaffirmed 
 by a cloud of witnesses, down to the chief of imagi- 
 native homilists in our own time ? Whether prose 
 or verse, I know nothing grander than Ecciesias- 
 tes in its impassioned survey of mortal pain and
 
 2 1 2 TRUTH 
 
 pleasure, its estimate of failure and success ; none 
 of more noble sadness ; no poem working more in- 
 domitably for spiritual illumination. Shall we rule 
 
 The Grecian out t ^ ie e l e gi es f Theogms or the mystic 
 speculations of Empedocles, celebrant of 
 the golden age and declarer of the unapproachable 
 God ? And who would lay rude hands upon the 
 poet who concerned himself with the universe, sur- 
 passing all other Latins in intellectual passion and 
 dignity of theme ? The rugged " De Rerum Na- 
 tura" of Lucretius seems to me as much greater 
 Lucretius. than the yEneids as fate and nature are 
 greater than the world known in that day. Whether 
 his science was false or true, and meanwhile you 
 know that the atomic theory is once more in vogue, 
 he essayed "no middle flight," but soared upon 
 the philosophy of Epicurus to proclaim the very 
 nature of things ; meditating which, as he declared, 
 the terrors of the mind were dispelled, the walls of 
 the world parted asunder, and he saw things " in 
 operation throughout the whole void." What shall 
 Omar. we do with Omar Khayyam, at least with 
 
 that unique paraphrase of his " Rubaiyat " which has 
 impressed the rarest spirits of our day, and has so 
 inspired the wondrous pencil of Elihu Vedder, our 
 The wise American Blake ? And what of "In Me- 
 o'u'r recent" f moriam " ? The flower of Tennyson's 
 prime is distinctly also the representative 
 Victorian poem. It transmits the most character- 
 istic religious thought of our intellectual leaders at
 
 THE HIGHER DIDACTICISM 213 
 
 the date of its production. We have no modern 
 work more profound in feeling, more chaste in 
 beauty, and none so rich with the imaginative phi- 
 losophy of the higher didacticism. Browning's pre- 
 cepts, ratiocination, morals, are usually the weightier 
 matters of his law. Take from Emerson and Lowell 
 their sage distinctions, their woof of shrewdest wis- 
 dom, and you find these so closely interwoven with 
 their warp of beauty that the cloth of gold will be 
 ruined. Like Pope and Tennyson, they have the 
 gift of " saying things," and in such wise that they 
 add to the precious currency of English discourse. 
 
 The mention of Pope reminds me that he is 
 the traditional exemplar of the didactic T 
 
 Pope, as the 
 
 heresy, so much so that the question is E h n e iish 
 still mooted whether he was a poet at all. moralist -p ets - 
 As to this, one can give only his own impression, 
 and my adverse view has somewhat changed, - 
 possibly because we grow more sententious with 
 advancing years. Considering the man The question 
 
 .... . T i i concerning his 
 
 with his time, I think Pope was a poet : inherent gift. 
 one whose wit and reason exceeded his lyrical feel- 
 ing, but still a poet of no mean degree. Assuredly 
 he was a force in his century, and one not even then 
 wholly spent. His didacticism was inherent in the 
 stiff, vicious, Gallic drum-beat of his artificial style 
 so falsely called " classical," so opposed to the 
 true and live method of the antique rather than 
 in his genius and quality. It is impossible that one 
 with so marked a poetic temperament, and using
 
 214 TRUTH 
 
 verse withal as almost his sole mode of expression, 
 should not have been a poet. In the manner of his 
 time, how far above his rivals ! Every active liter- 
 ary period has one poet at least. To me he seems 
 like the tree which, pressed hard about by rocks, 
 adorns them and struggles into growth and leafage. 
 A fashion of speech mastered him, but he refined it 
 and made it effective, the wonder being that he did 
 so much with it. All admit that Cowper was a poet 
 and the pioneer of a noble school. But he was as 
 didactic as Pope ; his vantage lay in a return to 
 natural diction and flexible rhythm. A free vehicle 
 of expression sets free the imagination. Again, 
 there are forms still in use, and natural, as we say, 
 to the genius of our language, in which Pope's re- 
 sources were sufficient for the display of lasting 
 thought and emotion. " The Universal Prayer " 
 and " The Dying Christian to his Soul " equal the 
 best of Cowper's lyrics. " The Rape of the Lock," 
 still the masterwork of patrician verse, shows what 
 its author could do with a subject to which his grace, 
 wit, and spirit were exactly suited. The passionate 
 intensity of " Eloisa to Abelard " lifts that epistle 
 far above the wonted liberties of its formal verse. 
 Looking at the man, Pope, that fiery, heroic little 
 figure, that vital, electric spirit pitiably encaged, 
 defying and conquering his foes, loving, hating, 
 questioning, worshipping, I see the poet. How- 
 ever, if you care to realize how much more differ- 
 ence there is in the methods than in the contem-
 
 HUMOR OUR ENGLISH TONGUE 2\$ 
 
 plative gifts of certain bards, amuse yourselves by 
 translating Pope, Tennyson, Emerson, AutretempS) 
 Browning, into one another's measures autre " moeur8 - 
 and styles, and you will find the result suggestive. 
 
 Three, at least, of these poets have at times a 
 delicious humor and fancy, as in "The Humor as a 
 Rape of the Lock," "The Talking Oak," poetic element ' 
 " Will Waterproof's Lyrical Monologue," " The Pied 
 Piper," etc. Humor, in the sense of fun, is doubt- 
 less another lyrical heresy. But humor is the over- 
 flow of genius, the humor compounded of mirth 
 and pathos, of smiles and tears, and in the poems 
 cited, and in Thackeray's ballads, it speaks for the 
 universality of the poet's range. While certain 
 notes in excess are fatal to song, in due subordina- 
 tion they supply a needful relief, and act as a fillip 
 to the zest of the listener. 
 
 In speaking, as I have, of measures and diction 
 suited to the English language, it must Eclectic 
 be with reservation. That language has g,gj h of our 
 advanced of late so rapidly from the tongue - 
 simple to the complex, that it seems ready to 
 assimilate whatever is most of worth in the vocabu- 
 laries and forms of many tongues. In Pope's time 
 it had thrown away, " like the base Indian," half 
 the riches bequeathed by Chaucer and the drama- 
 tists ; nevertheless, an age of asceticism often leads 
 to one of prodigal vigor. It required long years after 
 Pope, and a French Revolution, to renew the afflu- 
 ence of English letters, but if the process was slow
 
 2l6 TRUTH 
 
 it was effectual. Another century has passed ; our 
 language, in turn, is giving increment to the Conti- 
 nental tongues, and the need of an artificial Volapiik 
 may soon disappear before this eclectic universality. 
 
 The highest wisdom that of ethics seems 
 Truth of closely affiliated with poetic truth. A 
 ethical insight. p rosa i c mora i j s injurious to virtue, by 
 
 making it repulsive. The moment goodness be- 
 comes tedious and unideal in a work of art, it is not 
 real goodness ; the would-be artist, though a very 
 saint, has mistaken his form of expression. On the 
 other hand, extreme beauty and power in a poem or 
 picture always carry a moral : they are inseparable 
 from a certain ethical standard ; while vice suggests 
 a depravity. Affected conviction, affection of any 
 kind, and even sincere conviction inartistically set 
 forth, are vices in themselves, are antagonistic to 
 truth. But the cleverest work, if openly vicious, 
 has no lasting force. A meretricious play, after the 
 first rush of the baser sort, is soon performed to 
 empty boxes. Managers know this to be so, and 
 what is the secret of it ? Simply, that to cater to a 
 why baseness sensual taste incessant novelty is required. 
 "he'force Vice admits of no repose; its votary goes 
 restlessly from one pleasure to another. 
 Thus no form of vicious art bears much repetition : 
 it satiates without satisfying ; besides, any one who 
 cares for art at all has some sort of a moral stand- 
 ard. He violates it himself, but does not care to see 
 it violated in art as if upon principle.
 
 OF ETHICS 217 
 
 An obtrusive moral in poetic form is a fraud on 
 its face, and outlawed of art. But that all Enduringpo _ 
 great poetry is essentially ethical is plain m^s'ToT 
 from any consideration of Homer, Dante, good ' 
 and the best dramatists and lyrists, old and new. 
 Even Omar, in proud recognition of the immutabil- 
 ity of the higher powers, chants a song without fear 
 if without hope. The pagan Lucretius, confronting 
 sublimity, found no cause to fear either the gods or 
 the death that waits for all things. A glimpse of 
 the knowledge which is divine, an approach to the 
 infinite which makes us confess that "an undevout 
 astronomer is mad," inspire the "De Rerum Natura." 
 The . poet sat in the darkness before dawn. He 
 would report no vision which he did not see. Like 
 Fitzgerald's Omar he seems to confess, with the 
 epicureanism that after all is but inverted stoicism, 
 and with unfaltering truth, 
 
 " Up from Earth's Centre through the Seventh Gate 
 I rose, and on the Throne of Saturn sate, 
 
 And many a Knot unravell'd by the Road ; 
 But not the Master-knot of Human Fate." 
 
 Poetry, in short, as an ethical force, may be either 
 iconoclastic or constructive, nor dare I 
 
 A noble scep- 
 
 say that the latter attribute is the greater, ticisni - 
 for the site must be cleared before a new edifice can 
 be raised. Herein consists the moral integrity of 
 Lucretius and Omar. They rebelled against the 
 superstitions of their periods. Better a self-respect- 
 ing confession of ignorance, a waiting for some voice
 
 218 TRUTH 
 
 from out the void, than a bowing down to stone 
 images or reverence for a false prophet. Critics are 
 still to be found who look upon a modern poet in 
 his lifetime almost an outlaw as a splendid lyrical 
 genius gone far astray. Of course I refer to Shelley. 
 Percy Bysshe The world is slowly learning that Shel- 
 sheifey. ley' s office, if any need be ascribed to him 
 save that of charming the afterworld with song, was 
 ethical. As an iconoclast, he rebelled against tyr- 
 anny and dogma. His mistakes were those of poetic 
 youth and temperament, and he grew in love, jus- 
 tice, pity, according to his light. He groped in 
 search of some basis for construction, but died in 
 The false what was still his formative period. Yet 
 
 standards of 
 
 criticism ap- we see sage and elderly moralists apply- 
 
 plied to his life * 
 
 and works. j n g to Shelley the tests of their own ma- 
 ture years and modern enlightenment, and holding 
 a sensitive and passionate youth to account as if he 
 were an aged philosopher. 1 Even Matthew Arnold, 
 despite his fine recognition of that transcendent lyr- 
 ist, did not quite avoid this attitude. Professor 
 Shairp assumed it altogether. With respect to the 
 poetry of nature, I can refer you to no more sugges- 
 
 1 Some reviewer, alluding to the discussion of Hawthorne's career, 
 has said with much intelligence that the romancer was first of all, by 
 choice and genius, an artist, and that his politics, ethics, etc., are mat- 
 ters quite subordinate in any estimate of him. It is well, then, to aver 
 that Shelley was, before all else and marvellously, &poet, and that the 
 rapid experiences of his young life which ended, indeed,, before the 
 age of mature convictions are of importance merely as they affected 
 what we have inherited of his beautiful lyric and dramatic creations.
 
 OF ICONOCLASM 219 
 
 tive critic, for he was a Wordsworthian, and all his 
 discourse leads up to Wordsworth as the greatest, 
 because the most contemplative, of nineteenth-cen- 
 tury poets. Otherwise he was an extreme type of 
 the class which Arnold had in mind when he said, 
 " We must be on our guard against the Wordsworth- 
 ians, if we want to secure for Wordsworth his due 
 rank as a poet." His utter failure to see the force 
 of a blind revolt like Shelley's, in the evolution of 
 an ultimately high morality, was inexcusable. A 
 more striking example of faulty criticism could 
 hardly be given. Shelley is not to be measured by 
 his conduct of life nor by his experimental theories, 
 but rather, as Browning estimates him, with every 
 allowance for his conditions and by his highest fac- 
 ulty and attainment. 
 
 But the most thoughtful and extended of rhyth- 
 mical productions in the purely didactic _ 
 
 J Poetic truth, 
 
 method is of less worth, taken as poetry, osri?e a to' t 'he 
 than any lyrical trifle an English song ^3-^ 
 or Irish lilt, it may be that is spontane- a s inative 
 ous and has quality. The disguises of the common- 
 place are endless ; we are always meeting the old foe 
 with a new face. A fashionable diction, tact, taste, 
 the thought and manner of the season, set them off 
 bravely ; but they soon will be flown with the birds 
 of last year's nests. Of such are not the works 
 whose wisdom is imaginative, whether the result of 
 intuition or reflection, or of both combined. These
 
 220 TRUTH 
 
 " large utterances " of intellectual and moral truth 
 show that nothing is impossible, no domain is for- 
 bidden, to the poet, that no thought or fact is inca- 
 pable of ideal treatment. The bard may proudly 
 forego the office of the lecturer, such as that exer- 
 cised in this discourse, which is by intention didac- 
 tic and plainly inferior to any fine example of the 
 but aiert in art to which its comment is devoted. Yet 
 
 each new won- 
 
 deriaud. the new learning doubtless will inspire 
 more of our expression in the near future, since 
 never was man so apt in translation of nature's ora- 
 cles, and so royally vouchsafed the freedom of her 
 laboratory, as in this age of physical investigation. 
 Accepting the omen, we make, I say, another claim 
 for the absolute liberty of art. Like Caspar Becerra, 
 the artist must work out his vision in the fabric 
 nearest at hand. His theme, his method, shall be 
 his own : always with the passion for beauty, always 
 with an instinct for right. No effort to change the 
 natural bent of genius was ever quite successful, 
 though such an effort often has spoiled a poet alto- 
 gether. 
 
 This brave freedom alone can breed in a poet the 
 The oet's catholicity which justifies Keats' phrase, 
 fionofb?a^- an d insures for his work the fit coherence 
 teous verity. of beauty and truth T h e lover of beauty, 
 
 in Emerson's " Each and All," marvels at the deli- 
 cate shells upon the shore : 
 
 " The bubbles of the latest wave 
 Fresh pearls to their enamel gave ;
 
 FREEDOM BEAUTY 221 
 
 " I wiped away the weeds and foam, 
 I fetched my sea-born treasures home ; 
 But the poor, unsightly, noisome things 
 Had left their beauty on the shore, 
 With the sun, and the sand, and the wild uproar." 
 
 Disappointed, he forswears the pursuit of beauty, 
 and declares : 
 
 " I covet truth ; 
 
 Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat ; 
 I leave it behind with the games of youth." 
 
 But, even as he speaks, the ground-pine curls its 
 pretty wreath beneath his feet, "running over the 
 club-moss burrs ; " he scents the violet's breath, and 
 therewithal 
 
 " Over me soared the eternal sky, 
 Full of light and deity ; 
 
 Beauty through my senses stole ; 
 
 I yielded myself to the perfect whole." 
 
 This recognition, at which the idealist arrives, of the 
 intertransmutations of beauty and truth, Labor est 
 
 , . . . . . , etiam ipsa pie- 
 
 is a kind of natural piety, and renders the tas. 
 labor of the poet or other " artist of the beautiful " 
 a proper form of worship. His heart tells him that 
 this is so : it is lightest when he has worked at his 
 craft with diligence and accomplishment ; it is light 
 with a happiness which the religious say one can 
 know only by experience. The piety of his labor, is 
 not yet sufficiently comprehended ; even the poet, 
 having listened all his life to other tests of sanctifi- 
 cation, often mistrusts his own conscience, looks
 
 222 TRUTH 
 
 upon himself as out of the fold, and is sure only 
 that he must "gang his ain gait," however much he 
 suffers for it in this world or some other. 
 
 Thus a dividing line has been drawn from time 
 Arcadian non- immemorial betwixt the conventional and 
 conformity. the natura i worshippers, betwixt the stately 
 kingdom of Philistia and the wilding vales and 
 copses of that Arcadia which some geographers have 
 named Bohemia. The mistake of the Arcadian is 
 that he virtually accepts a standard not of his own 
 establishment ; he is impressed by a traditional con- 
 ception of his Maker, regards it as fixed, will have 
 none of it, and sheers off defiantly. If rich and his 
 own master, he becomes a pagan virtuoso. If one of 
 the struggling children of art and toil, then, 
 
 " Loving Beauty, and by chance 
 Too poor to make her all in all, 
 He spurns her half-way maintenance, 
 And lets things mingle as they fall." 
 
 This is the way in Arcadia, and it has its pains and 
 charm, as I well know, having journeyed many 
 seasons in that happy-go-lucky land of sun and 
 shower, and still holding a key to one of its entrance- 
 gates. Its citizenship is not to be shaken off, even 
 though one becomes naturalized elsewhere. 
 
 Now the artist not only has a right, but it is his 
 The God of duty, to indulge an anthropomorphism of 
 
 truth is no less J 
 
 the God of his own. In his conception the divine 
 
 beauty, joy, 
 
 and song. power must be the supreme poet, the 
 matchless artist, not only the transcendency, but the
 
 THE ARTISTS GOD 223 
 
 immanence of all that is adorable in thought, feel- 
 ing, and appearance. Grant that the Creator is the 
 founder of rites and institutes and dignities ; yet for 
 the idealist he conceived the sunrise and moonrise, 
 the sounds that ravish, the outlines that enchant 
 and sway. He sets the colors upon the easel, the 
 harp and viol are his invention, he is the model and 
 the clay, his voice is in the story and the song. 
 The love and the beauty of woman, the comradeship 
 of man, the joy of student-life, the mimic life of the 
 drama as much as the tragedy and comedy of the 
 living world, have their sources in his nature ; nor 
 only gravity and knowledge, but also irony and wit 
 and mirth. Arcady is a garden of his devising. As 
 far as the poet, the artist, is creative, he becomes 
 a sharer of the divine imagination and power, and 
 even of the divine responsibility.
 
 VII. 
 
 IMAGINATION. 
 
 IT is worth while to reflect for a moment upon the 
 characteristics of recent poetry. Take, Q ua Hti e of 
 for example, the verse of our language modern verse - 
 produced during the laureateship of Tennyson, and 
 since the rise, let us say, of Longfellow and his 
 American compeers. 
 
 In much of this composition you detect an artistic 
 convergence of form, sound, and color ; a nice ad- 
 justment of parts, a sense of craftsman- its conscious 
 
 refinement and 
 
 ship, quite unusual in the impetuous vocabulary. 
 Georgian revival, certainly not displayed by any 
 poets of that time except those among whom Keats 
 was the paragon and Leigh Hunt the propagan- 
 dist. You find a vocabulary far more elaborate than 
 that from which Keats wrought his simple and 
 perfected beauty. The conscious refinement of our 
 minor lyrists is in strong contrast with the primitive 
 method of their romantic predecessors. Some of 
 our verse, from " Woodnotes " and " In Memoriam " 
 and " Ferishtah's Fancies " down, is charged with 
 wholesome and often subtile thought. There has 
 been a marked idyllic picturesqueness, besides a 
 variety of classical and Preraphaelite experiments,
 
 226 IMA GIN A TION 
 
 and a good deal of genuine and tender feeling. Our 
 leaders have been noted for taste or thought or con- 
 viction, often for these traits combined. But we 
 obtain our average impression of a literary era from 
 c p "Victorian t ^ ie tem P er f i ts writers at large. Of late 
 f 7 e . ts a ' n ^ p- our clever artists in verse for such they 
 America f : pp. are seem with a few exceptions indif- 
 458-460. ferent to thought and feeling, and avoid 
 taking their office seriously. A vogue of light and 
 troubadour verse-making has come, and now is going 
 as it came. Every possible mode of artisanship has 
 been tried in turn. The like conditions prevail upon 
 the Continent, at least as far as France is con- 
 cerned ; in fact, the caprices of our minor minstrelsy 
 have been largely the outcome of a new literary 
 Gallomania. 
 
 Now, I think you will feel that there is something 
 unsatisfactory, something much less sat- 
 
 Something * 
 
 more is needed isfactory than what we find in the little 
 
 to confer J 
 
 prose masterpieces of the new American 
 school ; that from the mass of all this rhythmical 
 work the higher standard of poetry could scarcely 
 be derived. To be sure, it is the providential wont 
 of youth to be impressed by the latest models, to 
 catch the note of its own morntime. Many know 
 the later favorites by heart, yet perhaps have never 
 read an English classic. We hear them say, " Who 
 reads Milton now, or Byron, or Coleridge ? " It is 
 just as well. Otherwise a new voice might not be 
 welcomed, would have less chance to gain a hear-
 
 RECENT CONDITIONS 22/ 
 
 ing. Yet I think that even the younger generation 
 will agree with me that there are lacking qualities 
 to give distinction to poetry as the most impressive 
 literature of our time ; qualities for want of which it 
 is not now the chief force, but is compelled to yield 
 its eminence to other forms of composition, espe- 
 cially to prose fiction, realistic or romantic, and to 
 the literature of scientific research. 
 
 If you compare our recent poetry, grade for grade, 
 with the Elizabethan or the Georgian, I "The two 
 
 ....,, ,. , middle pillars 
 
 think you will quickly realize that the upon which 
 
 3 J the house 
 
 characteristics which alone can confer the stood." 
 distinction of which I speak are those which we call 
 Imagination and Passion. Poetry does not seem to 
 me very great, very forceful, unless it is either 
 imaginative or impassioned, or both ; and in sooth, 
 if it is the one, it is very apt to be the other. 
 
 The younger lyrists and idylists, when finding 
 little to evoke these qualities, have done their best 
 without them. Credit is due to our craftsmen for 
 what has been called " a finer art in our day." It is 
 wiser, of course, to succeed within obvious limits 
 than to flounder ambitiously outside them. But the 
 note of spontaneity is lost. Moreover, extreme fin- 
 ish, adroitness, graces, do not inevitably betoken the 
 glow of imaginative conception, the ecstasy of high 
 resolve. 
 
 If anything great has been achieved without exer- 
 cise of the imagination, I do not know of it. I am
 
 228 IMAGINATION 
 
 referring to striking productions and achievements, 
 Anticipate not to acts of virtue. Nevertheless, at 
 
 qusedam 
 
 deorum. the last analysis, it might be found that 
 imagination has impelled even the saints and martyrs 
 of humanity. 
 
 Imagination is the creative origin of what is fine, 
 not in art and song alone, but also in all forms of 
 action, in campaigns, civil triumphs, material 
 conquest. I have mentioned its indispensability to 
 the scientists. It takes, they surmise, four hundred 
 and ninety years for the light of Rigel to visit us. 
 Modern imagination goes in a second to the dark- 
 ness beyond the utmost star, speculates whether the 
 ether itself may not have a limiting surface, is pre- 
 pared to see at any time a new universe come sail- 
 ing from the outer void, or to discover a universe 
 within our own under absolutely novel conditions. 
 It posits molecules, atomic rings ; it wreaks itself 
 upon the ultimate secrets of existence. But in the 
 practical world our men of action are equally, though 
 often unwittingly, possessed by it. The imagination 
 of inventors, organizers, merchant princes, railway 
 kings, is conceptive and strenuous. It bridges 
 rivers, tunnels mountains, makes an ocean-ferry, de- 
 velops the forces of vapor and electricity; and carries 
 each to swift utility ; is already picturing an empery 
 of the air, and doubtless sighs that its tangible 
 franchise is restricted to one humble planet. 
 
 If the triumphs of the applied imagination have 
 more and more engrossed public attention, it must
 
 IT MOVES THE WORLD 229 
 
 be remembered that its exhibitors, accumulating 
 wealth, promote the future structures of Theexecut i V e 
 the artist and poet. In the Old World Ima s inati n - 
 this has been accomplished through the instrumen- 
 tality of central governments. In a democracy the 
 individual imagination has the liberty, the duty, of 
 free play and achievement. Therefore, we say that 
 in this matter our republicanism is on trial ; that, 
 with a forecast more exultant, as it is with respect 
 to our own future, than that of any people on earth, 
 our theory is wrong unless through private impulse 
 American foundations in art, learning, humanity, 
 are not even more continuous and munificent than 
 those resulting in other countries from governmental 
 promotion. 
 
 As for the poetic imagination, as distinguished 
 from that of the man of affairs, if it can- 
 
 Imagination of 
 
 not parcel out the earth, it can enable us the poet - 
 to "get along just as well without it," and this by 
 furnishing a substitute at will. There is no state- 
 ment of its magic so apt as that of our master 
 magician. It "bodies forth the forms of things 
 unknown," and through the poet's pen 
 
 " Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing 
 A local habitation and a name." 
 
 I seldom refer to Shakespeare in these lectures, 
 since we all instinctively resort to him as to nature 
 itself ; his text being not only the chief Shakespeare 
 
 the preeminent 
 
 illustration of each phrase that may arise, exemplar, 
 but also, like nature, presenting all phases in combi-
 
 230 IMA GIN A TION 
 
 nation. It displays more of clear and various beauty, 
 more insight, surer descriptive touches, above all, 
 more human life, than that of any other poet; 
 yes, and more art, in spite of a certain constructive 
 disdain, the free and prodigal art that is like 
 nature's own. Thus he seems to require our whole 
 attention or none, and it is as well to illustrate a 
 special quality by some poet more dependent upon 
 it. Yet if there is one gift which sets Shakespeare 
 at a distance even from those who approach him on 
 one or another side, it is that of his imagination. 
 As he is the chief of poets, we infer that the faculty 
 in which he is supereminent must be the greatest 
 of poetic endowments. Yes : in his wonderland, as 
 elsewhere, imagination is king. 
 
 There is little doubt concerning the hold of 
 Shakespeare upon future ages. I have sometimes 
 "Not of an debated whether, in the change of dra- 
 tmie." u matic ideals and of methods in life and 
 
 thought, he may not become outworn and alien. 
 But the purely creative quality of his imagination 
 renders it likely that its structures will endure. Pre- 
 historic Hellas is far removed from our experience ; 
 yet Homer, by force of a less affluent imagination, 
 is a universal poet to-day, to-day, when there is 
 scarcely a law of physics or of art familiar to us that 
 was not unknown to Homer's world. Shakespeare's 
 imagination is still more independent of discovery, 
 place, or time. It is neither early nor late, anti- 
 quated nor modern ; or, rather, it is always modern
 
 NATURE OF THIS FACULTY 231 
 
 and abiding. The beings which he creates, if sud- 
 denly transferred to our conditions, would make 
 themselves at home. His land is one wherein the 
 types of all ages meet and are contemporary. He 
 created beings, and took circumstances as he found 
 them ; that is, as his knowledge enabled him to con- 
 ceive of them at the time. The garb and manners 
 of his personages were also a secondary matter. 
 Each successive generation makes the acquaintance 
 of these creatures, and troubles itself little about 
 their fashions and acquirements. Knowledge is pro- 
 gressive, communicable : the types of soul are con- 
 stant, and are sufficient in themselves. 
 
 It does no harm, as I said at the outset of this 
 course, for the most advanced audience to go back 
 now and then to the primer of art, to think upon 
 the meaning of an elementary term. Nor is it an 
 easy thing to formulate clear statements of qualities 
 which we instantly recognize or miss in any human 
 production, and for which we have a ready, a tradi- 
 tional, nomenclature. So, then, what is the artistic 
 imagination, that of one who expresses his concep- 
 tions in form or language ? I should call Definition O f 
 it a faculty of conceiving things according imagination- 
 to their actualities or possibilities, that is, as they 
 are or may be ; of conceiving them clearly ; of seeing 
 with the eyes closed, and hearing with the ears 
 sealed, and vividly feeling, things which exist only 
 through the will of the artist's genius. Not only of
 
 232 IMA GIN A TION 
 
 conceiving these, but of holding one's conceptions 
 so well in mind as to express them, to copy them, 
 in actual language or form. 
 
 The strength of the imagination is proportioned, 
 HOW to gauge in fact, to its definiteness, and also to the 
 
 its strength. r ., . , . 
 
 stress of its continuance, of the memory 
 which prolongs its utilization. Every one has more 
 or less of this ideal faculty. The naturalness of 
 children enables us to judge of their respective 
 allotments. A mother knows which of her brood is 
 the imaginative one. She realizes that it has a rare 
 endowment, yet one as perilous as "the fatal gift of 
 beauty." Her pride, her solicitude, are equally cen- 
 tred in that child. Now the clearer and more self- 
 retentive this faculty, the more decided the ability 
 of one in whom it reaches the grade at which he 
 may be a designer, an artist, or a poet. 
 
 Let us see. Most of us have a sense of music. 
 clearness and Tunes of our own " beat time to nothing " 
 
 retention. j n the head We can reta i n t h e theme, 
 
 or opening phrase, at least, of a new composition 
 that pleases us. But the musician, the man of gen- 
 ius, is haunted with unbidden harmonies ; besides, 
 after hearing a difficult and prolonged piece, he holds 
 it in memory, perhaps can repeat it, as when a 
 Von Biilow repeats offhand an entire composition by 
 Liszt. Moreover, his mind definitely hears its own 
 imaginings ; otherwise the sonata, the opera, will be 
 confused and inferior. Again : most of us, especially 
 when nervous or half asleep, find the " eyes make
 
 OUR DEFINITION ILLUSTRATED 233 
 
 pictures when they are shut." Faces come and go, 
 or change with startling vividness. The face that 
 comes to a born painter does not instantly go ; that 
 of an angel is not capriciously transformed to some- 
 thing imp-like. He sees it in such wise that he 
 retains it and can put it on his canvas. He has the 
 clear-seeing, the sure-holding, gift which alone is 
 creative. It is the same with the landscape-painter, 
 the sculptor, the architect. Artistic ability is coor- 
 dinate with the clearness and staying-power of the 
 imagination. 
 
 More than one painter has declared that when a 
 sitter was no longer before him, he could Inthemind . s 
 still lift his eyes, and see the sitter's im- eye> 
 age, and go on copying it as before. Often, too, the 
 great painter copies better from some conception of 
 his own brain than from actual nature. His mind's 
 eye is surer than his body's. Blake wrote : " Men 
 think they can copy Nature as correctly as I copy 
 imagination. This they will find impossible." And 
 again, "Why are copies of Nature incorrect, while 
 copies of imagination are correct ? This is manifest 
 to all." Of course this statement is debatable ; but 
 for its philosophy, and for illustrations alike of the 
 definite and the sublime, there is nothing later than 
 Michelangelo to which one refers more profitably 
 than to the life and letters, and to the titanic yet 
 clear and beautiful designs, of the inspired "This bodiless 
 draughtsman William Blake. Did he see creation -" 
 his visions ? Undeniably. Did he call them into
 
 234 IMA GIN A TION 
 
 absolute existence ? Sometimes I think he did ; that 
 all soul is endowed with the divine power of creation 
 in the concrete. If so, man will realize it in due 
 time. The poetry of Blake, prophetic and other- 
 wise, must be read with discrimination, for his lin- 
 guistic execution was less assured than that of his 
 brush and graver ; his imagination as a painter, and 
 his art-maxims, were of the high order, but his work 
 as a poet was usually rhapsodical and ill-defined. 
 But, as I have said, the strength and beauty of 
 man ' s poetry depend chiefly upon the 
 
 Theconce 
 
 tion definite, definiteness of his mental vision. I once 
 
 knew a poet of genuine gifts who did not always 
 " beat his music out." When I objected to a feeble, 
 indistinct conception in one of his idyls, "Look 
 you," said he, " I see that just as clearly as you do ; 
 it takes hold of me, but I haven't" (he chose to say) 
 "your knack of definite expression." To which I 
 rejoined : " Not so. If you saw it clearly you would 
 express it, for you have a better vocabulary at your 
 command than I possess. Look out of the window, 
 at that building across the street. Now let us sit 
 down, and see who can make the best picture of it 
 in fifteen lines of blank verse you or I." After a 
 while our trial was completed. His verse, as I had 
 expected, was more faithful and expressive than 
 mine, was apter in word and outline. It reinforced 
 my claim. "There," said I, "if you saw the con- 
 ception of your other poem as plainly as you see 
 that ordinary building, you would convey it defi-
 
 TRUE AND FALSE CONCEPTIONS 235 
 
 nitely. You would not be confused and obscure, for 
 you have the power to express what your mind really 
 pictures." 
 
 The true poet, said Joubert, " has a mind full of 
 very clear images, while ours is only filled conceptive 
 
 . . ,. , , . >> TIT faculty of the 
 
 with confused descriptions. Now, vague- true poet, 
 ness of impression engenders a kind of excitement 
 in which a neophyte fancies that his gift is particu- 
 larly active. He mistakes the wish to create for the 
 creative power. Hence much spasmodic poetry, full 
 of rhetoric and ejaculations, sound and empty fury ; 
 hence the gasps which indicate that vision and utter- 
 ance are impeded, the contortions without the inspi- 
 ration. Hence, also, the " fatal facility," p S e ud o-ins P i- 
 the babble of those who write with ease r 
 and magnify their office. The impassioned artist 
 also dashes off his work, but his need for absolute 
 expression makes the final execution as difficult as it 
 is noble. Another class, equipped with taste and 
 judgment, but lacking imagination, proffer as a sub- 
 stitute beautiful and recondite materials gathered 
 here and there. Southey's work is an example of 
 this process, and that of the popular and scholarly 
 author of "The Light of Asia" is not free from it ; 
 indeed, you see it everywhere in the verse of the 
 minor art -school, and even in Tennyson's and Long- 
 fellow's early poems. But the chief vice The turbid 
 of many writers is obscure expression. shoah 
 Their seeming depth is often mere turbidness, 
 though it is true that thought may be so analytic
 
 236 IMAGINATION 
 
 that its expression must be novel and difficult. 
 Commonplace thought and verse, however clear, cer- 
 tainly are not greater than Browning's, but as a rule 
 the better the poet the more intelligible. There are 
 no stronger conceptions than those of the Book of 
 Job, of Isaiah, Homer, Shakespeare, nor are there 
 any more patent in their simplicity to the common 
 understanding. 
 
 The imagination in literature is not confined to 
 Quality, not that which deals with the weird or super- 
 human. It is true that, for convenience' 
 sake, the selections classed in the best of our antho- 
 logies as " Poems of the Imagination " consist wholly 
 of verse relative to nymphs, fairies, sprites, appari- 
 tions, and the like. Although this justly includes 
 "Comus" and "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner," 
 there is more fantasy than imagination in other 
 pieces, in such a piece, for instance, as " The Cul- 
 prit Fay." No one knows better than the critical 
 editor of "The Household Book of Poetry" that 
 there is more of the high imaginative element in 
 brief touches, such as Wordsworth's 
 
 " The light that never was on sea or land, 
 
 The consecration and the poet's dream, " 
 
 or Shakespeare's 
 
 " Light thickens, and the crow 
 Makes wing to the rooky wood, " 
 
 or Bryant's path of the waterfowl, through
 
 HEIGHT INVENTION 237 
 
 " the desert and illimitable air, 
 Lone wandering, but not lost, " 
 
 or Stoddard's vanished city of the waste, 
 
 "Gone like a wind that blew 
 A thousand years ago, " 
 
 and countless other passages as effective, than in 
 the whole of Drake's " Culprit Fay," that being emi- 
 nently a poem of fancy from beginning to end. 
 
 But the imagination is manifold and various. 
 Among its offices, though often not as inventive and 
 
 , . . constructive 
 
 the most poetic, may be counted mven- power, 
 tion and construction. These, with characterization, 
 are indeed the chief functions of the novelist. But 
 the epic narratives have been each a growth, not a 
 sudden formation, and the effective plots of the 
 grand dramas of Shakespeare's, for example 
 have mostly been found and utilized, rather than 
 newly invented. " The Princess," " Aurora Leigh," 
 and "Lucile" are almost the only successful modern 
 instances of metrical tale-invention, and the last two 
 are really novels in verse. The epic and dramatic 
 poets give imagination play in depicting the event ; 
 the former, as Goethe writes to Schiller, conceiving 
 it " as belonging completely to the past," and the 
 latter " as belonging completely to the present." 
 But neither has occasion to originate his story ; his 
 concern is with its ideal reconstruction. 
 
 The imagination, however, is purely creative in 
 the work to which I have just said that it is not re-
 
 238 IMA GINA TION 
 
 stricted, namely, the conception of beings not drawn 
 The peopled from experience, to whom it alone can 
 
 wonderland 
 
 of song. give an existence that is wondrous yet 
 
 seemingly not out of nature. Such are the forms 
 which Shakespeare called "from the vasty deep": 
 the Weird Sisters, the greenwood sprites, the haunt- 
 ed-island progeny of earth and air. Such are those 
 quite differing creations, Goethe's mocking fiend 
 and the Mephistophilis of Marlowe's " Faustus." 
 Milton's Satan, the grandest of imaginary person- 
 ages, does not seem to belong to the supramortal 
 class ; he is the more sublime because, though scal- 
 ing heaven and defying the Almighty, he is so un- 
 mistakably human. Shakespeare is not strong in 
 the imaginative construction of many of his plays, 
 at least not in the artistic sense, with respect to 
 that the " CEdipus at Colonos " is a masterpiece, 
 but he very safely left them to construct themselves. 
 In the conception of human characters, and of their 
 thoughts and feelings, he is still sovereign of im- 
 agination's world. In modern times the halls of 
 Wonder have been trodden by Blake and Coleridge 
 Coleridge. and Rossetti. The marvellous " Rime," 
 with its ghostly crew, its spectral seas, its transfor- 
 mation of the elements, is pure and high-sustained 
 imagination. In " Christabel " both the terror and 
 the loveliness are haunting. That beauteous frag- 
 ment was so potent with the romanticists that Scott 
 formed his lyrical method, that of "The Lay of the 
 Last Minstrel," upon it, and Byron quickly yielded
 
 WONDER SUGGESTIVENESS 239 
 
 to its spell. But Coleridge's creative mood was as 
 brief as it was enrapturing. From his twenty-sixth 
 to his twenty-eighth year he blazed out like Tycho 
 Brahe's star, then sank his light in metaphysics, 
 exhibiting little thenceforth of worth to literature 
 except a criticism of poets and dramatists that in its 
 way was luminous and constructive. 
 
 The poet often conveys a whole picture by a 
 single imaginative touch. A desert scene suggestiveness. 
 by G6rome would give us little more than we con- 
 ceive from Landor's suggestive detail 
 
 " And hoofless camels in long single line 
 
 Stalk slow, with foreheads level to the sky." 
 
 This force of suggestion is nevertheless highly 
 effective in painting, as where the shadow of the 
 cross implies the crucifixion, or where the cloud- 
 phantoms seen by Dore's " Wandering Jew " exhibit 
 it ; and as when, in the same artist's designs for 
 Don Quixote, we see visions with the mad knight's 
 eyes. Of a kindred nature is the previ- Prevision. 
 sion, the event forestalled, of a single word or 
 phrase. Leigh Hunt cited the line from Keats' 
 " Isabella," " So the two brothers and their mur- 
 dered man," the victim, then journeying with his 
 future slayers, being already dead in their intention. 
 A striking instance of the swift-flashing imagination 
 is in a stanza from Stoddard's Horatian ode upon 
 the funeral of Lincoln : 
 
 " The time, the place, the stealing shape, 
 The coward shot, the swift escape, 
 The wife, the ividrnv's scream."
 
 240 IMA GIN A TION 
 
 What I may call the constant, the habitual, im- 
 imaginative agination of a true poet is shown by his 
 instinct for words, those keys which all 
 may clatter, and which yield their music to so few. 
 He finds the inevitable word or phrase, unfound 
 before, and it becomes classical in a moment. The 
 power of words and the gift of their selection are 
 unconrprehended by writers who have all trite and 
 hackneyed phrases at the pen's end. The imagi- 
 nation begets original diction, suggestive epithets, 
 verbs implying extended scenes and events, phrases 
 which are a delight and which, as we say, speak 
 volumes, single notes which establish the dominant 
 tone. 
 
 This kind of felicity makes an excerpt from 
 "The best Shakespeare unmistakable. Milton's dic- 
 thdJbSt tion rivals that of -^schylus, though no- 
 thing can outrank the Grecian's avrjpiOfj.ov 
 ye'A.ao7*a, the innumerous laughter of his ocean 
 waves. But recall Milton's " wandering moon " 
 (borrowed, haply, from the Latin), and his "wilder- 
 ness of sweets ; " and such phrases as " dim, reli- 
 gious light," "fatal and perfidious bark," "hide their 
 diminished heads," "the least - erected spirit that 
 fell," " barbaric pearl and gold," " imparadised in 
 one another's arms," "rose like an exhalation," 
 " such sweet compulsion doth in music lie ; " and 
 his fancies of the daisies' " quaint enamelled eyes," 
 and of "dancing in the checkered shade;" and 
 numberless similar beauties that we term Miltonic.
 
 THE MASTERY OF WORDS 241 
 
 After Shakespeare and Milton, Keats stands first in 
 respect of imaginative diction. His appellatives of 
 the Grecian Urn, "Cold pastoral," and "Thou fos- 
 ter-child of silence and slow time," are in evidence. 
 "The music yearning like a god in pain," and 
 
 " Music's golden tongue 
 Flattered to tears this aged man and poor," 
 
 excel even Milton's " forget thyself to marble." 
 What a charm in his "darkling I listen," and his 
 thought of Ruth " in tears amid the alien corn " ! 
 Shelley's diction is less sure and eclectic, yet some- 
 times his expression, like his own skylark, is "an 
 unbodied joy." Byron's imaginative language is 
 more rhetorical, but none will forget his " haunted, 
 holy ground," " Death's prophetic ear," " the quiet 
 of a loving eye " (which is like Wordsworth, and 
 again like Lander's phrase on Milton, "the Sab- 
 bath of his mind "). None would forego " the blue 
 rushing of 'the arrowy Rhone," or "the dead but 
 sceptred sovereigns, who still rule our spirits from 
 their urns," or such a combination of imagination 
 and feeling as this : 
 
 " I turned from all she brought to those she could not bring." 
 
 Coleridge's "myriad-minded Shakespeare " is enough 
 to show his mastery of words. A conjuring quality 
 like that of the voices heard by Kubla Khan, 
 
 " Ancestral voices prophesying war, " 
 
 lurks in the imaginative lines of our Southern lyrist,
 
 242 IMAGINATION 
 
 Boner, upon the cottage at Fordham, which aver of 
 Poe, that 
 
 " Here in the sobbing showers 
 Of dark autumnal hours 
 He heard suspected powers 
 
 Shriek through the stormy wood." 
 
 Tennyson's words often seem too laboriously and 
 exquisitely chosen. But that was a good moment 
 when, in his early poem of "CEnone," he pictured 
 her as wandering 
 
 " Forlorn of Paris, once her playmate on the hills." 
 
 Amongst Americans, Emerson has been the chief 
 master of words and phrases. Who save he could 
 enveil us in " the tumultuous privacy " of the snow- 
 storm ? Lowell has great verbal felicity. It was 
 manifest even in the early period when he apostro- 
 phized the dandelion, " Dear common flower," 
 "Thou art my tropics and mine Italy," and told 
 us of its "harmless gold." But I have cited a suffi- 
 cient number of these well-wonted instances. Enter- 
 ing the amazing treasure-house of English song, one 
 must remember the fate of the trespasser within the 
 enchanted grotto of the " Gesta Romanorum," where 
 rubies, sapphires, diamonds, lay in flashing heaps on 
 every side. When he essayed to fill his wallet with 
 them, the spell was broken, the arrow whizzed, and 
 he met the doom allotted to pickers and stealers. 
 
 With respect to configuration, the antique genius,
 
 "THINGS BEYOND MORTALITY" 243 
 
 in literature as in art, was clear and assured. It ima- 
 gined plainly, and drew firm outlines. But configuration 
 the Acts and Scenes of our English and oudine - 
 dramatists were often shapeless ; their schemes were 
 full of by-play and plot within plot ; in fine, their 
 constructive faculty showed the caprice of rich ima- 
 ginations that disdained control. Shakespeare, alone 
 of all, never fails to justify Leigh Hunt's maxim 
 that, in treating of the unusual, " one must be true 
 to the supernatural itself." When the French and 
 German romanticists broke loose from the classic 
 unities, they, too, at first went wild. Again, the 
 antique conceptions are as sensuous, beside the 
 modern, as the Olympian hierarchy compared with 
 the spiritual godhood to which Christendom has 
 consecrated its ideals. But whether pagan The su ernat _ 
 or Christian, all the supernaturalism of ural - 
 the dark and mystic North has a more awe-inspiring 
 quality than that of sunlit Italy and Greece. There 
 are weird beings in the classic mythology, but its 
 Fates and Furies are less spectral than the Valkyries 
 and the prophetic Sisters of the blasted heath. 
 Even in the mediaeval under-world of Dante, the 
 damned and their tormentors are substantially and 
 materially presented, with a few exceptions, -like the 
 lovers of Rimini, the 
 
 " unhappy pair 
 That float in hell's murk air." 
 
 Having, then, laid stress upon the excellence of clear
 
 244 IMA GIN A TION 
 
 vision, let me add that imaginative genius can force 
 compulsion of us to recognize the wonder, terror, and 
 the Vague. sublimity of the Vague. Through its sug- 
 gested power we are withdrawn from the firm-set 
 world, and feel what it is 
 
 " to be a mortal 
 And seek the things beyond mortality." 
 
 What lies beyond, in the terra incognita from which 
 we are barred as from the polar spaces guarded by 
 arctic and antarctic barriers, can only be suggested 
 by formlessness, extension, imposing shadow, and 
 phantasmal light. The early Hebraic expression of 
 its mysteries will never be surpassed. Nothing in 
 even the culminating vision of the Apocalypse so 
 takes hold of us as the ancient words of Eliphaz, in 
 the Book of Job, describing the fear that came upon 
 him in the night, when deep sleep falleth on man : 
 
 " Then a spirit passed before my face ; the hair of my 
 flesh stood up. It stood still, but I could not discern the 
 form thereof : an image was before mine eyes, there was 
 silence, and I heard a voice, saying : ' Shall mortal man 
 be more just than God ? Shall a man be more pure than 
 his Maker ? ' " 
 
 English poetry doubly inherits the sublimity of 
 camoens, Mil- tne vague, f rom its Oriental and its Gothic 
 ton, coieridge. stra j ns Yet it has produced few images 
 
 more striking than that one which lifts the " Lusiad," 
 by Camoens, above the level of a perfunctory epic. 
 Vasco da Gama and his crew are struggling to pass
 
 SUBLIMITY OF THE VAGUE 245 
 
 the southern point of Africa into the Indian seas 
 beyond. The Spirit of the Cape of Tempests, man- 
 tled in blackness of cloud, girt about with lightning 
 and storm, towers skyward from the billows, porten- 
 tous, awful, vague, and with an unearthly voice of 
 menace warns the voyagers back. I have said that 
 the grandest of English supernatural creations is 
 Milton's Satan. No other personage has at once 
 such magnitude and definiteness of outline as that 
 sublime, defiant archangel, whether in action or in 
 repose. Milton, like Dante, has to do with the un- 
 known world. The Florentine bard soars at last 
 within the effulgence of " the eternal, coeternal 
 beam." Milton's imagination broods " in the wide 
 womb of uncreated night." We enter that " palpa- 
 ble obscure," where there is "no light, but rather 
 darkness visible," and where lurk many a "grisly 
 terror" and "execrable shape." But the genii of 
 wonder and terror are the familiars of a long succes- 
 sion of our English poets. Coleridge, who so had 
 them at his own call, knew well their signs and 
 work ; as when he pointed a sure finger to Drayton's 
 etching of the trees which 
 
 " As for revenge to heaven each held a withered hand." 
 
 Science drives spectre after spectre from its path, 
 but the rule still holds omne ignotum pro magnifico, 
 and a vaster unknown, a more impressive vague, still 
 deepens and looms before. 
 
 A peculiarly imaginative sense of the beautiful,
 
 246 IMA GIN A TION 
 
 also, is conveyed at times by an exquisite formless- 
 imaginative ness f outline. I asked the late Mr. Grant 
 formlessness, \yhite what he thought of a certain pic- 
 ture by Inness, and he replied that it seemed to be 
 " painted by a blind poet." But no Inness, Fuller, 
 Corot, Rousseau, not even Turner, nor the broad, 
 luminous spaces of Homer Martin, ever excelled the 
 magic of the changeful blending conceptions of 
 Shelley, so aptly termed the poet of Cloudland. The 
 cioudiand; feeling of his lyrical passages is all his 
 own. How does it justify itself and so 
 hold us in thrall ? Yield to it, and if there is any- 
 thing sensitive in your mould you are hypnotized, as 
 if in truth gazing heavenward and fixing your eyes 
 upon a beauteous and protean cloud ; fascinated by 
 its silvery shapelessness, its depth, its vistas, its iri- 
 descence and gloom. Listen, and the cloud is vocal 
 with a music not to be defined. There is no appeal 
 to the intellect ; the mind seeks not for a meaning ; 
 the cloud floats ever on ; the music is changeful, 
 ceaseless, and uncloying. Their plumed invoker has 
 become our type of the pure spirit of song, almost 
 sexless, quite removed at times from earth and the 
 CD. " Poets carnal passions. Such a poet could never 
 P. 266. be a sensualist. " Brave translunary 
 
 things" are to him the true realities ; he is, indeed, 
 a creature of air and light. " The Witch of Atlas," 
 an artistic caprice, is a work of imagination, though 
 as transparent as the moonbeams and as unconscious 
 of warmth and cold. Mary Shelley objected to it on
 
 CLOUDLAND FANCY 247 
 
 ,the score that it had no human interest. It certainly 
 is a kind of aer potabilis, a wine that lacks body ; it 
 violates Goethe's dictum, to wit: "Two things are 
 required of the poet and the artist, that he should 
 rise above reality and yet remain within the sphere 
 of the sensuous." But there is always a law above 
 law for genius, and all things are possible to it 
 even the entrance to a realm not ordered in life and 
 emotion according to the conditions of this palpable 
 warm planet to which our feet are bound. 
 
 As in nature, so in art, that which relatively to 
 ourselves is large and imposing has a cor- T.. 
 
 Dimensional 
 
 responding effect upon the mind. Mag- effect 
 nitude is not to be disdained as an imaginative fac- 
 tor. An heroic masterpiece of Angelo's has this 
 advantage at the start over some elaborate carving 
 by Cellini. Landor says that " a throne is not built 
 of birds'-nests, nor do a thousand reeds make a trum- 
 pet." Of course, if dimension is to be the essential 
 test, we are lost. Every one feels himself to be 
 greater than a mountain, than the ocean, even than 
 Chaos ; yet an imaginative observer views the mea- 
 sureless nebula with awe, conceiving a universe of 
 systems, of worlds tenanted by conscious beings, 
 which is to be evolved from that lambent, ambient 
 star-dust. 
 
 Certain it is that when we seek the other extreme, 
 the province of the microscopic, Fancy, Fancy, 
 the elf -child of Imagination, sports within her own 
 minute and capricious realm. Her land is that of
 
 248 IMAGINATION 
 
 whims and conceits, of mock associations, of Mid- 
 summer Nights' Dreams. She has her own epithets 
 for its denizens, for the " green little vaulter," the 
 " yellow-breeched philosopher," the "animated tor- 
 rid zone," of her dainty minstrelsy. Poets of imagi- 
 nation are poets of fancy when they choose to be. 
 Hester Prynne was ever attended by her tricksy 
 Pearl. But many is the poet of fancy who never 
 enters the courts of imagination a joyous faun 
 indeed, and wanting nothing but a soul. 
 
 A large utterance, such as that which Keats be- 
 "The nd stowed upon the early gods, is the instinc- 
 manner." t j ve vo j ce o f the imagination nobly roused 
 and concerned with an heroic theme. There are 
 few better illustrations of this than the cadences 
 and diction of " Hyperion," a torso equal to the fin- 
 ished work of any other English poet after Shake- 
 speare and Milton ; perhaps even greater because a 
 torso, for the construction of its fable is not signifi- 
 cant, and when Keats produced his effect, he ended 
 the poem as Coleridge ended " Christabel." All 
 qualities which I have thus far termed imaginative 
 contribute to the majesty of its overture : 
 
 " Deep in the shady sadness of a vale 
 Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn, 
 Far from the fiery noon, and eve's one star, 
 Sat gray-hair'd Saturn, quiet as a stone, 
 Still as the silence round about his lair. 
 Forest on forest hung about his head 
 Like cloud on cloud. No stir of air was there, 
 Not so much life as on a summer's day
 
 MAJESTIC UTTERANCE 249 
 
 Robs not one light seed from the feather'd grass, 
 But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest. 
 A stream went voiceless by, still deaden'd more 
 By reason of his fallen divinity 
 Spreading a shade : the Naiad 'mid her reeds 
 Press'd her cold finger closer to her lips." 
 
 At the outset of English poetry, Chaucer's imag- 
 ination is sane, clear-sighted, wholesome Chaucer, 
 with open-air feeling and truth to life. Spenser is 
 the poet's poet chiefly as an artist. The allegory of 
 "The Faerie Queene" is not like that of Dante, 
 forged at white heat, but the symbolism of a courtier 
 and euphuist who felt its unreality. But all in all, 
 the Elizabethan period displays the Eng- The EKza _ 
 lish imagination at full height. Marlowe bethans - 
 and Webster, for example, give out fitful but imag- 
 inative light which at times is of kindred splendor 
 with Shakespeare's steadfast beam. Webster's 
 " Duchess of Malfi " teaches both the triumphs and 
 the dangers of the dramatic fury. The construction 
 runs riot ; certain characters are powerfully con- 
 ceived, others are wild figments of the brain. It is 
 full of most fantastic speech and action ; yet the 
 tragedy, the passion, the felicitous language and 
 imagery of various scenes, are nothing less than 
 Shakespearean. To comprehend rightly the good 
 and bad qualities of this play is to have gained a 
 liberal education in poetic criticism. 
 
 Now take a collection of English verse, and 
 there is no poetry more various and inclusive, 
 take, let us say, Ward's "English Poets," and you
 
 250 IMA GIN A TION 
 
 will find that the generations after Shakespeare are 
 TWO centuries, not over-imaginative until you approach 
 the nineteenth century. From Jonson to the Geor- 
 gian school there is no general efflux of visionary 
 power. The lofty Milton and a few minor lights 
 Dryden, Collins, Chatterton shine at intervals 
 between. Precisely the most unimaginative period 
 is that covered by Volume III. and entitled " From 
 Addison to Blake." We have tender feeling and 
 true in Goldsmith and Gray. There is no passion, 
 no illumination, until you reach Burns and his im- 
 mediate successors. Then imagination leaped again 
 to life, springing chiefly from subjective emotion, 
 as among the Elizabethans it sprang from young 
 adventure, from discovery and renown of arms, 
 above all from the objective study of the types and 
 conduct of mankind. If another century shall add 
 a third imaginative lustre to the poetry of our 
 tongue, enkindled, perchance, by the flame of a 
 more splendid order of discovery, even now so ex- 
 alting, it will have done its equal share. 
 
 The Mercury and Iris of this heavenly power are 
 Comparison, comparison and association, whose light 
 wings flash unceasingly. Look at Words- 
 worth's similes. He took from nature her primitive 
 The elemental symbolism. Consider his elemental qual- 
 ity : I use the word as did the ancients in 
 their large, untutored view of things, as Prospero 
 uses it, ere laying down his staff :
 
 THE ELEMENTAL BARDS 2$ I 
 
 " My Ariel, chick, 
 That is thy charge : then to the elements 
 Be free, and fare thou well ! " 
 
 In Wordsworth's mind nature is so absolute that 
 her skies and mountains are just as plainly Wordsworth, 
 imaged as in the sheen of Derwentwater ; and thence 
 they passed into his verse. He wanders, 
 
 " lonely as a cloud 
 That floats on high o'er vales and hills." 
 
 He says of Milton : 
 
 " Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart." 
 
 A primeval sorrow, a cosmic pain, is in the expres- 
 sion of his dead love's reunion with the elements : 
 
 " No motion has she now, no force ; 
 
 She neither hears nor sees, 
 Rolled round in earth's diurnal course, 
 With rocks, and stones, and trees." 
 
 The souls of the Hebrew bards, inheritors of pas- 
 toral memories, ever consorted with the elements, 
 invoking the "heavens of heavens," "the waters 
 that be above the heavens," " fire and hail ; snow, 
 and vapor : stormy wind fulfilling His word." Of 
 the Greeks, ^Eschylus is more elemental than Pin- 
 dar, even than Homer. Among our moderns, a 
 kindred quality strengthened the imaginations of 
 Byron and Shelley ; Swinburne too, whom at his 
 best the Hebraic feeling and the Grecian sway by 
 turns, is most self-forgetful and exalted when giving 
 it full play.
 
 252 IMA GIN A TION 
 
 I point you to the fact that some of our American 
 Bryant CP poets, if not conspicuous thus far for dra- 
 AmericY": matic power, have been gifted as seems 
 fitting in respect to their environment 
 with a distinct share of this elemental imagination. 
 It is the strength of Bryant's genius : the one secret, 
 if you reflect upon it, of the still abiding fame of 
 that austere and revered minstrel. His soul, too, 
 dwelt apart, but like the mountain-peak that looks 
 over forest, plain, and ocean, and confabulates with 
 winds and clouds. I am not sure but that his ele- 
 mental feeling is more impressive than Words- 
 worth's, from its almost preadamite simplicity. It is 
 often said that Bryant's loftiest mood came and 
 went with "Thanatopsis." This was not so; though 
 it seemed at times in abeyance. " The Flood of 
 Years," written sixty-five years later than " Thana- 
 topsis " and when the bard was eighty-two, has the 
 characteristic and an even more sustained majesty 
 of thought and diction. 
 
 It is easy to comprehend why the father of Amer- 
 ican song should be held in honor by 
 
 blank verse, . 
 
 etc. poets as different as Richard Henry Stod- 
 
 dard and Walt Whitman. These men have pos- 
 sessed one quality in common. Stoddard's random 
 and lighter lyrics are familiar to magazine readers, 
 with whom the larger efforts of a poet are not 
 greatly in demand. But I commend those who care 
 for high and lasting qualities to an acquaintance 
 with his blank verse, and with sustained lyrics like
 
 BRYANT STODDARD WHITMAN 253 
 
 the odes on Shakespeare and Bryant and Washing- 
 ton, which resemble his blank verse both in artistic 
 perfection and in imagination excelled by no con- 
 temporary poet. Whitman's genius is prodigal and 
 often so elemental, whether dwelling upon whitman's 
 his types of the American people, or upon cosmic mood> 
 nature animate and inanimate in his New World, 
 or upon mysteries of science and the future, that it 
 at times moves one to forego, as passing and ines- 
 sential, any demur to his matter or manner. There 
 is no gainsaying the power of his imagination, a 
 faculty which he indulged, having certainly carried 
 out that early determination to loaf, and invite his 
 soul. His highest mood is even more than elemen- 
 tal ; it is cosmic. In almost the latest poem of this 
 old bard, addressed " To the Sunset Breeze " (one 
 fancies him sitting, like Borrow's blind gypsy, where 
 he can feel the wind from the heath), he thus ex- 
 pressed it : 
 
 " I feel the sky, the prairies vast I feel the mighty northern lakes ; 
 I feel the ocean and the forest somehow I feel the globe itself swift- 
 swimming in space" 
 
 Lanier is another of the American poets distin- 
 guished by imaginative genius. In his Some other 
 case this became more and more impres- poets ' 
 sible by the sense of elemental nature, and perhaps 
 more subtly alert to the infinite variety within the 
 unities of her primary forms. Mrs. Stoddard's 
 poetry, as yet uncollected, is imaginative and origi- 
 nal, the utterance of moods that are only too infre-
 
 254 IMA GIN A TION 
 
 quent. The same may be said of a few poems by Dr. 
 Parsons, from whom we have perhaps the finest of 
 American lyrics, the lines " On a Bust of Dante." 
 There is a nobly elemental strain in Taylor's " Prince 
 Deukalion " and " The Masque of the Gods." I 
 could name several of our younger poets, men and 
 women, and a number of their English compeers, 
 whose work displays imaginative qualities, were it 
 not beyond my province. But many of the new- 
 comers relatively more, perhaps, than in former 
 divisions of this century seem restricted to the 
 neat-trimmed playgrounds of fancy and device ; they 
 deck themselves like pages, rarely venturing from 
 the palace-close into the stately Forest of Dreams. 
 If one should stray down a gloaming vista, and be 
 aided by the powers therein to chance for once upon 
 some fine conception, I fancy him recoiling from his 
 own imagining as from the shadow of a lion. 
 
 Here, then, after the merest glimpse of its aureole, 
 on wings we turn away from the creative imagina- 
 
 above his 
 
 fate upborne, tion : a spirit that attends the poet unbid- 
 den, if at all, and compensates him for neglect and 
 sorrow by giving him the freedom of a clime not 
 recked of by the proud and mighty, and a spiritual 
 wealth "beyond the dreams of avarice." Not all the 
 armor and curios and drapery of a Sybaritic studio 
 can make a painter; no aesthetic mummery, no mas- 
 tery of graceful rhyme and measure, can of them- 
 selves furnish forth a poet. Go rather to Barbizon,
 
 ABOVE FATE AND CHANCE 255 
 
 .' 
 
 and see what pathetic truth and beauty dwell within 
 the humble rooms of Millet's cottage ; go to Ayr, 
 and find the muse's darling beneath a straw-thatched 
 roof ; think what feudal glories came to Chatterton 
 in his garret, what thoughts of fair marble shapes, 
 of casements " innumerable of stains and splendid 
 dyes," lighted up for Keats his borough lodgings. 
 Dor6 was asked, at the flood-tide of his good for- 
 tune, why he did not buy or build a chateau. " Let 
 my patrons do that," he said. " Why should I, who 
 have no need of it ? My chateau is here, behind my 
 forehead." He who owns the wings of imagination 
 shudders on no height ; he is above fate and chance. 
 Its power of vision makes him greater creation, 
 still, for he sees and illuminates every-day life and 
 common things. Its creative gift is divine ; and I 
 can well believe the story told of the greatest and 
 still living Victorian poet, that once, in his college 
 days, he looked deep and earnestly into the suba- 
 queous life of a stream near Cambridge, and was 
 heard to say, "What an imagination God has!" 
 Certainly without it was not anything made that 
 was made, either by the Creator, or by those cre- 
 ated in his likeness. I say " created," but there are 
 times when we think upon the amazing Ye shaii 
 beauty, the complexity, the power and beasGodsir " 
 endurance, of the works of human hands such as, 
 for example, some of the latest architectural deco- 
 rations illuminated by the electric light with splen- 
 dor never conceived of even by an ancestral rhapso-
 
 256 IMA GIN A TION 
 
 dist in his dreams of the New Jerusalem there are 
 moments when results of this sort, suggesting the 
 greater possible results of future artistic and scien- 
 tific effort, give the theory of divinity as absolutely 
 immanent in man a proud significance. We then 
 comprehend the full purport of the Genesitic rec- 
 ord, " Ye shall be as gods." The words of the 
 Psalmist have a startling verity, "I have said, Ye 
 are gods ; and all of you are children of the Most 
 High." We remember that one who declared him- 
 self the direct offspring and very portion of the 
 Unknown Power, and in evidence stood upon his 
 works alone, repeated these words, by inference 
 recognizing a share of Deity within each child of 
 earth. The share allotted to such a mould as 
 Shakespeare's evoked Hartley Coleridge's declara- 
 tion : 
 
 " The soul of man is larger than the sky, 
 Deeper than ocean or the abysmal dark 
 Of the unfathomed centre. . . . 
 So in the compass of the single mind 
 The seeds and pregnant forms in essence lie 
 That make all worlds." 
 
 But what was the old notion of the act of divine 
 The infinite creation ? That which reduced divinity to 
 process. ^e S p r jj- e o f folklore, who by a word, a 
 spell, or the wave of a wand, evoked a city, a person, 
 an army, out of the void. The Deity whom we 
 adore in our generation has taken us into his work- 
 shop. We see that he creates, as we construct,
 
 CREATIVE GIFT DIVINE 
 
 slowly and patiently, through ages and by evolution, 
 one step leading to the next. I reassert, then, that 
 " as far as the poet, the artist, is creative, he be- 
 comes a sharer of the divine imagination and power, 
 and even of the divine responsibility." And I now 
 find this assertion so well supported, that "TWO 
 
 Worlds." By 
 
 I cannot forbear quoting from " A Mid- R - w - cader. 
 summer Meditation " in a recent volume of Ameri- 
 can poetry : 
 
 " Brave conqueror of dull mortality ! 
 Look up and be a part of all thou see'st ; 
 Ocean and earth and miracle of sky, 
 All that thou see'st thou art, and without thee 
 Were nothing. Thou, a god, dost recreate 
 The whole ; breathing thy soul on all, till all 
 Is one wide world made perfect at thy touch. 
 And know that thou, who darest a world create, 
 Art one with the Almighty, son to sire 
 Of his eternity a quenchless spark." 
 
 We have seen that with the poet imagination is 
 the essential key to expression. The incentive. 
 other thing of most worth is that which moves him 
 to expression, the passion of his heart and soul. I 
 close, therefore, by saying that without either of 
 these elements we can have poetry which may seem 
 to you tender, animating, enjoyable, and of value in 
 its way, but without imagination there can be no 
 poetry which is great. Possibly we can have great 
 poetry which is devoid of passion, but great only 
 through its tranquillizing power, through tones that 
 calm and strengthen, yet do not exalt and thrill.
 
 258 IMA GIN A TION 
 
 Such is not the poetry which stirs one to make an 
 avowal like Sir Philip Sidney's : 
 
 "I never heard the old song of Percy and Douglas, that 
 I found not my heart moved more than with a trumpet."
 
 VIII. 
 
 THE FACULTY DIVINE. 
 
 POETIC expression is that of light from a star, our 
 straightest message from the inaccessi- unde aether 
 
 . . sidera pascit ? 
 
 Die human soul. Critics may apply their LWT. 
 spectral analysis to the beam, but without such a 
 process our sympathetic instinct tells us how fine, 
 how rude, how rare or common, are the primal con- 
 stituents from which its vibrations are derived. 
 The heat-rays, the light, the actinic, these may 
 be combined in ever various proportions, but to 
 make a vivid expression they must in some propor- 
 tion come together. Behind the action at their 
 starting-place glows and pulsates a spirit of myste- 
 rious and immortal force, the " vital spark," to com- 
 prehend which were to lay hold upon divinity itself. 
 As to the poet's share of this, Wordsworth, that in- 
 spired schoolmaster with the gift to create a soul 
 under the ribs of pedantry, conceived his impressive 
 title, "the faculty divine." Before approaching 
 more closely to this radiant source, we have to 
 touch upon one remaining element which seems 
 most of all to excite its activity, and to which, in 
 truth, a whole discourse might be devoted as equita- 
 bly as to truth, or beauty, or imagination.
 
 260 THE FACULTY DIVINE 
 
 I have laid stress, heretofore, upon the passion 
 Passion. See which so vivifies all true poetry that cer- 
 
 1 ' 9 ' 49 ' tain thinkers believe the art has no other 
 office than to give emotion vent. And I have just 
 said that, while poetry which is not imaginative can- 
 not be great, the utterance which lacks passion is 
 seldom imaginative. It may tranquillize, but it sel- 
 dom exalts and thrills. Therefore, what is this 
 quality which we recognize as passion in imagina- 
 tive literature ? What does Milton signify, in his 
 masterly tractate on education, by the element of 
 poetry which, as we have seen, he mentions last, as 
 if to emphasize it ? Poetry, he says, is simple, 
 and so is all art at its best ; it is sensuous, and 
 thus related to our mortal perceptions ; lastly, it is 
 passionate, and this, I think, it must be to be 
 genuine. 
 
 In popular usage the word " passion" is almost a 
 Not an synonym for love, and we hear of "poets 
 
 epithet of ' J 
 
 love alone. of passion," votaries of Eros or Anteros, 
 as the case may be. Love has a fair claim to its 
 title of the master passion, despite the arguments 
 made in behalf of friendship and ambition respec- 
 tively, and whether supremacy over human conduct, 
 or its service to the artistic imagination, be the less. 
 Almost every narrative-poem, novel, or drama, what- 
 soever other threads its coil may carry, seems to 
 have love for a central strand. Love has the heart 
 of youth in it, 
 
 " and the heart 
 Giveth grace unto every art."
 
 " SIMPLE SENSUO US PA SSI ON A TE " 26 1 
 
 Love, we know, has brought about historic wars and 
 treaties, has founded dynasties, made and unmade 
 chiefs and cabinets, inspired men to great deeds or 
 lured them to evil : in our own day has led more 
 than one of its subjects to imperil the liberty of a 
 nation, if not to deem, with Dryden's royal pair, "the 
 world well lost." A strenuous passion indeed, and 
 one the force of which pervades imaginative litera- 
 ture. 
 
 But if Milton had used the word "impassioned," 
 his meaning would be plainer to the vul- p ass i on and 
 gar apprehension. Poetic passion is in- Imagma 
 tensity of emotion. Absolute sincerity banishes 
 artifice, ensures earnest and natural expression ; then 
 beauty comes without effort, and the imaginative 
 note is heard. We have the increased stress of 
 breath, the tone, and volume, that sway the listener. 
 You cannot fire his imagination, you cannot rouse 
 your own, in quite cold blood. Profound emotion 
 seems, also, to find the aptest word, the strongest 
 utterance, not the most voluble or spasmodic, 
 and to be content with it. Wordsworth speaks of 
 "thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears," 
 while Mill says that " the poetry of a poet is Feel- 
 ing itself, using thought only as a means of expres- 
 sion." The truth is that passion uses the imagina- 
 tion to supply conceptions for its language. On the 
 other hand, the poet, imagining situations and ex- 
 periences, becomes excited through dwelling on 
 them. But whether passion or imagination be first
 
 262 THE FACULTY DIVINE 
 
 aroused, they speed together like the wind-sired 
 horses of Achilles. 
 
 The mere artisan in verse, however adroit, will do 
 
 Emotion must well to keep within his liberties. Some- 
 be unaffected . /- i /-/- 
 
 and ideal. times you find one affecting the impas- 
 sioned tone. It is a dangerous test. His wings 
 usually melt in the heat of the flame he would ap- 
 proach. Passion has a finer art than that of the 
 aesthete with whom beauty is the sole end. Sappho 
 illustrated this, even among the Greeks, with whom 
 art and passion were one. Keats felt that "the 
 excellence of every art is its intensity, capable of 
 making all disagreeables evaporate, from their being 
 in close relations with beauty and truth." Passion 
 rises above the sensuous, certainly above the merely 
 sensual, or it has no staying power. I heard a wit 
 say of a certain painting that it was " repulsive 
 equally to the artist, the moralist, and the voluptuary." 
 Even in love there must be something ideal, or it is 
 soon outlawed of art. A few of Swinburne's early 
 lyrics, usually classed as erotic, with all their rhyth- 
 mic beauty, are not impassioned. His true genius, 
 his sacred rage, break forth in measures burning 
 with devotion to art, to knowledge, or to liberty. 
 There is more real passion in one of the resonant 
 " Songs before Sunrise " than in all the studiously 
 erotic verse of the period, his own included. 
 
 The idea that poetry is uttered emotion, though 
 now somewhat in abeyance, is on the whole mod- 
 ern. It was distinctive with the romantic school,
 
 PASSION 263 
 
 until the successors of Scott and Byron allied a 
 new and refined tenderness to beauty. Recognition 
 
 pi this force 
 
 The first rush had been that of splendid '"art- 
 barbarians. It is so true that strong natures recog- 
 nize the force of passion, that even Wordsworth, 
 conscious of great moods, was led to confess that 
 " poetry is the spontaneous outflow of powerful 
 feelings," and saved himself by adding that it takes 
 "its origin from emotion recollected in tranquillity." 
 Poets do retain the impressions of rare moments, 
 and express them at their own time. But "the 
 passion of Wordsworth," under which title Wordsworth's 
 
 . emotional 
 
 I have read an ingenious plea for it by Dr. Hmits. 
 Coan, was at its best very serene, and not of a kind 
 to hasten dangerously his heart-beats. Like Goethe, 
 he regarded human nature from without ; further- 
 more, he studied by choice a single class of people, 
 whose sensibilities were not so acute, say what you 
 will, as those of persons wonted to varied and dra- 
 matic experiences. The highest passion of his song 
 was inspired by inanimate nature; it was a tide of 
 exaltation and worship, the yearning of a strong 
 spirit to be at one with the elements. Add to this 
 his occasional notes of feeling : the pathos of love in 
 his thought of Lucy : 
 
 "But she is in her grave, and, oh, 
 The difference to me ! " 
 
 the pathos of broken comradeship in the quatrain : 
 
 " Like clouds that rake the mountain-summits, 
 Or waves that own no curbing hand,
 
 264 THE FACULTY DIVINE 
 
 How fast has brother followed brother 
 From sunshine to the sunless land ! " 
 
 include also his elevated religious and patriotic 
 moods, and we have Wordsworth's none too frequent 
 episodes of intense expression. 
 
 All passion obtains relief by rhythmic utterance 
 The quality * n music or speech ; it is soothed like 
 :Ilng ' Saul in his frenzy by the minstrel harp of 
 David: But the emotion which most usually gives 
 life to poetry is not that of fits of passion, but, as in 
 the verses just quoted, of the universal moods em- 
 braced in the word "feeling." Out of natural feel- 
 ing, one touch of which "makes the whole world 
 kin," come the lyrics and popular verse of all na- 
 tions ; it is the fountain of spontaneous song. Take 
 the poetry of this class from Southern literatures, 
 such as the Italian and Spanish, and you leave only 
 their masterpieces. At first thought, it seems more 
 passionate than our own, and certainly it is more 
 sonorous. But Anglo-Saxon words are deep and 
 strong, although there is a good deal of insularity in 
 the song from " The Princess " : 
 
 " O tell her, Swallow, thou that knowest each, 
 That bright and fierce and fickle is the South, 
 And dark and true and tender is the North." 
 
 If this be so, they should wed indissolubly, for each 
 voices of the must be the other's complement. Scot- 
 heart. t j sn verse i s f u ii O f sentiment, often with 
 
 the added force of pathos. For pure feeling we all
 
 FEELING 265 
 
 carry in our hearts " Auld Lang Syne," "The Land 
 o' the Leal," Mother-well's "Jeanie Morrison," and 
 " My heid is like to rend, Willie." Robert Burns is 
 first and always the poet of natural emotion, and his 
 fame is a steadfast lesson to minstrels that if they 
 wish their fellow-men to feel for and with them, 
 they must themselves have feeling. Only from the 
 depths of a great soul could come the stanzas of 
 "Highland Mary" and "To Mary in Heaven." He 
 touches chords for high and low alike in the unsur- 
 passable " Farewell " : 
 
 " Had we never loved sae kindly, 
 Had we never loved sae blindly, 
 Never met or never parted, 
 We had ne'er been broken-hearted ! " 
 
 His lyrics of joy, ambition, patriotism, are all virile 
 with the feeling of a brave and strong nature. 
 
 English emotional verse is more self-conscious, 
 and often flooded with sentimentalism. Eng]ish 
 Yet Byron's fame rests upon his intensity, sentiment - 
 whether that of magnificent apostrophes, or of his 
 personal poems, among which none is more genuine 
 than his last lyric, written upon completing his 
 thirty-sixth year. In the Victorian period the regard 
 for art has covered sentiment with an aristocratic 
 reserve, but Hood was a poet of emotion in his beau- 
 tiful songs and ballads no less than in " The Bridge 
 of Sighs." 
 
 From the middle register of emotion, poetry rises
 
 266 THE FACULTY DIVINE 
 
 to the supreme, such as that of Shelley's " Lines to 
 an Indian Air," or the more spiritual ecs- 
 
 The ecstasy 
 
 of song. tasv o f hj s invocation to the West Wind: 
 
 " Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is : 
 What if my leaves are falling like its own ! 
 
 The tumult of its mighty harmonies 
 
 Will take from both a deep autumnal tone, 
 
 Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, spirit fierce, 
 My spirit 1 Be thou me, impetuous one ! " 
 
 Of recent English lyrical poets Mrs. Browning is 
 "DasEwig- ne f the most impassioned. Her lips 
 
 were touched with fire ; her songs were 
 magnetic with sympathy, ardor, consecration. But 
 our women poets of the century usually have written 
 from the heart ; none more so than Emma Lazarus, 
 whose early verse had been that of an art-pupil, and 
 who died young, but not before she seized the harp 
 of Judah and made it give out strains that all too 
 briefly renewed the ancient fervor and inspiration. 
 
 Every note of emotion has its varying organ- 
 " Fin all the stops \ religious feeling, for instance, 
 wiTtuneluf whether perfectly allied with music in 
 
 cloistral hymns, or expressed objectively 
 in studies like Tennyson's "St. Agnes" and "Sir 
 Galahad," and Elizabeth Lloyd's " Milton in his 
 Blindness," or rising to the eloquent height of Cole- 
 ridge's Chamouni Hymn. So it is with martial 
 songs and national hymns, from Motherwell's " Cava- 
 lier's Song," and Campbell's " Ye Mariners of Eng- 
 land," to the Marseillaise hymn, to " My Maryland "
 
 THE ORGAN-STOPS OF LIFE 267 
 
 and the " Battle Hymn of the Republic." It is 
 the passion of Lowell's " Memorial Odes " that so 
 lifts their rhythm and argument. With Poe, beauty 
 was a passion, but always hovering with Exquisite 
 strange light above some haunted tomb. ^,rap*ured d 
 Emerson exhibits the intensity of joy as J( 
 he listens to nature's " perfect rune." On the one 
 side we have Poe avowing that the " tone " of the 
 highest manifestations of beauty is one of sadness. 
 "Beauty of whatever kind," he said, "in its supreme 
 development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to 
 tears." This is the key-note-of our romanticism, of 
 which there has been no more sensitive exemplar 
 than Poe, Grecian as he was at times in his sense 
 of form. But far more Grecian, in temper and phi- 
 losophy, was Emerson, who found the poet's royal 
 trait to be his cheerfulness, without which " no man 
 can be a poet, for beauty is his aim. . . . Beauty, 
 the spirit of joy and hilarity, he sheds upon the uni- 
 verse." What diverse interpretations, each a lesson 
 to those who would limit the uncharted range of 
 feeling and art ! Yet it is easy to comprehend what 
 Poe meant, and to confess that mortal joy is less 
 intense of expression than mortal grief. And it was 
 Emerson himself who, in his one outburst Emerson's 
 of sorrow, gave us the most impassioned 
 of American lyrics, the " Threnody " for his lost 
 child, his " hyacinthine boy." This free and 
 noble poem even for its structural beauty, so 
 uncommon in Emerson's work must rank with
 
 268 THE FACULTY DIVINE 
 
 memorable odes. But the poet's faith, thought, im- 
 agination, are all quickened by his sorrow, so that 
 the " Threnody " is one of the most consolatory as 
 well as melodiously ideal elegies in the language. 
 Taken for all in all, Whittier, "our bard and 
 prophet best-beloved," that purely Amer- 
 
 eTJ. lsl cp. i an minstrel, so virginal and so impas- 
 Ameri": sioned, at once the man of peace and the 
 poet militant, is the Sir Galahad of Amer- 
 ican song. He has read the hearts of his own 
 people, and chanted their emotions, and powerfully 
 affected their convictions. His lyrics of freedom 
 and reform, in his own justified language, were 
 "words wrung from the nation's heart, forged at 
 white heat." Longfellow's national poems, with all 
 their finish, cannot rival the natural art of Whit- 
 tier's ; they lack the glow, the earnestness, the in- 
 tense characterization, of such pieces as " Randolph 
 of Roanoke," "Ichabod," and "The Lost Occa- 
 sion." The Quaker bard, besides, no less than 
 Longfellow, is a poet of sympathy. Human feel- 
 ing, derived from real life and environment, is the 
 charm of " Snow-Bound," even more than its abso- 
 lute transcript of nature. Years enough have 
 passed since it was written for us to see that, 
 within its range, it is not inferior to " The Deserted 
 Village," " The Cotter's Saturday Night," and " Tarn 
 O'Shanter." 
 
 Mark Pattison justly declared that " poets of the 
 first order " always have felt that " human action or
 
 BARDS OF PASSION AND OF PAIN 269 
 
 passion " is the highest theme. These are the top- 
 ics of Homer, Dante, Milton, Goethe, Art . sh i ghest 
 Hugo. Dante, while perceiving by the theme ' 
 smiling of the stars, and by the increasing beauty and 
 divineness of Beatrice, that she is translating him 
 to the highest spheres, still clings to his love for the 
 woman. Its blood-red strand connects his Paradise 
 with earth. The Faust-Margaret legend is human 
 to the radiant end. Rossetti's " The Blessed Dam- 
 ozel" idealizes the naTve materialism of The human 
 the cathedral ages. The motive of that element 
 prismatic ballad is the deathless human passion of 
 the sainted maiden. Her arms make warm the bar 
 of Heaven on which she leans, still mortal in her 
 immortality, waiting for the soul of her lover. Such 
 is the poetic instinct that no creature can be finer 
 in quality, however advanced in power, than man 
 himself ; that the emotions of his soul are of the 
 uttermost account. Rossetti was ever an impas- 
 sioned poet, in whom were blended Northern and 
 Italian types. His series of sonnets, "The House 
 of Life," quivers with feeling. Christina Rossetti, 
 his sister, holds her eminence not by the variety and 
 extent of her verse, but for its emotion deep in- 
 wrought. Tennyson's career indicates From youth 
 that the line of advance for a poet is '"vfctorSan' 
 
 . , Poets": 
 
 that of greater intensity; nevertheless, p-4". 
 he has furnished a typical example of the national 
 repugnance to throwing wide the gates of that deep- 
 set but rugged castle, an English heart. His sense
 
 270 THE FACULTY DIVINE 
 
 of beauty and art at first was all in all, although 
 such poems as " Locksley Hall " and " The Sisters " 
 such a line as that from the former, 
 
 " And our spirits rushed together at the touching of the lips," 
 
 showed him capable of taking up the " Harp of 
 Life." Throughout his long idyllic reign, he grew 
 upon the whole more impassioned in thought and 
 dramatic conception, yet the proof of this is not 
 found in his dramas, but in portions of " In Memo- 
 riam," in powerful studies like " Lucretius " and 
 " Rizpah," and in the second part of " Locksley 
 Hall." Great poets confront essentials as they ap- 
 proach their earthly resolution. 
 
 Thus far I have referred only to the emotion of 
 The objective ^he poet's own soul, often the more in- 
 fmpaLsionld tense and specific from its limits of range. 
 The creative masters give us all the hues 
 of life's "dome of many-colored glass," as caught 
 from their interior points of view. What is life but 
 the speech and action of us all, under stress of count- 
 less motives and always of that blind emotion which 
 Schopenhauer termed the World-Will ? It is at the 
 beck of the strong invoker that these modes of 
 feeling come arrayed for action, and not in single 
 spies, but far more various than the passions which 
 Collins's Muse drew around her cell. Such are the 
 throes of Homer's personages within and without 
 the walls of Troy. The intense and natural emo-
 
 MAWS ARMORED SOUL 2/1 
 
 tion of Priam and Achilles, of Hector and Andro- 
 mache and Helen, has made them imperishable. 
 The heroic epics have gone with their ages, and for 
 every romantic and narrative poem we have a hun- 
 dred novels ; but the drama remains, with its range 
 for the display of passion's extreme types. The 
 keen satisfaction we take in an exhibi- See page 103. 
 tion, not of the joy and triumph alone, but of the 
 tragedy, the crime, the failure of lives that ape our 
 own, is not morbid, but elevating. We know by 
 instinct that they are right who declare all passion 
 good per se ; we feel that it is a good servant if a 
 bad master, and bad only when it goes awry, and 
 that the exhibition of its force both enhances and 
 .instructs the force within each soul of us. Again, 
 the poet who broods on human passion Exaltation, 
 and its consequent action attains his highest crea- 
 tive power : he rises, as we say, at each outbreak 
 and crisis, and the actor impersonating his concep- 
 tion must rise accordingly, or disappoint the audi- 
 ence which knows that such culminations are his 
 opportunities, above the realistic level of a well-con- 
 ceived play. More than all, and as I have suggested 
 in a former lecture, the soul looks tran- Intense 
 quilly on, knowing that it, no more than j^Tnc'e'the 
 its prototypes, can be harmed by any mis- worthoflife - 
 chance. " Agonies " are merely " its changes of 
 garments." They are forms of experience. The 
 soul desires all experiences ; to touch this planetary 
 life at all points, to drink not of triumph and delight
 
 2/2 THE FACULTY DIVINE 
 
 alone ; it needs must drain its portion of anguish, 
 failure, wrong. It would set, like the nightingale, 
 its breast against the thorn. Its greatest victory is 
 when it is most agonized. When all is lost, when 
 the dark tower is reached, then Childe Roland 
 dauntless winds his blast upon the slug-horn. Its 
 arms scattered, its armor torn away, the soul, "the 
 victor-victim," slips from mortal encumbrance and 
 soars freer than ever. Victor atque victima> atque 
 ideo victor quia victima. This is the constant lesson 
 of the lyrics and plays and studies of Browning, the 
 most red-blooded and impassioned of modern dra- 
 matic poets ; a wise and great master, whose imagi- 
 nation, if it be less strenuous than his insight and 
 feeling, was yet sufficient to derive from history and 
 experience more types of human passion than have 
 been marshalled by any compeer. I have been struck 
 by a critic's quotation of a passage from Beyle (writ- 
 ten in 1817) which says that, after centuries of arti- 
 ficiality, it must be the office of the coming artist 
 to express "states of soul," that that is what a 
 Michelangelo would do with modern sculpture. In 
 truth the potent artist, the great poet, is he who 
 makes us realize the emotions of those who expe- 
 rience august extremes of fortune. For what can 
 be of more value than intense and memorable sen- 
 sations ? What else make up that history which 
 alone is worth the name of life ? 
 
 The most dramatic effects are often those which 
 indicate suppressed passion that the hounds are
 
 DRAMATIC INTENSITY 273 
 
 ready to slip the leash. These are constantly uti- 
 lized by Browning ; they characterize the Reserved 
 Puritan repression in Hawthorne's ro- pow "- 
 mances and Mrs. Stoddard's novels, and the weird 
 power of Emily Bronte's " Wuthering Heights." In 
 the drama, above all, none but a robustious periwig- 
 pated fellow is expected to " tear a passion to tat- 
 ters." Nor can dramatic heights be of frequent 
 occurrence : they must rise like mountains from a 
 plain to produce their effect, and even then be 
 capped with clouds must have something left un- 
 told. A poem at concert-pitch from first to last is 
 ineffective. See with what relief of commonplace 
 or humor Shakespeare sets off his supreme crises : 
 the banter with Osric before the death of Hamlet ; 
 the potter and babble of the peasant who brings the 
 aspic to Cleopatra. In the silent arts, as in nature, 
 the prevailing mood is equable, and must be caught. 
 The picture on your walls that displays nature in 
 her ordinary mien, and not in a vehement and excep- 
 tional phase, is the one which does not weary you. 
 But poetry, with its time-extension, has Truenatura i_ 
 the freedom of dramatic contrasts of lsm- 
 tranquillity and passion according to nature's own 
 allotment. With this brave advantage, naturalism 
 is ignoble which restricts itself to the ordinary, and 
 is indeed grossly untrue to our life, at times so con- 
 centrated and electric. 
 
 The ideal of dramatic intensity that is, of ima- 
 gined feeling is reached when the expression is as
 
 2/4 THE FACULTY DIVINE 
 
 inevitable as that of a poet's outburst under stress 
 Absolute dra- ^ personal emotion. You are conscious, 
 matic passion. or exam pi e) that one must endure a loss 
 
 as irreparable as that which Cowper bemoaned, be- 
 fore he can realize the pathos and beauty of the 
 monody " On the Receipt of my Mother's Pic- 
 ture": 
 
 " O that those lips had language ! Life has passed 
 With me but roughly since I heard thee last." 
 
 But you also feel, and as strongly, that only one who 
 has been agonized by the final surrender, whether to 
 violence or death, of an adored child, can fully com- 
 prehend that passionate wail of Constance bereft of 
 Arthur : 
 
 " Grief fills the room up of my absent child, 
 Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, 
 Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words, 
 Remembers me of all his gracious parts, 
 Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form ; 
 Then have I reason to be fond of grief." 
 
 Shakespeare's dramas hold the stage, and if his 
 stronger characters are not impersonated so fre- 
 quently as of old, they are still the chief rdles of 
 great actors, and are supported with a fitness of de- 
 tail unattained before. The grand drama, then, is 
 the most efficient form of poetry in an unideal period 
 to conserve a taste for something imaginative and 
 Modem impassioned. But, with a public bred to 
 equanimity. reserve, our new plays and poems on the 
 whole avoid extremes of feeling, which, alike in life
 
 ACTION AND REACTION 2/5 
 
 and literature, are not "good form." What we do 
 accept is society drama, chiefly that which turns 
 upon the Parisian notion of life as it is. But whether 
 the current drama, poetic or otherwise, reflects life 
 as it is, is a question upon which I do not enter. I 
 have referred to the lack of passion in modern 
 poetry. The minor emotions are charmingly, if 
 lightly, expressed. Humor, for instance, is given a 
 play almost Catullian ; and that Mirth is a feeling, 
 if not a passion, is the lyrical justification of some 
 of our felicitous modern song. Many of our poets 
 realize that we have rounded a beautiful but too pro- 
 longed idyllic period ; they amuse themselves with 
 idly touching the strings, while awaiting some new 
 dispensation the stimulus of a motive, the exam- 
 ple of a leader. Emotion cannot be always sus- 
 tained ; there must be intervals of rest. But each 
 generation desires to be moved, to be thrilled ; and 
 they are mistaken who conceive the poetic imagina- 
 tion to be out of date and minstrelsy a foible of the 
 past. 
 
 As it is, we hear much talk, on the part of those 
 observers whose business it is to record Anidleout . 
 the movement of a single day, about the cry- 
 decline of ideality. Whenever one of the elder lu- 
 minaries goes out, the cry is raised, Who will there 
 be to take his place ? What lights will be left when 
 the constellation of which he was a star shall have 
 vanished ? The same cry has gone up from every 
 generation in all eras. Those who utter it are like
 
 276 THE FACULTY DIVINE 
 
 water-beetles perceiving only the ripples, compre- 
 hending little of the great waves of thought and 
 expression, upon which we are borne along. The 
 truth is that, alike in savagery and civilization, there 
 never is a change from stagnation to life, from bond- 
 age to freedom, from apathy to feeling and passion, 
 that does not beget its poets. At such a period we 
 have the making of new names in sang, as surely as 
 deeds and fame in great wars come to men unknown 
 before. It is true that the greatest compositions, in 
 all the arts, are usually produced at culminating 
 epochs of national development. But the period of 
 that eminent group, the " elder American poets," 
 surely has not been that of our full development. 
 Theirs has been the first inspiring rise of the foot- 
 hills, above which after a stretch of mesa, or even 
 a slight descent range upon range are still to rise 
 before we reach that culminating sierra-top whose 
 height none yet can measure. Throughout this 
 mountain-climbing, every time that a glowing and 
 original poet appears, his art will be in vogue again. 
 
 Now, is such a poet the child of his period, or 
 does he come as if by warrant and create 
 
 When comes * 
 
 the poet. an environment for himself? From the 
 first it seemed to me a flaw in the armor of Taine, 
 otherwise our most catholic exponent of the princi- 
 ples of art, that he did not allow for the irrepressi- 
 bleness of genius, for the historic evidence that now 
 and then "God lets loose a man in the world." Such
 
 GENIUS 277 
 
 a man, it is true, must be of ingrained power to over- 
 come an adverse situation ; his very originality will 
 for a long time, as in the recent cases of Words- 
 worth and Browning, stand in his way, even if in 
 the end it secures for him a far more exceeding 
 crown of glory. If the situation is ripe for him, 
 then his course is smooth, his work is instantly 
 recognizable. First, then, the poet is needed. He 
 must possess, besides imaginative and emotional en- 
 dowments, the special gifts which, how- TheFacult 
 ever cultivable, come only at birth " the Divine ' 
 vision and the faculty divine," and a certain strong 
 compulsion to their exercise. But these gifts, under 
 such compulsion, constitute what we mean by the 
 poet's genius. 
 
 In our age of distributed culture, it has become 
 a matter of doubt even among men Genius . 
 reared upon the Shorter Catechism ?h?id 
 whether there is any predestination and 8' ftofGod -" 
 foreordination of the elect in art, literature, or ac- 
 tion. Many deem this a superstition which has too 
 long prevailed. That it has impressed mankind 
 everywhere and always is a matter of record. I 
 have much faith in a universal instinct ; and I be- 
 lieve that I still have with me the majority even of 
 modern realists, and that the majority is right, in 
 refusing to discredit the gift of high and exceptional 
 qualities to individuals predestined by heredity or 
 otherwise, and I believe that without this gift 
 traditionally called genius no poet has afforded
 
 2/8 THE FACULTY DIVINE 
 
 notable delight and service. I know that, men of 
 genius often waive their claim ; that Buffon said 
 genius was "but long -continued patience"; that 
 Carlyle wrote, it " means transcendent capacity for 
 taking trouble, first of all " ; that one eminent mod- 
 ern writer, though in a passing mood, announced : 
 " There is no ' genius ' ; there is only the mastery 
 which comes to natural aptitude from the hardest 
 study of any art or science." But these are the 
 surmises of men whose most original work comes 
 from them so easily that they do not recognize the 
 value of the gift that makes it natural. They hon- 
 estly lay more stress upon the merit of the hard 
 labor which genius unconsciously drives them to 
 undertake. I say "drives them," and call to mind 
 Lowell's acute distinction : " Talent is that which is 
 in a man's power ; genius is that in whose power a 
 man is." Carlyle's whole career proves that he sim- 
 ply wished to recognize the office laid upon genius 
 of taking " infinite trouble." His prevailing tone is 
 unmistakable: "Genius," he says, "is the inspired 
 gift of God." " It is the clearer presence of God 
 Most High in a man;" and again, "Genius, Poet, do 
 we know what those words mean ? An inspired 
 Soul once more vouchsafed to us, direct from Na- 
 ture's own fire-heat, to see the Truth, and speak it, 
 or do it." His whole philosophy of sway by divine 
 right is a genius-worship. Even Mr. Howells's 
 phrase, "natural aptitude," if raised to the highest 
 power, is a recognition of something behind mere
 
 TALENT 279 
 
 industry. It is what forces the hero, the artist, the 
 poet, to be absorbed in a special office, and decides 
 his choice of it. 1 
 
 The world is equipped with steadfast workers 
 whose natural taste and courageous, stren- Talent and 
 
 executive 
 
 uous labor do not lift them quite above service, 
 the mediocre. The difference between these, the 
 serviceable rank and file, and the originative leaders, 
 is one of kind, not of degree. However admirable 
 their skill and service in time become, they do not 
 get far apart from impressions common to us all. 
 We cannot dispense with their army in executive 
 and mechanical fields of action. It is a question 
 whether they are so essential to arts of taste and 
 investigation ; to philosophy, painting, music ; to 
 the creative arts of the novelist and poet. But with 
 respect to these, it would be most unjust to con- 
 found them with the upstarts whose condign sup- 
 
 1 Nothing of late has seemed apter than a criticism of the Saturday 
 Review upon certain outgivings of the academicians, Sir Frederick 
 Leighton and Sir John Millais, quite in the line of the industrial theory 
 from which the present writer is dissenting. The reviewer, comment- 
 ing upon these didactic paradoxes, asserts that all the truth which is 
 in them amounts to just this : " That the intuitive perceptions and 
 rapidity of combination which constitute genius, whether in action or 
 speculation, in scientific discovery or inventive art or imaginative 
 creation, open out so many new problems and ideas as to involve in 
 their adjustment and development the most arduous labor and the 
 most unwearied patience. But without the primal perception the 
 labor will be vanity and the patience akin to despair. Perhaps it is 
 important to keep in mind that labor without the appropriate capacity 
 is even more fruitless than aptitude without industry."
 
 280 THE FACULTY DIVINE 
 
 pression is a desirable thing for both the public and 
 themselves, claimants really possessed of less than 
 Pretension. ordinary sense. Such is the fool of the 
 family who sets up for a "genius" ; the weakling of 
 the borough, incapable of practical work, or too lazy 
 to follow it, but with a fondness for fine things and 
 a knack of imitating them. S.uch are the gadflies of 
 every art, pertinaciously forcing themselves upon 
 attention, and lowering their assumed crafts in the 
 esteem of a community. 
 
 It is wise to discriminate, also, between genius 
 Taste as anc * natura ^ fineness of taste. The latter, 
 from"frtistic d joined with equally natural ambition, has 
 gemus. made many a life unhappy that had pecu- 
 
 liar opportunities for delight. For surely it is a 
 precious thing to discern and enjoy the beautiful. 
 Taste in art, in selection, in conduct, is the charm 
 that makes for true aristocracy, a gift unspoiled but 
 rather advanced by gentle breeding, a grace in man, 
 and adorable in woman ; it is something to rest con- 
 tent with, the happier inasmuch as you add to the 
 happiness of others. It is the nimbus of many 
 a household, beautifying the speech and bearing of 
 the members, who, if they are wise, realize that 
 their chief compensation is a more tranquil study 
 and possession of the beautiful than the fates allot 
 to those who create it. Hephaistos, the grim, sooty, 
 halt artificer of all things fair, found small comfort 
 even in the possession of Aphrodite, the goddess who 
 inspired him. The secret of happiness, for a refined
 
 TA STE EN DO WMENT 28 1 
 
 nature, is a just measure of limitations. Taste is 
 not always original, creative. There are no more 
 pathetic lives than the lives of those who know and 
 love the beautiful, and who surrender its enjoyment 
 in a vain struggle to produce it. Their failures 
 react upon finely sensitive natures, and often end in 
 sadness, even misanthropy, and disillusionment when 
 the best of life is over. 
 
 Men of talent and experience do learn to concen- 
 trate their powers on certain occasions, Fortunate 
 and surprise us with strokes like those of moments - 
 genius. That is where they write " better than 
 they can," as our Autocrat so cleverly has put it. 
 But such efforts are exhausting and briefly sus- 
 tained. I know it is said that genius also expires 
 when its work is done ; but who is to measure its 
 reservoir of force, or to gauge the unseen current 
 which replenishes it ? 
 
 That there is something which comes without 
 effort, yet impels its possessor to heroic Congenita i 
 labor, is immemorially verified. 1 It whis- gift- 
 pered melodies to Mozart almost in his boyhood, 
 made him a composer at five, at seven the author 
 of an opus, four sonatas for piano and violin ; and it 
 so drew him on to victorious industry, that he as- 
 serted in after life : "No one has taken such pains 
 with the study of composition as I ! " It made the 
 
 1 The cases of Mozart and Dickens, with others equally notable, 
 were cited by the writer in an extended paper on Genius, which was 
 published several years ago.
 
 282 THE FACULTY DIVINE 
 
 child Clairon, as she refused to learn to sew, cry 
 out under brutal punishment : " Kill me ! You had 
 better do so, for if you don't I shall be an actress ! " 
 Dickens declared that he did not invent his work : 
 "I see it," he said, "and write it down." 1 Sidney 
 Lanier, in nervous crises, would seem to hear rich 
 music. It was an inherited gift. Thus equipped 
 with a rhythmical sense beyond that of other poets, 
 he turned to poetry as to the supreme art. Now, 
 the finer and more complex the gift, the longer exer- 
 cise is needful for its full mastery. He strove to 
 make poetry do what painting has done better, and 
 to make it do what only music hitherto has done. 
 If he could have lived three lives, he would have 
 adjusted the relations of these arts as far as possible 
 to his own satisfaction. I regard his work, striking 
 as it is, as merely tentative from his own point of 
 view. It was as if a discoverer should sail far enough 
 to meet the floating rock-weed, the strayed birds, 
 the changed skies, that betoken land ahead ; should 
 even catch a breath of fragrance wafted from out- 
 
 1 Hartmann's scientific definition, which I cited in a former lecture, 
 " Genius is the activity and efflux of the intellect freed from the 
 domination of the conscious Will," finds its counterpart in the state- 
 ment by F. W. H. Myers, concerning the action of the " Subliminal 
 Consciousness." This, Mr. Myers says, has to do with "the initiation 
 and control of organic processes, which the conscious will cannot 
 reach. . . . Perhaps we seldom give the name of genius to any piece 
 of work into which some uprush of subliminal faculty has not 
 entered." (See the Journal of the Society for Psychical Research, 
 February, 1892.)
 
 ORIGINALITY 283 
 
 lying isles, and then find his bark sinking in the 
 waves before he could have sight of the promised 
 continent. 
 
 In our day, when talent is so highly skilled and 
 industry so habitual, people detect the originality, 
 genius of a poet or tale-writer through its original- 
 ity, perhaps first of all. It has a different note, even 
 in the formative and imitative period, and it soon 
 has a different message, perhaps one from a new 
 field. The note is its style ; the message involves 
 an exhibition of creative power. Genius does not 
 borrow its main conceptions. As I have said, it re- 
 veals a more or less populous world of which it is 
 the maker and showman. Here it rises above taste, 
 furnishing new conditions, to the study of which 
 taste may profitably apply itself. It is neither pas- 
 sion nor imagination, but it takes on the one and 
 makes a language of the other. Genius T ransfigura- 
 of the universal kind is never greater tlon ' 
 than in imparting the highest interest to good and 
 ordinary and admirable characters ; while a limited 
 faculty can design only vicious or eccentric person- 
 ages effectively, depending on their dramatic villainy 
 or their grotesqueness for a hold upon our interest. 
 V6ron has pointed out this inferiority of Balzac and 
 Dickens to Shakespeare and Moliere and he might 
 have added, to Thackeray also. In another way the 
 genius of many poets is limited, that of Rossetti, 
 of Poe, for example, poets of few, though striking, 
 tones and of isolated temperaments. Genius of the
 
 284 THE FACULTY DIVINE 
 
 more universal type is marked by a sound and healthy 
 Sanity. judgment. You may dismiss with small 
 
 respect the notion of Fairfield, Lombroso, and their 
 like, that genius is the symptom of neurotic disorder 
 that all who exhibit it are more or less mad. This 
 generalization involves a misconception of the term ; 
 they apply it to the abnormal excess, the morbid 
 action, of a special faculty, while true genius con- 
 sists in the creative gift of one or more faculties at 
 the highest, sustained by the sane cooperation of 
 the possessor's other physical and mental endow- 
 wisdom. ments. Again, what we term common 
 sense is the genius of man as a race, the best of 
 sense because the least ratiocinative. Nearly every 
 man has thus a spark of genius in the conduct of 
 life. A just balance between instinct, or under- 
 standing, and reason, or intellectual method, is true 
 wisdom. It requires years for a man of constructive 
 talent a writer who forms his plans in advance 
 for such a man to learn to be flexible, to be obedient 
 to his sudden intuitions and to modify his design 
 obedience to accordingly. You will usually do well to 
 the vision. follow a clew that comes to you in the 
 heat of work in fact, to lay aside for the mo- 
 ment the part which you had designed to complete 
 at once, and to lay hold of the new matter before 
 that escapes you. The old oracle, Follow thy 
 Spontaneity, genius, holds good in every walk of life. 
 Everything, then, goes to show that genius is that 
 force of the soul which works at its own seemingly
 
 HEAL TH SPONTANEITY INSIGHT 285 
 
 capricious will and season, and without conscious 
 effort ; that its utterances declare what is learned 
 by spiritual and involuntary discovery : 
 
 " Vainly, O burning Poets ! 
 Ye wait for his inspiration, 
 Even as kings of old 
 Stood by Apollo's gates. 
 Hasten back, he will say, hasten back 
 To your provinces far away ! 
 There, at my own good time. 
 Will I send my annver to you." 
 
 Yes, the spontaneity of conception, which alone 
 gives worth to poetry, is a kind of revela- Revelation 
 tion the imagery of what genius per- iwfeft. 
 ceives by Insight. This sense has little to do with 
 reason and induction ; it is the inward light of the 
 Quaker, the a priori guess of the scientist, the pro- 
 phetic vision of the poet, the mystic, the seer. If it 
 be direct vision, it should be incontrovertible. In 
 occult tradition the higher angels, types of absolute 
 spirit, were thought to know all things by this pure 
 illumination : 
 
 " There, on bright hovering wings that tire 
 
 Never, they rest them mute, 
 
 Nor of far journeys have desire, 
 
 Nor of the deathless fruit ; 
 
 For in and through each angel soul 
 All waves of life and knowledge roll, 
 Even as to nadir streams the fire 
 Of their torches resolute."
 
 286 THE FACULTY DIVINE 
 
 While this is a bit of Preraphaelite mosaic, it is not 
 too much to say of the essentially poetic soul that at 
 times it becomes, in Henry More's language, 
 
 " One orb of sense, all eye, all airy ear ; " 
 
 that it seems to have bathed, like Ayesha, in central 
 and eternal flame ; or, after some preexistence, to 
 have undergone the lustration to which, in the sixth 
 ^Eneid, we find the beclouded spirits subjected : 
 
 " Donee longa dies, perfecto temporis orbe, 
 Concretam exemit labem, purumque relinquit 
 Aetherium sensum atque aurai simplicis ignem." 1 
 
 At such times its conclusions are as much more in- 
 fallible than those worked out by logic as is the off- 
 hand pistol-shot of the expert, whose weapon has 
 become a part of his hand, than the sight taken 
 along the barrel. It makes the leopard's leap, with- 
 out reflection and without miss. I think it was 
 Leigh Hunt who pointed out that feeling rarely 
 makes the blunders which thought makes. Applied 
 to life, we know that woman's intuition is often wiser 
 than man's wit. 
 
 The clearness of the poet's or artist's vision is so 
 The artist's much beyond his skill to reproduce it, 
 
 noble dis- . . , 
 
 content. and so increases with each advance, that 
 
 he never quite contents himself with his work. 
 
 i < -pill Time's great cycle of long years complete 
 
 Clears the fixed taint, and leaves the ethereal sense 
 Pure, a bright flame of unmixed heavenly air." 
 
 Crunch's Translation.
 
 1NSP1RA TION 287 
 
 Hence the ceaseless unrest and dissatisfaction of 
 the best workman. His ideal is constantly out of 
 reach, a "lithe, perpetual escape." 
 
 From the poet's inadequate attempts at expres- 
 sion countless myths and faulty statements have 
 originated. Still, he keeps in the van of discovery, 
 and has been prophetic in almost every kind of 
 knowledge, evolution not excepted, and from 
 time immemorial in affairs that constitute history. 
 This gave rise, from the first, to a belief in the 
 direct inspiration of genius. Insight de- inspiration, 
 rives, indeed, the force of inspiration from the 
 sense that a mandate of utterance is laid upon it. 
 To the ancients this seemed the audible command 
 of deity. " The word of the Lord came unto me, 
 saying," " Thus saith the Lord unto me," " So 
 the spirit lifted me up and took me away, and I 
 went in bitterness, in the heat of my spirit, but the 
 hand of the Lord was strong upon me," such 
 were the avowals of one of the greatest poets of all 
 time. The vision of Ezekiel and the compulsion to 
 declare it have been the inspiration of Theprophet 5 C 
 the prophetic bard, of the impassioned gift- 
 lyric poet, almost to our own day. His time has 
 passed. We cannot have, we do not need, another 
 Ezekiel, another Dante or Milton. Hugo, the last 
 Vates, was the most self-conscious, and his own 
 deity. A vision of the wisdom and beauty of art 
 has inspired much of the superior poetry of recent 
 times. A few prophetic utterances have been heard,
 
 288 THE FACULTY DIVINE 
 
 evoked in some struggle of humanity, some battle 
 for liberty of belief or nationality or conduct. Yet 
 I doubt not that, whenever a great cause is in pro- 
 gress, before its culminating triumph, rather than 
 after, it will have its impassioned and heroic min- 
 strelsy. The occasion will seek out and inspire its 
 poet. 
 
 But he must believe in his prophecy, and as 
 indispensa- something greater than himself, though 
 biiuy of Faith. indomitably believing in himself as the 
 
 one appointed to declare it. Reflecting upon the 
 lack of originality, of power, of what we may con- 
 sider tokens of inspiration, in so much of our most 
 beautiful latter-day song, I suspect that it is not due 
 alone to the diversion of effort in many new fields 
 of action and expression, but also to a general doubt 
 of the force and import of this chief art of expres- 
 sion, even to the modern poet's own distrust in 
 its significance. The higher his gift and training, 
 the more he seems affected by the pleasant cynicism 
 which renders him afraid, above all, of taking him- 
 self and his craft " too seriously." This phrase 
 itself is the kind of chaff which he most dreads to 
 incur. Now, I have just spoken of the wisdom of 
 recognizing one's limitations, but if one has proved 
 that he has a rare poetic gift, I think that he 
 scarcely can take it and himself too seriously. The 
 poets of our language and time who have gained the 
 most distinction such as Tennyson, Browning,
 
 FAITH 289 
 
 Longfellow, Arnold, Emerson have taken them- 
 selves very seriously indeed ; have refused to go 
 after strange gods, and have done little but to make 
 poetry or to consider matters demanding the higher 
 exercise of thought and ideality. Doubtless poets 
 are born nowadays as heretofore, though nature out 
 of her " fifty seeds " may elect to bring not even 
 " one to bear." But some who exhibit the most 
 command of their art, and in truth a genuine faculty, 
 are very shy of venturing beyond the grace and hu- 
 mor and tenderness of holiday song. 
 
 I think that such a condition might be expected 
 to exist during the unsettled stage of con- cynicism, 
 viction now affecting our purpose and imagination. 
 There is no lack of desire for a motive, but an honest 
 lack of motive, a questioning whether anything is 
 worth while, a vague envy, perhaps, of the superb 
 optimism of our scientific brethren, to whom the 
 material world is unveiling its splendors as never 
 before, and to whom, as they progress so steadfastly, 
 everything seems worth while. 
 
 I remember an impressive lyric, perhaps the finest 
 thing by a certain American writer. Its title, " What 
 is the Use?" was also the burden of his song. He 
 took his own refrain so much to heart that, although 
 he still lives according to its philosophy, there are 
 only a few of us who pay meet honor to him as a 
 poet. 
 
 Distinction ever has been achieved through some 
 form of faith, and even the lesser poets have won
 
 290 THE FACULTY DIVINE 
 
 their respective measures of success, other things 
 Faith of some being equal, in proportion to their amount 
 
 kind the stay 
 
 of aii true art. of trust in certain convictions as to their 
 art, themselves, and " the use of it all." The serene 
 forms of faith in deity, justice, nationality, religion, 
 human nature, which have characterized men of the 
 highest rank, are familiar to you. Such faiths have 
 been an instinct with sovereign natures, from the 
 Hebraic sense of a sublime Presence to the polemic 
 belief of Bunyan and Milton. Homer cheerfully 
 recognizes the high gods as the inspirers and regu- 
 lators of all human action. Dante's faith in the 
 ultimate union of perfect beauty and perfect holi- 
 ness was intense, and his conviction in the doom of 
 the ignoble was so absolute that he felt himself com- 
 missioned to pronounce and execute it. Shake- 
 speare made no question of the divinity that doth 
 hedge a king ; he believed in institutions, in sover- 
 eignty, in the English race. His tranquil accept- 
 ance of the existing order of things had no later 
 parallel until the century of Goethe and Emerson 
 and Browning. Byron and Shelley invoked political 
 and religious liberty, and believed in their own cru- 
 sade against Philistia. Hugo and his band were 
 leaders in a lifelong cause ; they carried a banner 
 with " Death to tradition " upon it. The underly- 
 ing motive of all strenuous and enthusiastic move- 
 ment, in art or poetry, is faith. Gautier and Musset 
 concerned themselves with beauty and romantic pas- 
 sion ; Clough and Arnold, with philosophy and feel-
 
 FAITH'S MASTERPIECE 291 
 
 ing : all were poets and knights-errant according to 
 their respective tempers and nationalities. And so 
 we might go on indefinitely, without invalidating the 
 statement that some kind of faith, with its resulting 
 purpose, has engendered all poetry that is notewor- 
 thy for beauty or power. True art, of every class, 
 thrives in an affirmative and motive-breeding atmos- 
 phere. It is not the product of cynicism, pessi- 
 mism, or hopeless doubt. I do not mean " the hon- 
 est doubt " which Tennyson sets above " half the 
 creeds." The insatiate quest for light is nobler than 
 a satisfied possession of the light we have. The 
 scientific unsettlement of tradition is building up a 
 faith that we are obtaining a new revelation, or, at 
 least, opening our eyes to a continuous one. 
 
 But without surmising what stimulants to imagi- 
 native expression may be afforded here- A crowning 
 
 ..... . masterpiece of 
 
 after, let me refer to a single illustration faith, 
 of the creative faith of the poet. For centuries all 
 that was great in the art and poetry of Christendom 
 grew out of that faith. What seems to me its most 
 poetic, as well as most enduring, written product, is 
 not, as you might suppose, the masterpiece of a sin- 
 gle mind, the " Divina Commedia," for instance, 
 but the outcome of centuries, the expression of 
 many human souls, even of various peoples and 
 races. Upon its literary and constructive side, I re- 
 gard the venerable Liturgy of the historic The church 
 Christian Church as one of the few world- Llturgy - 
 poems, the poems universal. I care not which of
 
 2Q2 THE FACULTY DIVINE 
 
 its rituals you follow, the Oriental, the Alexandrian, 
 the Latin, or the Anglican. The latter, that of an 
 Episcopal Prayer-Book, is a version familiar to you 
 of what seems to me the most wonderful symphonic 
 idealization of human faith, certainly the most in- 
 clusive, blending in harmonic succession all the cries 
 and longings and laudations of the universal human 
 heart invoking a paternal Creator. 
 
 I am not considering here this Liturgy as divine, 
 its universal though much of it is derived from what 
 quality. multitudes accept for revelation. I have 
 
 in mind its human quality ; the mystic tide of human 
 hope, imagination, prayer, sorrows, and passionate 
 expression, upon which it bears the worshipper along, 
 and wherewith it has sustained men's souls with 
 conceptions of deity and immortality, throughout 
 hundreds, yes, thousands, of undoubting years. The 
 Orient and Occident have enriched it with their 
 finest and strongest utterances, have worked it over 
 and over, have stricken from it what was against the 
 consistency of its import and beauty. It has been 
 A growth. a growth, an exhalation, an apocalyptic 
 cloud arisen " with the prayers of the saints " from 
 climes of the Hebrew, the Greek, the Roman, the 
 Goth, to spread in time over half the world. It is 
 The voice the voice of human brotherhood, the 
 
 of human 
 
 brotherhood, blended voice of rich and poor, old and 
 young, the wise and the simple, the statesman and 
 the clown ; the brotherhood of an age which, know- 
 ing little, comprehending little, could have no refuge
 
 " THE CRY OF THE HUMAN" 293 
 
 save trust in the oracles through which a just and 
 merciful Protector, a pervading Spirit, a living Medi- 
 ator and Consoler, had been revealed. This being 
 its nature, and as the crowning masterpiece of faith, 
 you find that in various and constructive beauty 
 as a work of poetic art it is unparalleled. It is 
 lyrical from first to last with perfect and i ts symphonic 
 melodious forms of human speech. Its perl 
 chants and anthems, its songs of praise and hope 
 and sorrow, have allied to themselves impressive 
 music from the originative and immemorial past, 
 and the enthralling strains of its inheritors. Its 
 prayers are not only for all sorts and conditions of 
 men, but for every stress of life which mankind 
 must feel in common in the household, or isolated, 
 or in tribal and national effort, and in calamity and 
 repentance and thanksgiving. Its wisdom is forever 
 old and perpetually new ; its calendar celebrates all 
 seasons of the rolling year ; its narrative is of the 
 simplest, the most pathetic, the most rapturous, and 
 most ennobling life the world has known. There is 
 no malefactor so wretched, no just man so perfect, 
 as not to find his hope, his consolation, his lesson, 
 in this poem of poems. I have called it lyrical ; it 
 is dramatic in structure and effect ; it is an epic of 
 the age of faith ; but in fact, as a piece of without a 
 inclusive literature, it has no counterpart, paral 
 and can have no successor. Time and again some 
 organization for worship and instruction, building 
 its foundations upon reason rather than on faith, has
 
 294 THE FACULTY DIVINE 
 
 tried to form some ritual of which it felt the need. 
 But such a poem of earth and heaven is not to be 
 made deliberately. The sincere agnostic must be 
 content with his not inglorious isolation ; he must 
 barter the rapture and beauty and hope of such a lit- 
 urgy for his faith in something different, something 
 compensatory, perchance a future and still more 
 world-wide brotherhood of men. 
 
 Until this new faith, or some fresh interpretation 
 Tenebrae. of past belief, becomes vital in action, be- 
 comes more operative, the highest flight of poetry 
 will be timidly essayed. The songs of those who 
 are crying, " They have taken away my Lord, and I 
 know nofwhere they have laid him ! " will be little 
 else than tenebrae cries out of the darkness, im- 
 passioned, it may be, but hardly forceful or creative. 
 Arnold and ^ have spoken of Arnold and Clough, the 
 conspicuously honest, noble, intellectual 
 poets of the transition period. Just as far as their 
 faith extended, their verse rests firmly in art and 
 beauty, love, and nobility of purpose. But much of 
 it comes from troubled hearts ; its limits are indi- 
 cated by a spirit of unrest limits which Arnold 
 was too sure and fine a self -critic not to perceive ; 
 so that, after he had reached them, which was not 
 until he had given us enduring verse, and shown 
 how elevated was his gift, he ceased to sing, and 
 set himself resolutely to face the causes of his un- 
 rest, and to hasten, through his prose investigations,
 
 DOUBT BEFORE DA WN 295 
 
 the movement toward some new dawn of knowledge- 
 brightened faith. 
 
 A few verses from his " Dover Beach " are in the 
 key of several of his most touching lyrics, The troubled 
 in the varying measure so peculiarly heart> 
 his own, utterances of a feeling which in the end 
 seems to have led him to forego his career as a poet : 
 "The sea of faith," he plains, 
 
 " Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore 
 Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furl'd. 
 But now I only hear 
 Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, 
 Retreating, to the breath 
 Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear 
 And naked shingles of the world. 
 
 " Ah, love, let us be true 
 To one another ! for the world, which seems 
 To lie before us like a land of dreams, 
 So various, so beautiful, so new, 
 Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, 
 Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain ; 
 And we are here as on a darkling plain 
 Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, 
 Where ignorant armies clash by night." 
 
 Doubtless Arnold's reserve intensified this sad- 
 ness. Clough equally felt the perturbed spirit of 
 his time ; but he had a refuge in a bracing zest for 
 life and nature, which so often made the world seem 
 good to him, and not designed for naught. 
 
 In time our poets will acquire, with the new learn- 
 ing and the more humane and critical The new day. 
 theology, the health and optimism in which a note-
 
 296 THE FACULTY DIVINE 
 
 worthy art must originate if at all. As for the new 
 learning 
 
 " Say, has the iris of the murmuring shell 
 A charm the less because we know full well 
 Sweet Nature's trick ? Is Music's dying fall 
 Less finely blent with strains antiphonal 
 Because within a harp's quick vibratings 
 We count the tremor of the spirit's wings ? 
 There is a path by Science yet untrod 
 Where with closed eyes we walk to find out God. 
 Still, still, the unattained ideal lures, 
 The spell evades, the splendor yet endures ; 
 False sang the poet, there is no good in rest, 
 And Truth still leads us to a deeper quest." 
 
 For one, I believe that the best age of imaginative 
 production is not past; that poetry is to retain, as of 
 old, its literary import, and from time to time to 
 prove itself a force in national life ; that the Con- 
 cord optimist and poet was sane in declaring that 
 "the arts, as we know them, are but initial," that 
 "sooner or later that which is now life shall be 
 poetry, and every fair and manly trait shall add a 
 richer strain to the song." 
 
 And now, after all that has been said in our con- 
 Thoughtsin sideration of the nature of poetry, and al- 
 conciusion. t h ou gh this has been restricted closely to 
 its primal elements, I am sensible of having merely 
 touched upon an inexhaustible theme ; that my com- 
 ments have been only " words along the way." 
 Meanwhile the press teems with criticism, our time
 
 A PARTING WORD 297 
 
 is alert with debate in countless private and public 
 assemblies respecting almost every verse of all re- 
 nowned poets, ancient or contemporary ; texts and 
 editions, even if relatively less in number compared 
 with the varied mass of publications, are multiplied 
 as never before, and readers say what you may 
 are tenfold as many as in the prime of the elder 
 American minstrels. The study of poetry has stim- 
 ulated other literary researches. Yet the best thing 
 that I or any one can say to you under these con- 
 ditions is that a breath of true poetry is worth a 
 breeze of comment ; that one must in the end make 
 his own acquaintance with its examples and form his 
 judgment of them. Read the best ; not the imita- 
 tions of imitations. Each of you will find that with 
 which he himself is most in touch, and therewith a 
 motive and a legend petere altiora. The poet's 
 verse is more than all the learned scholia upon it. 
 He makes it by direct warrant ; he produces, and we 
 stand by and often too complacently measure his 
 productions. In no wise can I forget that we are 
 regarding even the lowliest poets from our still 
 lower station ; we are like earth-dwellers viewing, 
 comparing, mapping out the stars. Whatsoever 
 their shortcomings, their gift is their own ; they 
 bring music and delight and inspiration. A singer 
 may fail in this or that, but when he dies the charm 
 of his distinctive voice is gone forever.
 
 ANALYTICAL INDEX
 
 ANALYTICAL INDEX 
 
 ACADEMIC, THE, revolts against, 
 and rise of new schools, 148, 
 150, 151 ; cause of its despo- 
 tism, 1 57 ; value of its stan- 
 dards, 159; Sir Joshua Rey- 
 nolds, 161, 162. 
 
 Action, of the drama, 105 ; de- 
 fended by Arnold, 133 ; as the 
 poet's theme, 268. 
 
 Actor, the, 271. 
 
 Adam Bede, Mrs. Cross, 137. 
 
 Addison, 101, 250. 
 
 " Adonais," Shelley, 90, 124. 
 
 Mneid, The, Vergil, 91-93, 212, 
 286. 
 
 yEschylus and the Greek drama, 
 98,99 ; and see 46, 169, 240, 251. 
 
 jEstheticism, less artistic than 
 emotion, 262. 
 
 ./Esthetics, Poe on Beauty and 
 Taste, 26 ; Berkeleian theory of, 
 148, 149 ; Veron, in his L'&s- 
 thetique, 152, 157 ; and see 
 Beauty and Taste. 
 
 Affectation of feeling, 262. 
 
 " Agincourt," Drayton, 94. 
 
 Agnosticism, the sincere, 294. 
 
 Alastor, Shelley, 124. 
 
 Alcaeus, 87. 
 
 Alcestis, Euripides, 99. 
 
 Alexandrian Library, 168. 
 
 Alexandrian Period, the Sicilian 
 style, 89, 90. 
 
 Alfieri, 128, 133. 
 
 Allegory, of Dante, Spencer, and 
 Bunyan, 114; and see 249. 
 
 America, theory of her institu- 
 tions, 3 ; American quality 
 should pervade our native po- 
 etry and sculpture, 200 ; now 
 on trial, 229. 
 
 American Poetry, Longfellow and 
 his mission, 91 ; its fidelity to 
 Nature, 195; its "elemental" 
 feeling, 252-254 ; Whittier and 
 Longfellow, 268; the "elder 
 American poets," 276, 297 ; and 
 see 225, 242. 
 
 American School. See American 
 Poetry. 
 
 Amiel, 135; quoted, 196. 
 
 Anacreon, 93. 
 
 Analytic Poetry, Browning, 108 ; 
 Browning's method compared 
 with Shakespeare's, etc., 191, 
 192 ; and see 80. 
 
 Ancient Mariner, The Rime of the, 
 Coleridge, 81, 125. 
 
 Anna Karfnina, Tolstoi, 137. 
 
 Anthology, the Greek, 88, 169, 
 183; the Latin, 92. 
 
 Anthropomorphism, the artists'
 
 302 
 
 ANALYTICAL INDEX 
 
 true conception of deity, 222, 
 223. 
 
 Antique, the, classical conception 
 of poetry and the poet, 17-19; 
 illustrated by Guido's Aurora, 
 29, by Homer's " Vision," ib. ; 
 comprehension of nature's 
 rythm, 52 ; sculpture, 63 ; an- 
 cient classification of poetry, 
 76 ; spirit of an Athenian audi- 
 ence, 79 ; classicism of Keats 
 and Landor, 124; in modern 
 Italian poetry, 128; Arnold's 
 early subjection to, 133, 134; 
 Schlegel on, 134; our compen- 
 sation for its loss, 139, 143 ; the 
 Academic, 1 57 ; perfection of, 
 159; its simplicity, 175, 176; 
 expression of its own time, 199 ; 
 informing yet objective view of 
 nature, 207, 208 ; English " clas- 
 sical" style, 213; genius for 
 configuration, 242 ; the pagan 
 supernaturalism, 243 ; unison of 
 passion and art, 262 ; Emer- 
 son's philosophy, 267 ; and see 
 Hellenism. 
 
 Arabian Nights, The, Galland's, 
 Payne's and Burton's transla- 
 tions, 82 ; and see 193. 
 
 Architecture, served by the other 
 arts, 64; Japanese, La Farge 
 on, 163. 
 
 Ariosto, 112. 
 
 Aristophanes, and the drama, 99 ; 
 and see 79, 88, 190. 
 
 Aristotle, his view of the nature 
 of poetry, 17-19; relations to 
 Plato, 21 ; and see 27. 
 
 Arnim, 118. 
 
 Arnold, E., 82, 235. 
 
 Arnold, M., as Goethe's pupil, 19 ; 
 poetry as a criticism of life, 27, 
 28; " Thyrsis," 90; conflict of 
 his critical theory with his own 
 genius, 133-135; preface to his 
 second edition, 133, and poems 
 conforming to, 133, 134; sub- 
 jective lyrics, 134; tempera- 
 ment and career, 135 ; his se- 
 lections from Wordsworth, 172 ; 
 on the Wordsworthians, 219; 
 his beauteous unrest, 294 ; 
 quoted, 118, 194, 295; and see 
 162, 218, 289, 290. 
 
 "Ars Victrix," Dobson, quoted, 
 
 73- 
 Art, substructural laws of, 6, 7 ; 
 
 consensus and differentiation of 
 its modes, 50 ; it must have 
 Me, 70 ; " Art for Art's sake," 
 129, 167 ; its beauteous para- 
 dox, 181 ; not artifice, 201 ; 
 Goethe and Haydon, ib. ; has a 
 truth of its own, 202 ; cause of 
 our delight in, ib. ; vice nullifies 
 the force of, 216; its absolute 
 liberty, 220 ; the artist's labor 
 a natural piety, 221 ; artistic 
 nonconformity, 222 ; the artist's 
 God, 222, 223 ; God the master- 
 artist, ib. ; clearness and reten- 
 tive faculty of the musician and 
 painter, 232-234, of the poet, 
 234, 235 ; heightened by pas- 
 sion, 262 ; must express states 
 of soul, 272 ; repose and true 
 naturalism, 273 ; and modern 
 inspiration, 287 ; its best atmos- 
 phere, 291 ; and see Artistic
 
 ANALYTICAL INDEX 
 
 303 
 
 Qualify, The Fine Arts, Com- 
 posite Art, etc. 
 
 Arte of English Poesie, The, Put- 
 tenham, 198. 
 
 Artificiality, 48, 177. 
 
 Artisanship, 226. 
 
 Artistic Dissatisfaction, 286. 
 
 Artistic Quality, heightened by 
 passion, 128; extreme recent 
 finish, 129, 130; often in excess 
 of originality, 131 ; Swinburne's, 
 132. 
 
 Art Life, the, studio and table 
 talk, 12 ; and see 221-223. 
 
 Art School, the, recent charac- 
 teristics of, 130, 131 ; of the 
 Nineteenth Century, 173; the 
 minor, 235. 
 
 Arts, the fine, their practical 
 value, 14; consensus of, 15; 
 music, painting, etc., as com- 
 pared with poetry, 63-72 ; Les- 
 sing's canon, 66 ; the " speech- 
 less " arts normally objective, 
 80 ; must express the beautiful, 
 147 ; illustrative of poetry, 155; 
 a Japanese at the Art Students' 
 League, 165; and see Archi- 
 tecture, Music, Painting, Sculp- 
 ture. 
 
 Aryan Literature, 87. 
 
 Association, 250. 
 
 " Astrophel," Spenser, 90. 
 
 Atalanta in Calydon, Swinburne, 
 132. 
 
 Auerbach, B., novelist, 137. 
 
 "Auld Lang Syne," Burns, 264. 
 
 " Auld Robin Gray," Lady Bar- 
 nard, 194. 
 
 Aurora Leigh, Mrs. Browning, 237. 
 
 Ausonius, 169. 
 
 Austen, Jane, novelist, 138. 
 
 BACON, on Poetry, 23; quoted, 
 203 ; and see 57. 
 
 Balder Dead, Arnold, 134, 135. 
 
 Ballads, early English, 94 ; Thack- 
 eray's, 215 ; and see 194. 
 
 Balzac, quoted, 34; and see 137, 
 283. 
 
 Banville, Th. de, 35, 131, 158. 
 
 Barnard, Lady, quoted, 194. 
 
 Bascom, J., critic, 20. 
 
 " Battle Hymn of the Republic," 
 Mrs. Howe, 267. 
 
 Baudelaire, 133. 
 
 Beauty, proclaimed the sole end 
 of Poetry, by Schlegel and Poe, 
 26 ; poetry as an expression of, 
 46-48 ; its arbiter, Taste, 47 ; 
 false standards of, 48 ; consid- 
 ered as an element in poetry 
 and cognate arts, 147185 ; its 
 expression an indispensable 
 function, 147 ; recurrent deni- 
 als of its indispensability, 147 
 et seq. ; these are merely re- 
 volts against hackneyed stan- 
 dards, 148, 150, 151, 158; its 
 immortal changefulness, 148 ; 
 whether it is a chimera, 148, 
 1 52 - 1 58 ; this theory purely 
 Berkeleian, and repulsive to 
 the artistic instinct, 149, 155; 
 the " transcendental " contempt 
 for, 149 ; Emerson's recognition 
 of, 149 ; impressionism merely 
 a fresh search for, 1 50 ; exists in 
 some guise in every lasting work 
 of art, 151 ; the new ./Esthetics,
 
 304 
 
 ANALYTICAL INDEX 
 
 as set forth by E. Veron, 152, 
 153; its truth and its fallacies, 
 ib. et seq. ; derives specific 
 character from its maker's in- 
 dividuality, 152, 153; what B. 
 really is, -viz., a quality regu- 
 lating the vibratory expression 
 of substances, 153-155; all im- 
 pressions of it unite in spiritual 
 feeling, 154; moral and phys- 
 ical analogous, 154; perception 
 of it is subjective, 155 ; its qual- 
 ity objective, ib. ; its connec- 
 tion with the perfection of na- 
 ture and the fitness of things, 
 156, with utility, ib. ; the nat- 
 ural quality of all things, 156; 
 recognized intuitively by the 
 poet, 1 57 ; unconsciously postu- 
 lated even by Veron, 1 57 ; dan- 
 ger of irreverence for, 1 58 ; na- 
 tional and racial ideals of, 159- 
 165; the Grecian, 159; of the 
 Renaissance, 160 ; zest for, as- 
 sociated with novelty, ib. ; the 
 English academic standard, 
 161 ; antipodal conceptions of, 
 the Japanese, 162-165 ; specific 
 evolution of, 164; not fully 
 transferable by translation, etc., 
 166; essential to the endurance 
 of a poem, or other work of art, 
 166-173; considered here in 
 the concrete, 167 ; symbolizes 
 Truth in pure form, 168; the 
 poet's instinct for, ib. ; has con- 
 served the choicest part of an- 
 cient poetry, ib. ; its effect in 
 the poetry of our own tongue, 
 170-172 ; present revival of love 
 
 for, 172, 173 ; its concrete po- 
 etic elements, 173-180; of mel- 
 ody and scriptural effect, 174; 
 of construction, 174; of sim- 
 plicity, 175; of variety, 176; of 
 naturalness, 176; of decoration 
 and detail, 177; psychical, 177, 
 178 ; of the pure lyric, 178-180 ; 
 of Charm, 179, 180; of the sug- 
 gestion of Evanescence, 181- 
 185; what is meant by its unity 
 with Truth, 187, 188, 220-224 ; 
 and sadness, 267; and see 75; 
 also Aesthetics, Taste, etc. 
 
 Berkeleianism, as applied to po- 
 etry and the arts, 15. 
 
 Berkeley, his ideal philosophy, 
 
 149. 155- 
 
 Beyle, M. H. (Stendhal), quoted, 
 272. 
 
 Bible, Poetry of the, 82-87 ; the 
 Hebraic genius, 83 ; racial ex- 
 altation of, 83, 84 ; intense per- 
 sonal feeling of the Psalmists, 
 etc., 84, 85 ; naivete and uni- 
 versality, 85 ; Book of Job, 86 ; 
 Esther and Ruth, 87, 175; sub- 
 limity of, 244; its "elemental" 
 quality, 251 ; and see 55, 191, 
 194. 
 
 Bion, 90. 
 
 " Bishop Blougram's Apology," 
 Browning, 109. 
 
 Bizarre, The, 158. 
 
 Blackmore, novelist, 157. 
 
 Blake, W., quoted, 233; genius 
 of, ib. ; and see 58, 1 58, 238, 
 250. 
 
 Blank Verse, English, the no- 
 blest dramatic measure, 105.
 
 305 
 
 Bleak House, Dickens, 137. 
 
 "Blessed Damozel, The," Ros- 
 setti, 269. 
 
 Blot in the 'Scutcheon, A, Brown- 
 ing, no. 
 
 Boccaccio, 57, 101. 
 
 Boileau, 18. 
 
 Boner, J. H., quoted, 242. 
 
 Bonnat, L. J. F., artist, 9. 
 
 Brahmanism. See Orientalism. 
 
 Breadth, a mark of superiority in 
 portraying life and nature, 191. 
 
 Bride of Lammermoor, The, Scott, 
 
 *37- 
 
 "Bridge of Sighs, The," Hood, 
 265. 
 
 Bridges, R., 179; song by, quoted, 
 185- 
 
 Bronte, Charlotte, 137. 
 
 Bronte, Emily, 137, 273. 
 
 Browning, his use of rhyme, 56; 
 the master of analytic and psy- 
 chological drama, 108-110; in- 
 dividuality of, 108 ; how his 
 work is subjective, 109 ; meth- 
 od of, ib. ; Swinburne on, ib. ; 
 dramatic lyrics and monologues, 
 ib. ; compared with Shake- 
 speare, 109, no; and the stage, 
 1 10 ; his statement of the po- 
 et's art, 24 ; as a critical ideal- 
 ist, 169; as a dramatist, 191, 
 192 ; his nature-touches, 192, 
 193; as a thinker and moral- 
 ist, 213; his estimate of Shel- 
 ley, 219; his types of passion, 
 272 ; originality of, 277 ; quoted, 
 197 ; and see, 35, 42, 60, 69, 
 136, 142, 215, 288, 290. 
 
 Browning, Mrs., passion and beau- 
 
 ty of her self-expression, 128; 
 compared with Sappho, 88 ; 
 " Aurora Leigh," 237 ; and see 
 4, 177, 266. 
 
 Bryant, W. C., his broad manner, 
 194, 195 ; elemental mood of, 
 252; quoted, 237; and see 129, 
 210. 
 
 Bucolic verse. See Greek Bucolic 
 Poets, Nature, Idyllic Poets, etc. 
 
 Buddhism. See Orientalism. 
 
 Buffon, on Genius, 278. 
 
 Bull, Lucy C., a child's recogni- 
 tion of Poetry, 124. 
 
 Biilow, H. von, musician, 232. 
 
 Bunyan, 52, 290. 
 
 Burns, his spontaneity, 120; quo- 
 ted, 265; and see 135, 172, 173, 
 190, 195, 250, 255. 
 
 Burroughs, J., 62. 
 
 Burton, R. F., translator, 82. 
 
 Butcher, S. H., translator, 82. 
 
 Byron, chief of the English Ro- 
 mantic School, 19 ; view of Po- 
 etry, ib. ; estimate of Pope, ib. ; 
 considered, 120-123; the typi- 
 cal subjective poet, 121 ; his 
 "Childe Harold," 121; voice 
 of his period, 122, 123; "Don 
 Juan," 123; compared with 
 Shelley, 124; compared with 
 Heine, 125, 126; his unrest as 
 a poet of nature, 203 ; influ- 
 enced by Coleridge, 238, 239 ; 
 imaginative language of, 241 ; 
 quoted, 206, 244 ; and see 58, 
 60, 119, 142, 173, 195, 226, 251, 
 263, 290. 
 
 CABANEL, A., painter, 9.
 
 306 
 
 ANALYTICAL INDEX 
 
 Calderon, 79, 100, 101. 
 
 Callimachus, Elegiacs on Hera- 
 cleitus, 89. 
 
 Camoens, 79, 101, 112, 244. 
 
 Campbell, 266. 
 
 Canning, G., 94. 
 
 Carlyle, on inspiration, 23, 24 ; 
 cited, 196; and see 58. 
 
 Carr, J. W. C., cited, 68. 
 
 Catholicity, 220. 
 
 Catullus, 92, 155, 169. 
 
 Cavalier Poets, 168. 
 
 "Cavalier's Song," Motherwell, 
 266. 
 
 Cellini, B., artist, 167, 247. 
 
 Cenci, The, Shelley, 69, 124. 
 
 Cervantes, 79, 101, 191. 
 
 Chapman, G., on poetry, 18. 
 
 Characterization, dramatic, 105; 
 the novelist, 237. 
 
 Charm, of the perfect lyric, 179- 
 182; of Evanescence, 181, 185. 
 
 Chatterton, 250, 255. 
 
 Chaucer, as a poet of the beauti- 
 ful, 170; his imagination, 249; 
 and see 115, 131, 215. 
 
 " Chevy Chase," 258. 
 
 Childe Harold, Byron, 121. 
 
 " Childe Roland," Browning, 109, 
 272. 
 
 "Children in the Wood, The," 
 quoted, 194. 
 
 Chinese literature, 81. 
 
 Christabel, Coleridge, 125, 238, 
 248. 
 
 Christendom, Poetry of, its char- 
 acteristics, 79; transfer of the 
 Oriental spirit, 82 ; its epic 
 masterpieces, 112-118; its po- 
 etry of Faith, 291 ; and see 243. 
 
 Christendom, The Muse of. See 
 A. Durer. 
 
 Christianity, contrasted with Pa- 
 ganism, 139-143; effect of its 
 introspection and sympathy 
 upon poetry, 139 et seq. ; " The 
 Muse of Christendom," 140, 
 141 ; its sublime seriousness, 
 143 ; and see 1 12 et seq. 
 
 Church, Christian, the mediaeval, 
 140. 
 
 Cicero, believer in inspiration, 22. 
 
 Citation of Shakespeare, The, Lan- 
 dor, 125. 
 
 Clairon, actress, 282. 
 
 Classicism, in France, 18, 120; 
 tribute to Prof. Gildersleeve, 
 100; pseudo, 144, 199, 200; of 
 Queen Anne's time, 213; mod- 
 ern, 225 ; and see The Academic 
 and The Antique. 
 
 Classification of the poetic Orders, 
 76. 
 
 Clearness of the artistic vision, 
 232. 
 
 Cleopatra, Haggard and Lang, 89. 
 
 Cloister and the Hearth, The, 
 Reade, 137. 
 
 Clouds, The, Aristophanes, 190. 
 
 Clough, A. H., and Arnold's 
 " Thyrsis," 90 ; his unrest, 294 ; 
 zest of, 295 ; and see 135, 290. 
 
 Coan, T. M., on "the passion of 
 Wordsworth," 263. 
 
 Coleridge, H., quoted, 256. 
 
 Coleridge, S. T., his instinct for 
 beauty, 20 ; concord with Words- 
 worth as to poetry, imagination, 
 science, 20, 28 ; genius of, 125 ; 
 how moved by Nature, 202 ;
 
 ANALYTICAL INDEX 
 
 307 
 
 "Ancient Mariner," 236; height 
 and decline of his imagination, 
 238, 239; mastery of words, 
 241 ; cited, 81 ; quoted, 101 ; 
 and see 27, 58, 119, 142, 162, 
 170, 173, 226, 245, 248, 266. 
 
 Collins, Mortimer, quoted, 97. 
 
 Collins, W., 142, 172, 184, 250, 270. 
 
 "Colonial" Revival, the recent, 
 160, 161. 
 
 Comedy, Aristophanes and Mo- 
 liere, 99, 100; Terence and 
 Plautus, loo. 
 
 Commonplace, its use as a foil, 
 273 ; and see Didacticism. 
 
 Common Sense, 284. 
 
 Comparison, 250. 
 
 Complexity, undue, 175. 
 
 Composite Art, 76, 164. 
 
 Composite Period, the new, 136. 
 
 Comus, Milton, 236. 
 
 Conception, spontaneity of, 285 ; 
 and see imagination. 
 
 Configuration, of outline, imagery, 
 etc., 242. 
 
 Conscious Thought, 147. 
 
 Consensus of the Arts, 50, 163, 
 199. 
 
 Construction, poetic architecture, 
 174; of plot, etc., 174-176; may 
 be decorated, 177; of a sus- 
 tained work, 178; imaginative, 
 237 ; of the Elizabethan drama- 
 tists, 243 ; and see 4. 
 
 Contemplative Poetry, Words- 
 worth's, 219; and see Truth, 
 Didacticism, etc. 
 
 Cook, A. S., editor of Sidney's 
 Defense, 23. 
 
 Cooper, J. F., novelist, 137. 
 
 Corot, painter, 246. 
 
 " Correctness " in Art, 162. 
 
 Cory's paraphrase on Callima- 
 chus, 89; " Mimnermus," 183. 
 
 Cotter's Saturday Night, The, 
 Burns, 268. 
 
 Counterpoint, musical, 64. 
 
 Couture, painter, 10 ; quoted, 142. 
 
 Cowper, 142, 173, 190, 214; qucted, 
 274. 
 
 Cranch, C. P., quoted, 286. 
 
 Creative Eras. See Objectivity. 
 
 Creative Faculty, shared by the ar- 
 tist with his Maker, 44, 45 ; the 
 modern, exercised upon prose 
 fiction, 137, 138 ; secret of its 
 genius, 163 ; Shakespeare's 
 pure, 230; its divinity, 234; of 
 the pure imagination, 237 ; as 
 godlike, 254-258 ; men as gods, 
 256 ; imagined types of pas- 
 sion, 270 ; and see Objectivity, 
 
 Creative Quality. See Objectivity. 
 
 Criticism," applied," distinguished 
 from pure, 8 ; poets as critics, 
 12 ; not iconoclastic, 16; recent 
 analytic study of poetry by the 
 public, 41 ; with respect to mod- 
 ern culture, 59, 60 ; by law, 80 ; 
 sometimes to be deprecated, 
 96 ; the present a good time for 
 poetic, 138-- the best, 142 ; with 
 respect to beauty, 147 et seq. ; 
 English critics of poetry, 162 ; 
 Browning's, 170 ; false estimates 
 of Shelley, 218; faulty, 219; 
 Coleridge's, 239; on "states of 
 soul," 272 ; a recurring ques- 
 tion, 275; the present an age 
 of, 296, 297 ; and see 249, 259.
 
 308 
 
 ANALYTICAL INDEX 
 
 Culprit Fay, The, Drake, 236, 237. 
 Culture, its success and limitations 
 
 in art, 61 ; and see 277. 
 Cynicism, 289. 
 
 DANTE, minor works of, 79 ; char- 
 acterized, 112-115; one with 
 his age and poem, 112; intense 
 personality of, 113; Parsons' 
 Lines on a Bust of, 114; com- 
 pared with Milton, 115, 117, 
 245 ; his supernaturalism, 243 ; 
 human feeling, 269 ; faith of, 
 290; quoted, 174; and see 76, 
 101, 217, 249, 287. 
 
 Davenant, Sir W., quoted, 197. 
 
 Davies, John, on music, 65. 
 
 " Day Dream, The," Tennyson, 
 68-70. 
 
 Decamerone, II, Boccaccio, 131. 
 
 Decoration, 4 ; and see Technique. 
 
 Defence of Poetry, A, Shelley, 25. 
 
 Defense of Poesie, The, Sidney, 23. 
 
 Definiteness of the artistic imagi- 
 nation, 232, 234. 
 
 Definition of Poetry, why evaded, 
 12-15; is possible, 15-17; and 
 see Poetry. 
 
 De Foe, 138. 
 
 Delaroche, H. [Paul], painter, 
 10. 
 
 De 1'Isle, Rouget, La Marseillaise, 
 266. 
 
 Deluge, The, Sienkiewicz, 137. 
 
 De Quincey, 58. 
 
 Derby, Lord, 82. 
 
 De Rerum Natura, Lucretius, 212, 
 217. 
 
 Descriptive Poetry, word-painting 
 of Spenser, Keats, Tennyson, 
 
 etc., 67-70 ; landscape a back- 
 ground to life, 177 ; not very 
 satisfactory, 202 ; inferior to 
 painting, ib. ; when subjective, 
 202-204 ; and see 189, 195, 196, 
 also POETRY and Nature. 
 
 Deserted Village, The, Goldsmith, 
 268. 
 
 Detail. See Technique. 
 
 Dickens, his prose and verse, 57 ; 
 quoted, 282 ; and see, 137, 283. 
 
 Diction, of the past, 34 ; Hugo's, 
 120; English, 215; the modem 
 vocabulary, 225 ; imaginative 
 mastery of words, epithets, 
 phrases, 240-242 ; verbal feli- 
 city of Shakespeare, Milton, 
 Keats, Byron, etc., 240, 241, 
 of Emerson, 242 ; Fancy's epi- 
 thets, 248 ; majestic utterance 
 in " Hyperion," etc., 248 ; and 
 see Language. 
 
 Didacticism, of minor transcen- 
 dentalists, 24 ; Coleridge's met- 
 aphysical decline, 125 ; the 
 " didactic heresy," why opposed 
 to true poesy, 187, 188, 213 ; the 
 " higher " and philosophical, 
 211-213; poetry of wisdom, 
 21 1; Ecclesiastes, ib.; the Greek 
 sages, Lucretius, Epicurus, 
 Omar, Tennyson, etc., 212, 213; 
 Pope as a moralist-poet, 213- 
 215 ; of the commonplace, 219 ; 
 and see Truth, Ethics, etc. 
 
 Dilettanteism, 8, 133. 
 
 Dimension, effect of magnitude 
 in art, 247. 
 
 Dimitri Rudini, Tourgenieff,
 
 ANALYTICAL INDEX 
 
 309 
 
 Directness. See Style. 
 
 Divina Commedia, Dante, 1 1 2- 
 115; charged with its author's 
 personality, 113 ; symbolism of, 
 114 ; compared with " Para- 
 dise Lost," 115; and see 269, 
 291. 
 
 Dobson, Austin, 94, 158. 
 
 Don Juan, Byron, 19, 123. 
 
 Donoghue, J., sculptor, 13, 200. 
 
 Don Quixote, Cervantes, 239. 
 
 " Dora," Tennyson, 193. 
 
 Dore, G., painter, 239; quoted, 
 
 255- 
 
 Doubt. See Faith. 
 " Dover Beach," Arnold, quoted, 
 
 295- 
 
 Drake, J. R., 236, 237. 
 
 Drama, The. Grand drama the 
 supreme poetic structure, 105- 
 107 ; analysis of The Tempest, 
 106 ; impersonality of the mas- 
 ters, 107 ; modern and subjec- 
 tive, of Browning, 108-110; 
 Browning's genius and method, 
 108 ; the modern stage, 1 10 ; 
 adaptation to the stage, ib. ; 
 Jonson on the stage, ib. ; Swin- 
 burne's plays, 132 ; meretricious 
 plays, 216; the grand drama 
 again, 274 ; modern plays, so- 
 ciety-drama, etc., 274, 275 ; and 
 see Elizabethan Period, Greek 
 Dramatists, etc. 
 
 Dramatic Lyrics, Browning, 109. 
 
 Dramatic Poetry, its narrative 
 may well be borrowed, 57, 237 ; 
 Shakespeare, Browning, Keats, 
 Shelley, 69, 191, 243; text of, 
 191 ; Elizabethan dramatists, 
 
 75; epical drama of Job, 86; 
 youthful poems of dramatists, 
 101 ; Aristotle on Tragedy, 
 103 ; why tragedy elevates the 
 soul, 103, 104, 271, 272; Greek 
 recognition of Destiny, 104 ; 
 dramatists of Christendom, #. ; 
 the dramatic genius, ib. ; Shake- 
 speare and impersonality, 104, 
 105; Faust, 119; Shelley's, 124; 
 truth to nature, 189, 190, to 
 life, 191 ; the Attic, 191 ; Web- 
 ster's Duchess of Malfi, 249 ; 
 display of passion's extreme 
 types, 271-273 ; exaltation of, 
 271 ; Browning's types of pas- 
 sion, 272; effect of contrasts, 
 
 273- 
 
 Dramatic Quality, of Browning's 
 lyrics, etc., 109 ; evinced of late 
 in prose fiction rather than in 
 poetry, 137, 138; and see The 
 Drama. 
 
 Dramatists. See The Drama and 
 the Greek Dramatists. 
 
 Dramatists, the Greek, 97-100; 
 ethical motive of, 97 ; their ob- 
 jectivity, ib. ; the Attic stage, 
 99; grand drama as an imagi- 
 native transcript of life, 101- 
 104; impersonal, ib. ; follow the 
 impartial law of nature, 102; 
 and see 1 13. 
 
 Drayton, 94 ; quoted, 245. 
 
 Dryden, Aristotelian view of po- 
 etry, 18 ; quoted, 261 ; and see 
 162, 172, 250. 
 
 Du Bellay, 171. 
 
 Dumas, Pere, 138. 
 
 Duran, C., painter, 9.
 
 ANALYTICAL INDEX 
 
 Diirer, A., artist, his " Melenco- 
 lia" as the Muse of Christen- 
 dom, 140, 141. 
 
 "Dying Christian, The," Pope, 
 214. 
 
 " EACH AND ALL," Emerson, 220, 
 
 221. 
 Earthly Paradise, The, Morris, 
 
 3- 
 
 Eccentricity, 109. 
 Ecclesiastes, 211. 
 Edda, The, 131. 
 Edison, T., inventor, 32. 
 Education, the higher and ideal, 
 
 4- 
 
 Egoism, the Parnassian, 80 ; and 
 see 140, also Subjectivity. 
 
 Elaboration, undue, 193. 
 
 Elegiac Poetry, Grecian epitaphs, 
 the anthologies, etc., 88, 89 ; 
 the Greek idyllists, 89, 90 ; Eng- 
 lish elegies, 90 ; Ovid, 92 ; Latin 
 feeling, 92, 93 ; Emerson's 
 " Threnody," 267. 
 
 "Elemental" Quality, 250-254; 
 Wordsworth's, 251 ; of the He- 
 brews, Greeks, and modern 
 English, ib. ; the American, 
 252, et seq. ; Bryant's, 252 ; 
 Stoddard's and Whitman's, 
 
 252, 253 ; of some other poets, 
 
 253. 2.S4- 
 
 " Eliot, George " (Mrs. Lewes- 
 Cross), 137. 
 
 Elizabethan Period, songs from 
 the dramatists, 170; poets of, 
 their truth of life and charac- 
 ter, 191 ; its imagination, 249; 
 and see 75, 100, 105, 227 ; also 
 
 The Drama and Dramatic Po- 
 etry. 
 
 Elliott, Ebenezer, quoted, 126. 
 
 " Eloisa to Abelard," Pope, 214. 
 
 Eloquence, sometimes injurious 
 to poetry, 59. 
 
 Emerson, on inspiration and in- 
 sight, 23, 24 ; anecdotes of, 1 30, 
 153; his words and phrases, 
 242 ; on beauty and joy, 267 ; 
 his " Threnody," ib. ; on beauty, 
 149, 150; quoted, 130, 220, 221, 
 296; and see 35, 39, 50, 58, 75, 
 134, 136, 203, 213, 290. 
 
 Emotion, Wordsworth on, 20; 
 Watts on, 26; the poet must be 
 impassioned, 49 ; instinctively 
 forms expression, ib. ; its sug- 
 gestion by music, 66 ; present 
 call for, in art, 211 ; "uttered," 
 262, 263 ; and see Passion. 
 
 Empedocles, 212. 
 
 Empiricism, its service to the 
 modern poet, 32. 
 
 Encyclopedia Britannica, article 
 on Poetry, Watts, 26. 
 
 Endurance, the test of art, 166 et 
 seq. ; natural selection, 166, 
 167 ; of classic masterpieces, 
 1 68 ; of certain English poems, 
 170-172; "Ars Victrix," 173; 
 transient aspects to be avoided, 
 201 ; of Shakespeare, 230, 231. 
 
 Endymion, Keats, quotation from 
 its Preface, 122. 
 
 English Language, King James's 
 Version of the Bible, 85 ; and 
 see Diction. 
 
 English Poetry, and the imagina- 
 tion, 249, 250.
 
 ANALYTICAL INDEX 
 
 English Poets, Ward's, 249. 
 
 Environment, effects of, in youth, 
 9, 10; truth to, 199-201 ; of the 
 Antique, 199 ; a lesson from 
 Lowell, 200 ; home fields for 
 art, ib. ; transient conditions in- 
 essential, 201 ; one defect of 
 Taine's theory. 276. 
 
 Epic Poetry, as evolved from folk- 
 songs, 94, 95 ; the Homeric 
 epos, 95-97 ; less inclusive than 
 dramatic, 106 ; Firdusi's Shah 
 Nameh, 1 1 1 ; the Divine Com- 
 edy of Dante, 1 12-1 1 5 ; Milton's 
 Paradise Lost, 115-117; Ar- 
 nold's epical studies, 133-135; 
 Walter Scott, 135; simplicity 
 of, 194 ; a growth, 237 ; and see 
 Objectivity. 
 
 Epicureanism, 217. 
 
 Epicurus, 212. 
 
 Epigram, Latin, 92. 
 
 Equanimity, modern, 274. 
 
 Esther, The Book of,ij$. 
 
 Ethics, of Homer, 95 ; truth of 
 ethical insight, 216-219 ; the 
 highest wisdom, 216; a prosaic 
 moral repulsive and unethical, 
 
 216, 217 ; affected conviction, 
 216; why baseness is fatal to 
 art, ib. ; all great poetry ethical, 
 
 217, and this whether icono- 
 clastic or constructive, ib.; Shel- 
 ley and his mission, 218, 246; 
 and see Truth. 
 
 Euripides, his modern note, 88 ; 
 
 and the Greek drama, 99 ; and 
 
 see 137. 
 
 Evanescence, the note of, 181-185. 
 Eve of St. Agnes, The, Keats, 177. 
 
 Evolution, 287 ; and see Science. 
 
 Exaltation, national, 83 ; dramatic, 
 271. 
 
 Excursion, The, Wordsworth, 206. 
 
 Execution of the true artist, 235. 
 
 Executive Force, guided by the 
 imagination, 228, 229. 
 
 Expression, chief function of all 
 the fine arts, 44 ; as the source 
 of beauty, 1 52 ; need of a free 
 vehicle, 214 ; moved by imagi- 
 nation, 257 ; its poetic factors, 
 259 ; perfected by emotion, 261 ; 
 should be inevitable, 274. 
 
 Ezekiel, quoted, 287. 
 
 FACILITY, undue, 235. 
 
 " Faculty Divine, The," so called 
 by Wordsworth, 259; what it 
 includes, 277. 
 
 Fairfield, F. G., neurotic theory 
 of genius, 284. 
 
 Faith, the scientist's grounded 
 in knowledge only, 33 ; and 
 science, Lowell on, 37 ; Judaic 
 anthropomorphism, 83 ; its in- 
 dispensability, 280-296 ; recent 
 lack of, ib. ; distrust and cyni- 
 cism, 289 ; works for distinc- 
 tion, 289-291 ; its poetic mas- 
 terpiece, the Church Liturgy, 
 291-294; unrest of Arnold and 
 Clough, 294, 295 ; the new day, 
 
 2 9S- 
 
 Fame, Palgrave on popular judg- 
 ment, 136; the case of Burns, 
 265 ; of Byron, ib. 
 
 Fancy, "The Culprit Fay," 236; 
 the realm of, 247, 248 ; and see 
 215, 254.
 
 312 
 
 ANALYTICAL INDEX 
 
 Fantasy, distinguished from imagi- 
 nation, 236. 
 
 " Farewell to Nancy," Burns, 
 quoted, 265. 
 
 Fashion, effect of, 39 ; the tempo- 
 rary must be distinguished from 
 the lasting, 166; poetic style of 
 Queen Anne's time, 213, 214. 
 
 Faust, Goethe, Snider on, 95 ; 
 subjectivity of, 137 ; and see 
 104, 119, 137, 238, 269. 
 
 Faustus, Marlowe, 238. 
 
 Feeling, classical expressions of, 
 83 et seq. ; of Wordsworth, 
 
 263, 264 ; its quality illustrated, 
 
 264, 265 ; religious, national, 
 etc., 266 ; more accurate than 
 thought, 286 ; and see 147 ; also 
 Passion. 
 
 " Feigned History," as a generic 
 term for all imaginative litera- 
 ture, 56, 57. 
 
 Felicia, Fanny Murfree, 208, 209. 
 
 Female Poets, Sappho, 88 ; Mrs. 
 Browning, 88, 128, 266; subjec- 
 tivity of, 1 27 ; Miss Lazarus, 
 266; Miss Rossetti, 269. 
 
 Femininity, self - expression the 
 minor key of song, 127. 
 
 Ferishtah's Fancies, Browning, 
 225. 
 
 Fiction, prose (including The 
 Navel, Prose Romance, etc.), let- 
 ter from A. S. Hardy, 36 ; dis- 
 tinguished from the poetry 
 under consideration, 56-59; as 
 " Feigned History," 56 ; inven- 
 tion as to plot, narrative, char- 
 acterization, 57 ; must not be 
 rhythmical, 57-59; inborn gift 
 
 of the great novelists and ro- 
 mancers, 60 ; Howells', ib. ; as 
 the principal outcome of recent 
 dramatic and creative facul- 
 ties, 137, 138; great modern 
 novels and novelists, 137 ; the 
 chief literary distinction of the 
 century, 138 ; functions of the 
 novelist, 237 ; examples of re- 
 served power, 273. 
 
 Fielding, 60. 
 
 Fine Arts. See Arts, The Fine. 
 
 Finish. See Technique. 
 
 Firdusi, in. 
 
 " Fitness of Things, The," 45, 1 56. 
 
 Fitzgerald, E., 82, 217. 
 
 Flavor, natural, 180. 
 
 Fletcher, J., 171. 
 
 " Flood of Years, The," Bryant, 
 252. 
 
 Folk Songs, 176; of Ireland and 
 Scotland, 180; and see Ballads. 
 
 Force, that of poetry, 3, not ex- 
 erted by mere intellect and cul- 
 ture, 60; ethical, 217; as the 
 vital spark, 259 ; and see INTRO- 
 DUCTION. 
 
 Ford, John, 108. 
 
 " Forgiveness, A," Browning, 109. 
 
 Form, greatness of the dramatic, 
 107 ; English measures, 215; 
 and see Construction and Tech- 
 nique. 
 
 Forman, H. Buxton, a phrase of, 
 
 52- 
 Formlessness of outline, its poetic 
 
 effect, 246. 
 Foscolo, 133. 
 Fourier, C., 9. 
 Freedom of the poet's field, 220.
 
 ANALYTICAL INDEX 
 
 French Poetry, 18. 
 
 French Revolution, effects of, 
 
 123,215. 
 French School, influence of the 
 
 recent, 226. 
 
 Fuller, George, painter, 246. 
 Fuller, Margaret, anecdote of, 50. 
 Future, promise of the, 296. 
 
 GALILEO, 33. 
 
 Galland, Orientalist, 82. 
 
 " Caspar Becerra," Longfellow, 
 220. 
 
 Gautier, Th., paraphrased by 
 Dobson, 173; and see 120, 130, 
 179, 290. 
 
 Gebir, Landor, 205. 
 
 Genius, finds its natural suste- 
 nance, 10 ; vindication of, 46, 
 by Plato, ib, ; scientifically de- 
 fined by Hartmann, ib. ; " poeta 
 nascitur," 53 ; " a born lawyer," 
 etc., 56; its methods imita- 
 ble through industry and cul- 
 ture, 59-61 ; the dramatic, 104 ; 
 the real test of poetry, 139; self 
 training of, 145; its individual- 
 ity the sole value of art, accord- 
 ing to Veron, 152, 153; natural 
 bent of, is unchangeable, 220 ; 
 has a law of its own, 247 ; the 
 question of its existence and 
 nature, 276-285 ; recognition of, 
 277 ; as an inherent gift, ib. ; 
 Carlyle, Lowell, and Howells 
 on, 278 ; distinguished from tal- 
 ent, 279, from taste, 280; con- 
 genital, 281, 282 ; is original, 
 283 ; not dependent on theme, 
 ib. ; often limited, id. ; the uni- 
 
 versal type, health of, 284 ; its 
 good sense, 284 ; should be 
 obeyed by its possessor, 284, 
 285 ; its spontaneity, 285 ; in- 
 spiration of, 287 ; and see 147. 
 
 Georgian Period, 55, 116, 125, 138, 
 225, 227, 250. 
 
 Gerome, painter, 239. 
 
 Gerusalemme Liberata, Tasso, 112. 
 
 Gesta Romanorum, '131. 
 
 Gilder, R. W., quoted, 257. 
 
 Gildersleeve, Basil L., too. 
 
 Gnomic Poetry, 75. 
 
 Goethe, " Wertherism," 121 ; 
 Heine's criticism of him and 
 of Schiller, 18; and the Ro- 
 mantic movement, 119; Ar- 
 nold's study of, 133 ; on art, 
 201 ; on epic and dramatic po- 
 ets, 237 ; quoted, 64, 142, 143, 
 247; and see 54, 58, 76, 113, 
 1 1 8, 1 68, 263, 269, 290; and see 
 Faust. 
 
 Golden Ages, 78. 
 
 Golden Treasury, The, Palgrave, 
 136, 172. 
 
 Goldsmith, 172, 250, 268. 
 
 Gosse, quoted, in. 
 
 Gothic Art and Song, 159. 
 
 Grace, 179 ; and see Charm, 
 
 Gray, 172, 250. 
 
 Greek Bucolic Poets, 169. 
 
 Greek Dramatists. See Drama- 
 tists, the Greek. 
 
 Greek Lyrists, 169. 
 
 Greeks, The. See The Antique, 
 Objectivity, etc. 
 
 Gregory VII., Home, 104. 
 
 Grotesque, The, 160. 
 
 Guy Mannering, Scott, 137.
 
 314 
 
 ANALYTICAL INDEX 
 
 "HAMADRYAD,THE," Landor, 200. 
 
 Hamlet, Shakespeare, 102, 104. 
 
 Harris, W. T., inspirational view 
 of poetry, 23 ; and see 174. 
 
 Hartlib, S., Milton's friend, 27. 
 
 Hartmann, E. von, metaphysician, 
 on genius, 46, 282 ; on the idea 
 in art, 156. 
 
 Hawthorne, 137, 218, 273. 
 
 Haydon, B. R., painter, on art, 201. 
 
 Hazlitt, W., logical view of poe- 
 try, 25 ; cited, 207, 208. 
 
 Health, recoverable in poetry, 295. 
 
 Hebraism, 99, 290 ; and see Bible, 
 Poetry of the. 
 
 Heine, compared with Byron, 125 ; 
 character and genius, 126; his 
 mocking note, 127 ; quoted, 112; 
 cited, 140; and see 135, 142, 
 203, 208. 
 
 Hellenism, Landor, 124; com- 
 pared with Latinism, 90, 91 ; 
 effect on Vergil, 91 ; Poetry of 
 Greece, 87-90, 95-100; the 
 Greek lyrists, 87 ; the antho- 
 logy, etc., 88, 89 ; idyllists, 89, 
 90 ; the Homeric epos, 95-97 ; 
 the Attic dramatists, 97-100; 
 antique view of tragedy, etc., 
 103, 104. 
 
 Henry Esmond, Thackeray, 55, 
 
 137- 
 
 Heredity of genius, 277. 
 Herodotus, 169. 
 Heroic poetry, Horace's view of, 
 
 18. 
 
 Herrick, 168, 171. 
 Hesiod, and Vergil's Georgics, 91. 
 " Highland Mary," Burns, 265. 
 Hindu Literature, 81, 82. 
 
 Hoffmann, Ernst, 142. 
 
 Holinshed, chronicler, 57. 
 
 Holmes, quoted, 281. 
 
 Homer, Lord Derby's version, 82 ; 
 Vergil's obligations to, 91 ; Sni- 
 der's ethical theory of the Iliad 
 and Odyssey, 95; his joyous 
 and perfect transcript of life, 96, 
 in ; highest value of, 97 ; mod- 
 ern "Homeric Echoes," 134; 
 Arnold on the swift epic move- 
 ment, 134; descriptive touches 
 of, 190; ethics, 217 ; endurance, 
 230 ; impassioned characters, 
 270, 271 ; quoted, 194; and see 
 78, 106, 106, 191, 236, 251, 269, 
 290. 
 
 Hood, a poet of emotion, 265. 
 
 Horace, concerning poetry, 17; 
 progenitor of the beaux esprits, 
 93; and see 27, 169. 
 
 " Horatian Ode, An," Stoddard, 
 
 239- 
 
 Horatii, The, 93. 
 Home, R. H., Gregory VII., 104 ; 
 
 dramas of, 132; and see 29, 
 
 133- 
 
 Household Book of Poetry, The, 
 Dana, 236. 
 
 House of Life, The, Rossetti, 269. 
 
 Howe, Julia Ward, 267. 
 
 Howell, Elisabeth Lloyd, 266. 
 
 Howells, W. D., as illustrating 
 both natural gift and training, 
 60; on recent Italian poetry, 
 128, 129 ; on genius as " natural 
 aptitude," 278. 
 
 Hugo, V., Hernani, 104 ; and the 
 Romantic movement, 1 19 ; and 
 see 18, 133, 142, 269, 287, 290.
 
 ANALYTICAL INDEX 
 
 315 
 
 Human Element, The, 269; of 
 
 the Liturgy, 292 et sey. 
 Humor, as a pathetic factor, 215 ; 
 
 and see 123, 275. 
 Hunt, Leigh, on poetry, 25 ; cited, 
 
 239; quoted, 243; and see 119, 
 
 i?3. '79. 225. 
 
 Hutchinson, Ellen M., quoted, 
 182. 
 
 " Hymn, before Sunrise," Cole- 
 ridge, 266. 
 
 " Hymn to Aphrodite," Sappho, 
 88. 
 
 Hyperion, Keats, its large utter- 
 ance, 248 ; quoted, ib. 
 
 IBSEN, 42. 
 
 " Ichabod," Whittier, 268. 
 
 Idealist, The, how affected by the 
 new learning, 34-37. 
 
 Ideality, its bearing on individual 
 action, 3-5; present struggle 
 with empiricism, 34-39 ; the 
 " shews of things " are real to 
 the poet, r 53 ; characterizes 
 true Realism, 199; opposed 
 alike to prosaic goodness and 
 to vice, 216; against impurity, 
 262 ; present want of, 274. 
 
 Ideals, racial and national, 159, 
 162-165; the Aryan, 159; Aca- 
 demic, 161 ; the Japanese, etc., 
 162-165. 
 
 Ideal, the artist's, what constitutes 
 it, 41. 
 
 Idyllic Poetry, Keats, Tennyson, 
 etc., 68, 69; of the Bible, 87; 
 Ruth and Esther contrasted 
 with Anna Kartnina, 175 ; Ten- 
 nyson's method, 193; recent 
 
 idyllic period, 210, 211; Snow 
 Bound, 268; over supply of, 
 
 275- 
 
 Idyllic quality, 225. 
 
 " I have loved flowers that fade," 
 Bridges, 185. 
 
 Iliad, The. See Homer. 
 
 "II Penseroso," Milton, 116. 
 
 Imagery, when outworn, 34 ; of 
 poets, Joubert on, 235. 
 
 Imagination, sovereign of the 
 arts, 5 ; its office fully recog- 
 nized by Wordsworth and Cole- 
 ridge, 20, 21 ; Schopenhauer on, 
 21 ; indispensable to the savant, 
 32 ; the savant's akin to the 
 poet's, 36 ; increased material 
 for, 38 ; the dramatic, 104 ; no- 
 thing forbidden to it, 201 ; glori- 
 fies Shakespeare's errors of fact, 
 ib. ; of the intellect, 211 ; freed 
 by a free rhythm, 214; consid- 
 ered as the informing element of 
 poetic expression, 225-258 ; lack 
 of, in recent poetry, 227 ; chief 
 factor in human action, 228 ; 
 the executive, 229 ; the poetic, 
 ib. ; Shakespeare's, 229-231 ; 
 definition of, 231, illustrations 
 of same, 232-235 ; how to test 
 it, 232 ; must be clear, ib. ; must 
 have " holding power," 233 ; 
 of Blake, ib. ; definiteness of, 
 234 ; not confined to the super- 
 human, 236 ; its higher flights, 
 236, 237 ; when inventive and 
 constructive, 237 ; when purely 
 creative, 237, 238 ; its Wonder- 
 land, 238 ; its power of sugges- 
 tiveness and prevision, 239 ; im-
 
 ANALYTICAL INDEX 
 
 aginative diction, 240-242 ; of the 
 supernatural, 243, 244; sublim- 
 ity of the Vague, 244-247 ; of 
 Shelley, poet of cloudland, 246 ; 
 effect of magnitude on the, 247 ; 
 how distinguished from Fancy, 
 247 ; " the grand manner," 248 ; 
 of the Elizabethans, 249 ; usual- 
 ly deficient between the Eliza- 
 bethan and Georgian periods, 
 250 ; comparison, association, 
 etc., 250 ; of " elemental " bards, 
 250-254 ; divinity of this crea- 
 tive gift, 254-258 ; as used and 
 excited by emotion, 261 ; ima- 
 gined feeling, 273 ; promised 
 revival of, 296; and see 147, 
 166. 
 
 Imitation, normal in youth, 13; 
 how far the office of art, 17 ; 
 Vergil's, of the Greek poets, 
 91 ; Longfellow's, 91, 92 ; Schle- 
 gel on, 92 ; the greatest work 
 inimitable, 109 ; servile, not true 
 realism, 197, 198. 
 
 Immaturity, posing of Heine's 
 youthful imitators, 127 ; and 
 see Training. 
 
 Immorality. See Ethics. 
 
 " Impassioned," its meaning, 261. 
 
 Impersonality. See Objectivity. 
 
 Impressionism, of the Nineteenth 
 Century poets, 118; true, 144; 
 how allied to transcendental- 
 ism, 149; its value and defects, 
 1 50 ; and see 1 53. 
 
 Individuality, of certain writers, 
 58; of style, 80; Longfellow's 
 specific tone, 92; Browning's, 
 1 08 ; its loss means death in 
 
 art, 144 ; national, how lost, 
 164 ; the poet's distinctive voice, 
 297 ; and see Subjectivity. 
 
 Industry, differentiated from fac- 
 ulty, 46; of men of genius, 
 278. 
 
 In Memoriam, Tennysor's, 55, 
 
 212, 225, 270. 
 
 Inness, G., painter, 246. 
 
 Insight, the poet as a seer, 22-24 5 
 preceding demonstration, 37 ; 
 the source of revelation, 45, 
 Plato and Wordsworth on, ib. ; 
 allied with genius, 46; the ce- 
 lestial, 65; the Miltonic, 116, 
 117; nature of, 285; as inspi- 
 ration, 287 ; and see 147. 
 
 Inspiration, as a poetic factor, 
 according to Plato and his suc- 
 cessors, 21-24, 46; Zoroaster 
 on, 22; Hebraic, 75; pseudo, 
 235 ; belief in direct, 287 ; the 
 prophetic, 287 ; and see 147. 
 
 Instinct, 284. 
 
 Intellectuality, Browning's, 109; 
 Milton's learning, 116; poetry 
 of wisdom and morals, 211- 
 215 ; and see Thought. 
 
 Intelligibility, 236. 
 
 Intensity, of emotion, 261 ; the 
 dramatic, 273. 
 
 Interpretation, of nature, see 
 Section VI., passim ; Words- 
 worth, Bryant and the Ameri- 
 can School, 195 ; Whitman's 
 and Lanier's, 195, 196; sub- 
 jective, of Nineteenth Century 
 poets, 202-204 ; the pathetic 
 fallacy, 204-210 ; and see Re- 
 velation, Insight, etc.
 
 ANALYTICAL INDEX 
 
 Interpretative Faculty, 26; and 
 see Insight, etc. 
 
 Inter-Transmutation of certain 
 poetic styles, 215. 
 
 INTRODUCTION. Account of the 
 origin, purpose and method of 
 the present treatise, pp. vii-xvii. 
 
 Introspection, conventual, 140 ; 
 and see Subjectivity. 
 
 Intuition, unconscious process of 
 the soul, 147 ; superior to logi- 
 cal process, 157 ; should be 
 obeyed, 284; woman's, 286. 
 
 Invention, fiction its modern out- 
 let, 137, 138; an imaginative 
 function, 237. 
 
 Ion, Euripides, 99. 
 
 Irony. See Satire. 
 
 Irreverence, dangers of artistic, 
 
 158- 
 
 Isabella, Keats, 239. 
 Isaiah, 236. 
 
 Island, The, Byron, 206. 
 " Israfel," Poe, 73. 
 Italian influence, 162. 
 Italian poetry, English obligations 
 
 to, 115 ; of modern Italy, 128. 
 
 JAMES, G. P. R., novelist, 137. 
 
 James, H., novelist, 192. 
 
 Japanese, the, artistic method of, 
 31 ; their literature, 81 ; antipo- 
 dal art ideals of, 162-165 ; they 
 recognize fitness and ideal 
 beauty, 162, 163 ; danger men- 
 acing their individuality, 164; 
 assimilative tendency of, 165. 
 
 " Jeanie Morrison," Motherwell, 
 265. 
 
 Job, The Book of, its grandeur and 
 
 impersonality, 86 ; quoted, 244 ; 
 and see 36, 104, 113, 236. 
 Johns Hopkins University, its ori- 
 gin and founder, 3, 4 ; and see 
 
 61, 93- 
 
 Johnson, Dr., 14. 
 
 Jones, Sir William, 82. 
 
 Jonson, Ben, on language, 51 ; on 
 the English stage, no; plays 
 and songs of, 170; and see 250. 
 
 Joubert, critic, 15, 135; quoted, 
 
 143- 
 
 Joy of the poet, 267. 
 Judaism . See Bible t Poetry of the. 
 Judgment, 284. 
 Julius Cezsar, Shakespeare, 104. 
 
 KEATS, quoted, 67 ; as an artist- 
 poet, 68, 69 ; dramatic promise 
 of, 69, 1 10 ; his place in Eng- 
 lish poetry, no; on immaturity, 
 122; creative works of, 124; on 
 beauty and truth, 187, 220 ; im- 
 aginative diction of, 241 ; his 
 style, 248 ; on intensity, 262 ; 
 quoted, 182 ; and see 10, 60, 75, 
 116, 119, 133, 172, 173, 177, 193, 
 225, 239, 255. 
 
 Kepler, astronomer, quoted, 155. 
 
 Kingsley, Hypatia, 118. 
 
 " Kubla Khan," Coleridge, 125. 
 
 LA FARGE, J., artist, cited, 78, 79 ; 
 
 on Japanese Architecture, 163. 
 Lake School, The, 33. 
 "L* Allegro," Milton, lid. 
 Lamartine, 120. 
 Lamb, C., 162, 170. 
 " Land o' the Leal, The," Lady 
 
 Nairne, 265.
 
 ANALYTICAL INDEX 
 
 Landor, creative works; 124; his 
 " sea-shell," 205, 206 ; cited, 18 ; 
 quoted, 184, 204, 239, 241, 247 ; 
 and see 58, 82, 133, 135, 179, 
 200, 203. 
 
 Landscape. See Descriptive Po- 
 etry, Nature, etc. 
 
 Lang, A., renderings from the 
 Anthology, 89 ; and see 82. 
 
 Language, its efficacy to express 
 ideas, 15, 16; poetry absolutely 
 dependent on, for its concrete 
 existence, 50 ; Ben Jonson on, 
 as speech, 51 ; must become 
 rhythmic to be minstrelsy, 51- 
 55 ; " idealized language," 52 ; 
 vibratory power of words, 52 ; 
 a test of genuineness, 54 ; 
 speech a more complex music 
 than music itself, 72, 179; the 
 Hebrew, 87 ; the genius of our 
 English tongue, 214, its eclec- 
 ticism and increase, 215; and 
 see Diction. 
 
 Lanier, compared with Whitman, 
 196 ; his imagination, 253 ; mu- 
 sical genius of, 282 ; his work 
 tentative, ib. ; and see 62, 158. 
 
 Laocoon, Lessing, 66. 
 
 Latinism, sentiment of Latin po- 
 ets, 90-94 ; Vergil and his mod- 
 ern countertypes, 91 ; Ovid, 
 Catullus, etc., 92 ; Tu Marcel- 
 lus eris, 93 ; Horace and the 
 Horatii, 93, 94. 
 
 Law, natural, the working basis 
 of all art, 6-8 ; poetic, 62. 
 
 Lay of the Last Minstrel, The, 
 Scott, 131, 238. 
 
 Lazarus, Emma, 266. 
 
 Learning, the New, 34 ; and see 
 
 Science. 
 Lee - Hamilton, E., sonnet by, 
 
 206. 
 
 Leighton, Sir F., painter, 279. 
 Leopardi, 133. 
 
 Les Precieuses, Moliere, 100. 
 Les Trots Mousquetaires, Dumas, 
 
 137- 
 
 Life, conduct of, 5 ; the poet su- 
 preme among artists in the por- 
 trayal of, 70, 71. 
 
 Life School, prospective rise of a, 
 211. 
 
 Light of Asia, The, E. Arnold, 82, 
 
 235- 
 
 Limitations, of specific genius, 
 80, 283 ; charmingly observed 
 by the Horatii, 94 ; and see 
 288. 
 
 Lincoln, Abraham, 143. 
 
 " Lines to an Indian Air," Shel- 
 ley, 266. 
 
 Liszt, musician, 9, 232. 
 
 Literary eras. See Periods, liter- 
 ary and artistic. 
 
 Liturgy, The Church, as a literary 
 masterpiece of Faith, 291-294 ; 
 its universal and human quality, 
 292 ; symphonic perfection, 293 ; 
 its uniqueness, ib. 
 
 " Local " Flavor, Lowell's taste 
 for American lyrics, 200 ; a 
 home-field for our sculptors, ib. 
 
 " Locks! ey Hall," Tennyson, 270. 
 
 Lodge, O. J., physicist, 35. 
 
 Lombroso, C., a theory of, 284. 
 
 Longfellow, the New World coun- 
 terpart of Vergil, 91 ; " Gaspar 
 Becerra," 220 ; his national po-
 
 ANALYTICAL INDEX 
 
 319 
 
 etry, 268 ; quoted, 30, 260 ; and 
 see 136, 203, 225, 235, 289. 
 
 Longinus, cited by Dryden, 18. 
 
 Long Poem, A, is the designation 
 a misnomer? 178. 
 
 Lorna Doone, Blackmore, 137. 
 
 " Lost Occasion, The," Whittier, 
 268. 
 
 "Lotos-Eaters, The," Tennyson, 
 177. 
 
 Love as a master-passion, 260. 
 
 Lovelace, R., 167, 171. 
 
 Lowell, on faith and science, 57 ; 
 on Addison and Steele, 100; 
 his national sentiment, 129 ; his 
 truth to nature, 190 ; his re- 
 spect for " local " flavor, 200 ; 
 on our view of nature, quoted, 
 207 ; verbal aptness of, 242 ; 
 Odes, 267 ; on talent and gen- 
 ius, 278; quoted, 144, 180, 188; 
 and see 4, 27, 136, 162, 195, 203, 
 213. 
 
 Lucile, Lytton, 237. 
 
 Lucretius, 75, 91, 212, 217. 
 
 " Lucretius," Tennyson, 270. 
 
 Lusiad, The, Camoens, 112, 244. 
 
 Lyall, Sir A., quoted, 182. 
 
 "Lycidas," Milton, 90, 116; quo- 
 ted, 1 02. 
 
 Lyrical Ballads, Wordsworth and 
 Coleridge, 21. 
 
 Lyrical Poetry, not always sub- 
 jective, 83 ; the Davidic lyre, 
 84, 85 ; early alliance with mu- 
 sic, 85; the Greek lyrists, 87, 
 88 ; Catullus, et al., 92 ; Horace 
 and his successors, 93 ; primi- 
 tive ballads, etc., 94 ; songs of 
 the drama, 105 ; Ariel's songs, 
 
 107 ; characteristics of the pure 
 lyric, 178-180 ; and see 264, 
 265, also Songs and Lyrics. 
 Lytton, Robert, Lord, Lucille, 237. 
 
 MACAULAY, on poets as critics, 12 
 Macpherson, 58. 
 Mahaffy, J. P., scholar, 88. 
 Manzoni, 210. 
 Marlowe, 167, 238, 249. 
 Marmion, Scott, 131, 135. 
 Marseillaise, La, De 1'Isle, 266. 
 Martin, Homer, painter, 246. 
 Martineau, Harriet, quoted, 76. 
 Mary Stuart, Swinburne, 132. 
 Masculinity, impersonality the 
 
 major key of song, 127. 
 Masque of the Gods, The, Taylor, 
 
 254. 
 
 Masque, The (Elizabethan), 107. 
 
 Masterpieces, appeal to the pub- 
 lic and the critical few, 197 ; the 
 Church Liturgy, 291 et seq. 
 
 Masters, the, their influence on 
 youth, 10. 
 
 Materialism, 3 ; Whitman on, 38. 
 
 Materials, poetic, not a substitute 
 for imagination, 235. 
 
 Maxwell, C., scientist, 35. 
 
 Mediocrity of followers in art, 151. 
 
 " Meditations of a Hindu Prince," 
 Lyall, 182. 
 
 Meleager, 89. 
 
 " Melencolia," Diirer, 140 (and 
 see Frontispiece). 
 
 Melodramatic quality, Hugo, 119, 
 
 Melody, as heard or symbolized, 
 174; of speech and of niusic, 
 179 ; the " dying fall," 183. 
 
 Men and Women, Browning, 109.
 
 320 
 
 ANALYTICAL INDEX 
 
 Menzel, critic, cited, 1 18. 
 
 Meredith, G., 42, 137. 
 
 Metaphysics, hostile to a true aes- 
 thetic, 149 ; effect upon Cole- 
 ridge, 239 ; and see Didacti- 
 cism. 
 
 Michelangelo, 50, 101, 233, 247, 
 272. 
 
 " Midsummer Meditation, A," 
 Gilder, 257. 
 
 Midsummer Nighfs Dream, 
 Shakespeare, 189, 201, 248. 
 
 Mill, J. S., on philosophy, 16 ; on 
 poetry as emotion, 19, 20 ; on 
 feeling and rhythm, 55 ; on the 
 novelist and the poet, 138 ; on 
 feeling and thought, 261 ; and 
 see 178. 
 
 Millais, Sir J., painter, 279. 
 
 Miller, " Olive Thorne " [Harriet 
 M.], 62. 
 
 Millet, J. F., painter, 10, 255. 
 
 Milton, his poetic canon, 27, 49, 
 260 ; tractate On Education, 27 ; 
 as a Copernican, 35 ; his prose, 
 59; early poems of, 168; Co- 
 mus, 236 ; his Satan, 238 ; his 
 imaginative words and phrases, 
 240 et seq. ; his imagination, 
 245 ; quoted, 53 ; and see 58, 
 76, 90, 113, 172, 193, 226,248, 
 250, 269, 287, 290. 
 
 " Miltonic," 240. 
 
 Miltonic Canon, the, its consti- 
 tuent of passion, 260, 261 ; and 
 see 27, 49. 
 
 " Milton in his Blindness," How- 
 ell, 266. 
 
 "Mimnermus in Church," Cory, 
 183. 
 
 Minor Poets, 80; the creative 
 masters in youth, 101 ; recent, 
 their merits and defects, 136, 
 226, 227, 254 ; the new art- 
 school, 173. 
 
 Mirth, 275. 
 
 Mixed type, poetry of the, 113, 
 114. 
 
 Moliere, 100, 283. 
 
 Moore, T., states the Byronic 
 creed, 19. 
 
 Monet, Claude, painter, 158. 
 
 Monodramas, 109. 
 
 Monticelli, painter, 158. 
 
 Moralism. See Didacticism, etc. 
 
 More, Henry, quoted, 286. 
 
 Morris, W., contrasted with Wal- 
 ter Scott, 131 ; and Chaucer, 
 170. 
 
 Moschus, paraphrase on a pas- 
 sage in Job, 90 ; Epitaph on 
 Bion, 90. 
 
 Motherwell, W., 266. 
 
 Motive, recent lack of, 289. 
 
 Mozart, musical genius of, 281. 
 
 Murfree, Fanny N. D., novelist, 
 quoted, 208, 209. 
 
 Music, as a sensation, 15; La- 
 nier's devotion to, 62, 282 ; its 
 range and limits of expression, 
 and as compared with poetry, 
 64-66 ; special functions, 64 ; is 
 it the highest art ? ib. ; Poe on, 
 65 ; Schopenhauer and Spencer 
 on, 65 ; expresses feeling, not 
 thought, 66; its effect on the 
 rhythm, etc., of the Hebrew 
 psalms, 85 ; philosophy of, 179; 
 the musician's memory, 232 ; 
 and see 264.
 
 ANALYTICAL INDEX 
 
 321 
 
 Musset, 120, 290. 
 
 Muybridge, E. J., his instantane- 
 ous photography, 198, 199. 
 
 Myers, F. W. H., on genius, 
 282. 
 
 " My Last Duchess," Browning, 
 109. 
 
 "My Maryland," Randall, 266. 
 
 NAIRNE, LADY, 264. 
 
 Naivete, of the Psalms, etc., 85 ; 
 and see 180, also Naturalness. 
 
 Narrative poetry, inferior in real- 
 ism to dramatic, 107 ; see Ob- 
 jectivity. 
 
 National sentiment, the modern 
 Italian, 1 28 ; of American verse, 
 129. 
 
 Naturalism, 197 ; the true, 273. 
 
 Naturalness, excellence of genu- 
 ine feeling, 142; return of, 173; 
 makes for simplicity, 176; affec- 
 tation of, 177 ; method should 
 seem unconscious, 193 ; and see 
 264. 
 
 Nature, trains the poet, 10 ; Mil- 
 ton's treatment of, 116; normal 
 beauty of, 156, 157; poetry of, 
 from Wordsworth and Bryant 
 to Lanier, 194-196; subjective 
 in recent times, 202-204 ! the 
 modern return to, 204 ; does 
 she give solace and sympathy ? 
 204-209 ; full of motion and 
 unrest, 208; the sovereign of 
 modern art and song, 210; her 
 triumph too prolonged, 211; 
 universally set forth by Shake- 
 speare, 229; and Wordsworth's 
 similes, 250. 
 
 Neo-impressionism, 1 53 ; and see 
 Impression ism . 
 
 Neo-Romanticism, 130. 
 
 " Neurotic disorder," the ques- 
 tion of, 284. 
 
 Newcomes, The, Thackeray, 137. 
 
 Nibelungen Lied, 131. 
 
 Nineteenth Century, literary emi- 
 nence of, 138; its idealization 
 of Nature, in art and poetry, 
 210; Wordsworth's place in, 
 219. 
 
 Norse poetry, sages, 78. 
 
 Notre Dame de Paris, Hugo, 137. 
 
 Novalis, 142. 
 
 Novel, the, and Novelists. See 
 Prose Fiction. 
 
 Novels in verse, 237. 
 
 Novelty, romantic effect of 
 strangeness, 151 ; stimulates 
 zest, 1 60. 
 
 OBJECTIVITY, creative and imper- 
 sonal poetry, 75-110, passim ; 
 absolute vision, 77, 78 ; creative 
 eras, 79 ; of the Book of Job, 
 86 ; the Hebrew idyls, 87, 175; 
 primitive ballads, 94 ; charm 
 of, in the antique, 96, 97 ; the 
 Greek drama, 97-101 ; the dra- 
 matic genius, 104 ; impersonal- 
 ity of the old masters, 107 ; 
 Homer, in ; Chaucer, 115; 
 Burns, 120 ; its restorative 
 charm, 121; of certain produc- 
 tions of Shelley, Keats, Landor, 
 124; masculine, and in the 
 major key, 127; pseudo-imper- 
 sonality of artistic recent verse, 
 130, 131 ; Walter Scott, 131 ;
 
 322 
 
 ANALYTICAL INDEX 
 
 Arnold's theory and epical 
 studies, 133, 134; the "note of 
 the inevitable," 134 ; our greater 
 prose fiction, 137, 138 ; not the 
 chief test of poetic genius, 139 ; 
 of the antique, compared with 
 the muse of Christendom, 139- 
 143 ; its invigorating value, 142 ; 
 not the final test of poetry, 144 ; 
 may be tame and artificial, ib. ; 
 the antique view of nature, 207 ; 
 creation of impassioned types, 
 270-273 ; and see 250. 
 
 Obscurity, 235. 
 
 " Ode on a Grecian Urn," Keats, 
 67, 187- 
 
 Odes, Lowell's and Emerson's, 
 267. 
 
 Odyssey, The, 131 ; and see Ho- 
 mer. 
 
 CEdipus at Colonos, Sophocles, 
 190, 238. 
 
 CEdipus Tyrannus, Sophocles, 
 98, 104. 
 
 " OZnone," Tennyson, 177, 200, 
 242. 
 
 " Old Pictures in Florence," 
 Browning, 170. 
 
 Omar Khayyam, Rubdiydt of, 
 Fitzgerald, 82, 212. 
 
 " On a Bust of Dante," Parsons, 
 
 254- 
 On Education, Milton's tractate, 
 
 27. 
 
 On the Heights, Auerbach, 137. 
 " On the Receipt of my Mother's 
 
 Picture," Cowper, 274. 
 Optimism, of sovereign poets, 
 
 290 ; and see 295, 296. 
 Orientalism, Zoroaster, 22 ; Japa- 
 
 nese art, 31 ; the Asiatic inspi- 
 ration, how far understood and 
 transformed by us, 81, 82 ; He- 
 brew genius and poetry, 82, 87 ; 
 influence on the Alexandrian 
 school, 90; Firdusi, in ; In- 
 dia, China, etc., 162 ; ano 1 see 
 244, also Hebraism, the Japa- 
 nese, Poetry of the Bible, etc. 
 
 Originality, distinguished from 
 skill, 60 ; not discordant with 
 universal principles, 151 ; of 
 genius, 277, 283. 
 
 Orion; Home, 29. 
 
 Orlando Innamorato, Ariosto, 
 112. 
 
 Outline, 246. 
 
 Ovid, cited, 19 ; and see 92. 
 
 PAGANISM, 112; and see The 
 Antique. 
 
 Painting, Guide's Aurora, 29 ; 
 the Oriental and the Western 
 methods of vision, 31, 32 ; the 
 born painter, 53 ; its powers and 
 limits, 63 ; must avoid a liter- 
 ary cast, 7 1 ; superior to poetry 
 in depicting visible nature, 202 ; 
 and see 282. 
 
 " Palace of Art, The," Tennyson, 
 167. 
 
 Palgrave, F. T., quoted, 136; and 
 see 172. 
 
 Paradise Lost, Milton, 35, 238, 
 
 245- 
 
 Paradise, II, Dante, 174. 
 Parnassiens, the French, 130. 
 Parsons, T. W., " On a Bust of 
 
 Dante," 114; and see 254. 
 Passion, The Romantic view of
 
 ANALYTICAL INDEX 
 
 323 
 
 Poetry as the lyrical expression 
 of Emotion, 19, 20, 262 ; exalted 
 national feeling, 83 ; intensity 
 of Hebraic emotion, 83-85; Sap- 
 pho, 87, 88 ; of Mrs. Browning's 
 sonnets, 128; " Eloisa to Abe- 
 lard," 214; subdued in mod- 
 ern poetry, 227 ; as the force 
 and excitant of imaginative ex- 
 pression, 257, 260-276; required 
 by the Miltonic canon, 27, 260, 
 261 ; defined, ib. ; not love 
 alone, 260 ; as intense emotion, 
 261 ; its use of imagination, ib. ; 
 must be genuine and pure, 262 ; 
 modern understanding of, 262, 
 263 ; of Wordsworth, its limits, 
 263 ; as Feeling and Sentiment, 
 264, 265 ; of women poets, 266 ; 
 of ardor, joy, grief, etc., 266- 
 268 ; Whittier's, 268 ; as art's 
 highest theme, ib. ; its human 
 element, 269 ; Tennyson's, in 
 youth and age, ib. ; creation of 
 its objective types, 270-272 ; 
 exaltation through intense sen- 
 sations, 271, 272 ; reserved 
 power of, 273 ; absolute dra- 
 matic, 273, 274; its occasional 
 lulls, 275 ; excited by great oc- 
 casions, 276, 288; of the cries 
 of Faith, 292 ; and see 5, 166, 
 also Emotion, Feeling, and The 
 Romantic School. 
 
 Pastoral Verse. See Greek Bu- 
 colic Poetry, Nature, Idyllic Po- 
 etry, etc. 
 
 Pater, W., quoted, 159. 
 
 " Pathetic Fallacy," the, Ruskin's 
 phrase and explanation, 204; 
 
 consideration of, 204-210 ; 
 whether our feeling concern- 
 ing nature is an illusion, 205 ; 
 illustrated by Landor and 
 Wordsworth's treatment of the 
 sea-shell's murmur, 205, 206 ; 
 Lee-Hamilton's sonnet on, 206 ; 
 Lowell on, 207 ; the " illusion " 
 likely to be cherished, 209. 
 
 Patrician Verse, "The Rape of 
 the Lock," 214. 
 
 Pattison, Mark, on poetical prose 
 and the prose of poets, 58 ; 
 quoted, 268. 
 
 Payne, John, 82. 
 
 Pentameron, The, Landor, 125. 
 
 Percival, J. C, 190. 
 
 Pert Goriot, Balzac, 137. 
 
 Pericles and Aspasia, Landor, 124, 
 125. 
 
 Periods, Literary and Artistic, 
 how to determine their quality, 
 226; reactionary, 275 ; the 
 older American, 276; heroic, 
 culminating, etc., ib. ; and see 
 Alexandrian Period, Composite 
 Period, Elizabethan Period, 
 Georgian Period, Queen Anne's 
 Time, Victorian Period, etc. 
 
 Persia, Poetry of, in. 
 
 Personality. See Subjectivity. 
 
 Pessimism, 291. 
 
 Pheiclias, 150. 
 
 Philip Van Artevelde, Taylor, 104. 
 
 Philistinism, British, 123 ; Heine's 
 revolt against, 126 ; and see 222, 
 290. 
 
 Philosophical Poetry, that of 
 wisdom and ethics. See Didac- 
 ticism, Ethics, and Truth.
 
 324 
 
 ANALYTICAL INDEX 
 
 Photographic Method, lessons 
 taught by Muybridge's camera, 
 198, 199 ; not to be closely fol- 
 lowed, 199 ; and see Realism. 
 
 " Pied Piper, The," Browning, 
 215. 
 
 Pilot, The, Cooper, 137. 
 
 Pindar, not strictly subjective, 83, 
 87 ; and see 87, 142, 251. 
 
 Pippa Passes, Browning, 55. 
 
 Plato, and Aristotle, 17; his con- 
 ception of poetry and the poet, 
 21-24; "The Republic," 21 ; a 
 poet-philosopher, 22; his pu- 
 pils, 22-24 - f on insight, 45 ; on 
 inspiration, 46 ; and modern 
 transcendentalism, 149; and see 
 
 20, 57. 
 
 Platonism, its drawbacks, 24 ; and 
 see Plato. 
 
 Plautus, loo. 
 
 Plot, 174. 
 
 Plotinus, 23. 
 
 Poe, on the form of words, 1 5 ; 
 definition of poetry, 26, 151 et 
 seq. ; on music, 65 ; quoted, 73 ; 
 his passion, 267; and see 133, 
 178, 183, 242, 283. 
 
 Poet, the, his freedom, 20 ; Pla- 
 tonic idea of, 21 ; Plato's ban- 
 ishment of, from The Republic, 
 
 21, 22; his two functions, 28 et 
 seq. ; how affected by the new 
 learning, 34-36 ; compared with 
 the savant, 36, 37 ; his province 
 inalienable, 38 ; a creator, 44 ; 
 a revealer, 45 ; his power of ex- 
 pression, 47 ; his wisdom, 48 ; 
 sensitiveness, 49; must be a 
 born rhythmist, 53 ; as a writer 
 
 of prose, 57, 58 ; pseudo-poets, 
 60 ; must be articulate, 62 ; 
 Lessing on, 71 ; may use all 
 artistic effects, id. ; Emerson, 
 149; a phenomenalist, 155, 156; 
 sees and restores the beautiful, 
 157 ; expresses his true nature 
 and his work, 167 ; his youthful 
 passion for the beautiful, 168; 
 his rendering of nature, 188 et 
 seq.; cannot depict landscape 
 like the painter, 202 ; nature's 
 subjective interpreter, 202, 203 ; 
 the coming poet, 211 ; Pope 
 213, 214; Shelley, 218; his 
 final recognition of beauteous 
 verity, 220, 221 ; his religious 
 point of view, 221-223; an an- 
 ecdote, 234 ; Joubert on the 
 true poet, 235 ; rarely a sensu- 
 alist, 246 ; his imaginative real- 
 ism, 254 ; his godlike creative 
 gift, 256, 257 ; his vital spark, 
 259 ; Mill on, 261 ; Poe and 
 Emerson, 267 ; " of the first 
 order," 268 ; his line of advance, 
 269 ; Stendhal on, 272 ; how 
 begotten, 276 ; elder American 
 poets, ib. ; must have the "fac- 
 ulty divine," 277 ; genius of, 
 277-285 ; Carlyle on, 278 ; origi- 
 nality of, 283 ; his noble discon- 
 tent, 286 ; the Vates, 287 ; his 
 modern distrust, 288ftsey. ; his 
 station higher than the critic's, 
 297 ; and see Female Poets, 
 Poetry, nonpros, etc. 
 
 Poetic Principle, The, Poe's lec- 
 ture, 26. 
 
 POETRY, as a force in human life
 
 ANALYTICAL INDEX 
 
 325 
 
 and action, 3 ; why sometimes 
 esteemed too lightly, 5, 14; to 
 be observed scientifically, 6, 
 and in the concrete, 8 ; why its 
 definition is needed, 8 ; it is vo- 
 cal, 9 ; as a sensation, 15 ; his- 
 toric views and definitions of, 
 17-28; the antique view, Aris- 
 totle, Horace, 17 ; Chapman, 
 Dryden, Landor, Goethe, 18, 
 
 Arnold, 19, traversed by 
 Heine, 18; the Romantic, or 
 Emotional view, 19, 20, By- 
 ron, Moore, Mills, 19, Bas- 
 com, Ruskin, 20 ; not opposed 
 to Prose, ib. ; stress laid upon 
 Imagination by Wordsworth and 
 Coleridge, 20, by Schopen- 
 hauer, 21 ; the Platonic view, 
 Plato in " The Republic," etc, 
 21 et seq. ; Zoroaster cited, 22, 
 
 Cicero, 22, Bacon, Sid- 
 ney, Plotinus, Carlyle, Emerson, 
 Harris, 23, 24 ; partial failure 
 of all statements, 24, 25 ; clearer 
 modern views, the artistic, 
 Hazlitt, Hunt, Shelley, Watts, 
 25, 26, 28 ; the aesthetic view, 
 Poe, 26 ; a phrase of Milton, 
 
 27, of Arnold, 27; the state- 
 ment still incomplete, 28; poe- 
 try as the antithesis to Science, 
 
 28, what this means, ib. ; il- 
 lustrated, 29, 30; effect of ex- 
 act science on, 33, 37 ; Profes- 
 sor Hardy's view of, 36 ; Tyn- 
 dall on, 39 ; Defined and exam- 
 ined in relation to the other Fine 
 Arts, 41-73 ; the present a fit 
 time for its consideration, 42; its 
 
 spirit not reducible to terms, 
 42 ; a force, 43, which enters the 
 concrete, ib. ; DEFINITION OF 
 POETRY IN THE CONCRETE, 44; 
 a creation, through invention 
 and expression, 44; a revela- 
 tion, through insight, 45, 46; 
 as an expression of beauty and 
 truth, 46-48 ; as an expression 
 of intellectual thought, 48, of 
 emotion, 49; as eminently an 
 art of speech, 50 ; its language 
 essentially rhythmical, 51-56, 
 62 ; its vibratory thrills, their 
 rationale, 52 ; rhythmical factors 
 of, 54 ; its rhythmical impulse 
 spontaneous, and equal to the 
 degree of emotion, 54, 55 ; how 
 different from other forms of 
 creative expression, 55, from 
 imaginative prose fiction, 56, 
 from rhetoric, eloquence, etc., 
 59 ; rhyme, etc., 56 ; often, how- 
 ever, may be cast in rhythmical 
 prose form, 58 ; conforms to law, 
 consciously or otherwise, 62 ; 
 must be articulate, 62, 63 ; com- 
 pared with music and the arts 
 of design, 63-71 ; closely allied 
 with music, 64 ; its achieve- 
 ments and limitations with re- 
 spect to sculpture, 67, to 
 painting, 68 ; surpasses the rival 
 arts by command of vocal move- 
 ment, thus infusing Life, 69-71 ; 
 compact analysis and summary 
 of, 71, 72; universal range of, 
 75 ; divided into two main 
 streams, the impersonal, or 
 creative, and the personal, or self-
 
 326 
 
 ANALYTICAL INDEX 
 
 expressive, 76-81 ; its technical 
 partition, into the epic, dra- 
 matic, lyric, etc., 76 ; impersonal 
 or unconditioned song, 77-81, 
 94-101, 104 ; creative master- 
 pieces, 78, 79 ; self-expressive 
 or subjective song, 80 tt seq., 
 and 111-145, passim; eastern 
 Asiatic, 81 ; Hebraic, 82-87 ; 
 Hellenic, 87-90 ; Latin, 90-94 ; 
 must not be disillusionized, 96 ; 
 the grand drama, 101-107 ; 
 modern and subjective drama, 
 108-110 ; Persian, Firdusi, 
 etc., in; Italian and Portu- 
 guese epics, 112; the "Divina 
 Commedia " and Dante, 112- 
 115; allegorical, "the Fairie 
 Queene," 114; from Chaucer 
 to Milton, 115 ; the great Puri- 
 tan epic, " Paradise Lost," 
 115-117; poetry of the Nine- 
 teenth Century, 118; the Ro- 
 mantic Movement, 118-120 ; 
 Goethe, Hugo, etc., 119; of 
 Burns, 120; of Byron, 120-123; 
 Wertherism, 121; of sentiment 
 in youth, 122 ; of Shelley, Keats, 
 Landor, Coleridge, etc., 123- 
 125; of Unrest, Heine, 125- 
 127 ; its masculine and feminine 
 elements, or the major and 
 minor keys of lyric song, 127 ; 
 of Mrs. Browning, 128 ; of na- 
 tional sentiment, 1 28 ; of art for 
 art's sake, 129 et seq. ; of the 
 Pre-Raphaelites, Parnassiens, 
 Neo - Romanticists, 129, 130; 
 latter-day verse, 130, 131 ; of 
 Scott and W. Morris, con- 
 
 trasted, 131 ; of Swinburne, 
 131-133 ; of M. Arnold, in 
 view of his early theory, 133- 
 135 ; of the composite era, 136 ; 
 of the antique, and that of 
 Christendom, an estimate of 
 our loss and gain, 139-143 ; how 
 it must be tested, 144 ; as an 
 artistic expression of the beauti- 
 ful, 147-185; Poe's definition of, 
 151, 152; movements for greater 
 freedom and variety in, 158 ; 
 translations of, 166; made en- 
 during by beauty, through natu- 
 ral selection, 166-172; concrete 
 beauty of, 167, 168 ; survival of 
 classic masterpieces, 168, 169; 
 beauty of our English, 170-172 ; 
 modern art school of, 173; ele- 
 ments of its concrete perfec- 
 tion, 173-180; primitive rhap- 
 sody, 175 ; the vox humana, 
 178 ; Mill and Poe on " a long 
 poem," 178 ; the pure lyric, 
 178-180; its note of evanes- 
 cence, 181-185 5 trie didactic 
 heresy, 187 ; element of Truth 
 in, 187-223 ; " description," its 
 strength and weakness, 189, 190, 
 202 ; breadth of, vs. analysis, 
 191-193; naturalness, 193; "re- 
 flection," of nature, 194-196 ; 
 realistic, 196-199; local flavor, 
 200 ; subjective expression of 
 nature, 202-204; "the pathetic 
 fallacy " in, illustrated by Lan- 
 dor, Wordsworth, etc., and re- 
 futed by Lee-Hamilton, 204- 
 207 ; of nature, its modern im- 
 portance, 210; a life -school
 
 ANALYTICAL INDEX 
 
 327 
 
 needed, 211; of wisdom, the | 
 higher philosophical, 211-217; 
 elements of humor in, 215; 
 true, yet free, 219, 220 ; lack of 
 imagination and passion in re- 
 cent, 225-227 ; other modern 
 traits of, 225, 226; the imagina- 
 tive element in, 225-258 ; " spas- 
 modic," 235 ; obscurity, ib. : its 
 peopled wonderland, 238 ; sug- 
 gestive, 239; diction of, 240 et 
 seq. ; supernaturalism in, 236, 
 243 ; of the Vague, 246 ; of 
 Fancy, 247 ; English, 249 ; " ele- 
 mental," 250-254; passion its 
 incentive, 257 ; as product of "the 
 faculty divine," 259-297 ; ele- 
 ment of Passion in, 260-276; 
 Wordsworth's statement of, 
 263; of Scotland, 264; of Eng- 
 lish sentiment, 265, of Ameri- 
 can, 267, 268 ; of intense emo- 
 tions and impassioned types, 
 270 et seq. ; true naturalism of, 
 273 ; the absolutely dramatic, 
 274 ; of heroic crises, 276, 288 ; 
 Genius, 277-285 ; Insight, Inspi- 
 ration, etc., 285-288 ; of Pro- 
 phecy, 287 ; Faith indispensable 
 to, 288-294 ; of the Church Lit- 
 urgy, 291 et seq. ; future of, 
 296; concerning the study of, 
 296, 297 ; its present dissemina- 
 tion, 297 ; and see INTRODUC- 
 TION, passim, also Analytic Po- 
 etry, Bible, Christendom, Chris~ 
 tianity, Descriptive Poetry, Dra- 
 matic Poetry, Elegiac Poetry, 
 Epic Poetry, Gnomic Poetry, 
 Heroic Poetry, Idyllic Poetry, 
 
 Lyrical Poetry, Narrative PC 
 etry, Norse Poetry, Orientalism, 
 Reflective Poetry, Society-Verse, 
 etc. 
 
 POETS OF AMERICA, by the author 
 of this volume: references to, 
 35, 101, 137, 160, 190, 211, 226, 
 246, 252, 268. 
 
 rioiTjT^y, Aristotle on, 17. 
 
 Pope, Byron on, 19; question of 
 his genius, 213-215; his didac- 
 ticism, 213; was he a poet? ib. ; 
 compared with modern leaders, 
 215; and see 116, 172. 
 
 Prayer Book, the Episcopal. See 
 The Church Liturgy. 
 
 Pre-Raphaelitism, concurrent in 
 various arts, 50 ; and see 1 58, 
 225. 
 
 Pretension of would-be genius, 
 280. 
 
 Prevision of the imagination, 239. 
 
 Primitive Poetry, sagas, folk-lore, 
 ballads, etc., 78. 
 
 Prince Deukalion, Taylor, 254. 
 
 Princess, The, Tennyson, 237, 264. 
 
 Prior, 94. 
 
 " Problem, The," Emerson, 55. 
 
 Procter, B. W., 179. 
 
 Production, rather than motive, 
 the test, 169. 
 
 Prometheus Bound, ^Eschylus, 98, 
 104. 
 
 Prometheus Unbound, Shelley, 
 124, 132. 
 
 Prophetic Faculty, the poet as 
 Vates, 23 ; the Hebraic, 84 ; of 
 Blake, 234 ; its vision, 285 ; and 
 see 287, also Inspiration. 
 
 Prose, the antithesis of verse, 20 ;
 
 328 
 
 ANALYTICAL INDEX 
 
 injured by use of poetic rhythm, 
 
 57, 59 ; the prose of poets, 58, 
 
 of various rhapsodists, ib. ; 
 
 the rhythmical prose form, ib. ; 
 
 Arnold's, 294 ; and see Fiction. 
 Protagonists of the grand drama, 
 
 104. 
 
 Proven9al Poetry, 168. 
 Prudhomme, Sully, 131. 
 Psalms, the Hebrew, 84, 85. 
 Psychical Quality, 177. 
 Psychological School, 80. 
 Public Opinwn, ultimate, to be 
 
 respected, 277. 
 
 Purpose, must be earnest, 288, 289. 
 Puttenham, George, quoted, 198. 
 
 QUALITY, the grace of lyric poets, 
 
 178. 
 
 Queen Anne's time, 213, 214. 
 Quintus, 169. 
 Quotations, miscellaneous, 30, 90, 
 
 140, 222, 285, 296. 
 
 RACE, 81 ; Latin traits distin- 
 guished from the Greek, 90 ; 
 Latin quality and Gothic, 264; 
 and see Hebraism, Hellenism, 
 Japanese, etc. 
 
 Randall, J. R., 266. 
 
 "Randolph of Roanoke," Whit- 
 tier, 268. 
 
 Rape of the Lock, The, Pope, 214, 
 215. 
 
 Raphael, 150; cited, 197. 
 
 Raphaelitism, Academic, 157. 
 
 Ratiocination. See Analytic Po- 
 etry. 
 
 Reaction. See Periods, Literary. 
 
 Realism, dramatic, 107; lacking 
 
 in Milton's early poems, 116; 
 and romanticism, 145, 199; and 
 beauty, 150 ; descriptive de- 
 tails, 190; of the Elizabethan 
 drama, 191 ; Whitman's, true 
 and false, 196 ; not a display of 
 facts, ib. ; not a servile imita- 
 tion, 197 ; Tennyson on, 198 ; 
 must conform to human percep- 
 tions, 198, 199; photography, 
 199 ; should be idealized, ib. 
 
 " Reapers, The," Theocritus, 179. 
 
 Reason, or intellectual method, 
 284. 
 
 Recent Poetry, characteristics of, 
 288, 289. 
 
 Reflective Poetry, a modern type, 
 76 ; of Wordsworth, 189 ; of 
 Nature, W T ordsworth and Bry- 
 ant, 194, 195 ; Wordsworth's 
 self -contemplation, 203, 204; 
 modern speculation, 207 ; and 
 see Truth, Didacticism, etc. 
 
 Religion, its " conflict with sci- 
 ence," 33 ; piety of the artist's 
 labors, 221, his conception 
 of Deity, 222 ; the God of truth 
 also the God of art, joy, song, 
 222, 223. 
 
 Renaissance, 112 ; tentative re- 
 volts and new movements in 
 art, 158-161; the Italian, 160; 
 the "Colonial" revival, 161. 
 
 Repose in art and poetry, 273. 
 
 Republic, The, Plato's, 21, 22. 
 
 Republicanism, its " applied " im- 
 agination, 229. 
 
 Reserve, professional, cause of, 
 12-14. 
 
 Reserved Power, 272, 273.
 
 ANALYTICAL INDEX 
 
 329 
 
 Retentive Faculty. See Imagina- 
 tion. 
 
 Revelation, of scientific truth, 33 
 et seq. ; through poetic insight, 
 45 ; and see Inspiration and In- 
 sight. 
 
 Revolt, Poetry of, 123-126, pas- 
 sim. 
 
 Reynolds, Sir Joshua, 50; as an 
 Academician, 161, 162. 
 
 Rhapsodists, the, 9 ; primitive re- 
 counters, 79. 
 
 Rhetoric, and Poetry, Milton on, 
 27 ; and see 59. 
 
 Rhyme, " a memory and a hope," 
 54 ; not essential to rhythm, 56 ; 
 uses of, ib. ; " the Walkers and 
 Barnums," 77. 
 
 Rhythm, its importance empha- 
 sized by Shelley, Watts, and 
 others, 25, 26 ; Poe on, 26 ; the 
 guild-mark of uttered poetry, 
 51-59 ; its universal and myste- 
 rious potency in nature and art, 
 51, 52; vibrations of, 52; is 
 spontaneous, 53 ; method, fac- 
 tors, and phenomena, 54, 56 ; 
 correspondence with linguistic 
 meaning, ib. ; Mill on, 55 ; po- 
 etic, distinct from that of prose, 
 and out of place in prose, 56- 
 59 ; freed by Milton, 1 16 ; splen- 
 dor and melody of Shelley's 
 and of Swinburne's, 132 ; dan- 
 gers of excessive, 132, 133 ; 
 search for new effects, 1 58 ; 
 Whitman's and Lanier's at- 
 tempts to make symphonic, 196 ; 
 Cowper and the return to flexi- 
 ble verse, 214 
 
 Richter (" Jean Paul "), 58, 183. 
 
 Rime of the Ancient Mariner, The, 
 Coleridge, 236, 238. 
 
 Ring and the Book, The, Brown- 
 ing, 192. 
 
 " Rizpah," Tennyson, 270. 
 
 Romance, Prose. See Fiction. 
 
 Romanticism, emotional concep- 
 tion of poetry, by Byron, Moore, 
 Mill, etc., 19, 20; " The Roman- 
 tic School," ib., 118, traits and 
 leaders of, 1 18-127, theory of> 
 262 ; vs. realism, 145, 199 ; the 
 true, 151 ; French and German, 
 243 ; its key note, 267. 
 
 Romantic School, The, Heine, f 18. 
 
 Romola, Mrs. Cross, 137. 
 
 Ronsard, 171. 
 
 Rood, O. N., scientist, 35. 
 
 " Rose Aylmer," Landor, 184. 
 
 Rossetti, Christina, 269. 
 
 Rossetti, D. G., human passion of, 
 269 ; and see 130, 131, 158, 168, 
 238, 283. 
 
 Rousseau, painter, 246. 
 
 Rowland, H. A., physicist, 35. 
 
 Rubdiydt, Omar Khayyam, 212 ; 
 quoted, 217. 
 
 Rubinstein, A., musician, 9. 
 
 Rules, their inefficiency, II. 
 
 Ruskin, on the nature of poetry, 
 20 ; on the "pathetic fallacy," 
 204 et seq. ; cited, 142 ; and see 
 
 So, 58- 
 Ruth, The Book of, 175. 
 
 SADNESS, an effect of beauty, 267. 
 Sainte-Beuve, critic, 143. 
 Salvini, actor, no. 
 [ Samson Agonistes, Milton, 116.
 
 330 
 
 ANALYTICAL INDEX 
 
 Sanborn, F. B., 22. 
 
 Sanity of genius, 284. 
 
 Sappho, genius and relics of, 87, 
 
 88 ; and see 262. 
 Satire and Irony Dante, 114; 
 
 Heine's mocking note, 127. 
 Saturday Review, The, on genius, 
 
 279. 
 
 " Saul," Browning, 109. 
 Savant, the. See Science. 
 Scarlet Letter, The, Hawthorne, 
 
 55. '37- 
 
 Schiller, on rhythm, 54; quoted, 
 108 ; and see 18, 237. 
 
 Schlegel, A. W., on Taste, 47; 
 cited, 92; and see 26, 143. 
 
 Schools, in Art and Letters, con- 
 tests between the realists and 
 romanticists, the academicians 
 and the impressionists, etc., 144, 
 145, 157, 199 ; how evolved, 151 ; 
 and see INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Schopenhauer, on the imagina- 
 tion, 21; on the musician, 65; 
 quoted, 130; and see 270. 
 
 Science, economics, sociology, 
 and poetry, 14; its apparent 
 deprecation of aesthetics, ib., 
 but only to afford a new basis, 
 152; as the antithesis to Poetry, 
 20, 21, 28; how far antithetical, 
 28 ; illustrated by the Auro- 
 ra fresco, 29, by poetry and the 
 weather bureau, 30 ; the distinc- 
 tion one of methods, 31, 32 ; dis- 
 covery through imagination, 32; 
 science and religion, 33 ; discus- 
 sion of science and poetry, in 
 Victorian Poets, 33; effect on 
 poetic diction and imagery, 34 ; 
 
 intuitions of the savants, 35 et 
 seg. ; Prof. A. S. Hardy on, 36- 
 38; inferring immortality from 
 evolution, 37 ; control of public 
 interest, 38 ; really an adjuvant 
 to poetry, 38, 39 ; Tyndall on 
 Emerson, 39 ; its beginnings 
 suggested in Diirer's " Melenco- 
 lia," 140, 141 ; men of, their vi- 
 tality, 142 ; our attitude toward 
 Nature, 207 ; Lucretius and the 
 De Rerum Natura, 212, 217; 
 the new learning, 220, 296 ; 
 the modern speculative imagi- 
 nation, 228 ; and the future, 
 250 ; evolution, 257 ; and the 
 new faith, 291. 
 
 Science of Verse, The, Lanier, 61. 
 
 Scotland, poetry of, 264. 
 
 Scott, Walter, contrasted with 
 Morris, etc., 131, with Ar- 
 nold, 135 ; source of his lyrical 
 method, 238; quoted, 181 ; and 
 see 60, 121, 263. 
 
 Sculpture, the sculptor's working 
 method, 6; specific province of, 
 63 ; how far imitated by poetry, 
 67 ; opportunity of our native 
 sculptors, 200; Ward, Dono- 
 ghue, Tilrlen, 200 ; and see 13. 
 
 " Sea-Shell Murmurs," Lee-Ham- 
 ilton, 206. 
 
 Seasons, The, Thomson, 189. 
 
 Self-Consciousness. See Subjec- 
 tivity. 
 
 Self-Expression. See Subjectivity. 
 
 Semitic literature. See Bible, Po- 
 etry of the. 
 
 Senancour, 135. 
 
 Sensation, Human, art must be
 
 ANALYTICAL INDEX 
 
 331 
 
 adapted to our faculties, 198, 
 199. 
 
 Sensibility, Poetic, 122. 
 
 Sensitiveness is genius a neuro- 
 tic disorder ? 141, 142. 
 
 Sensuality, outlawed of the high- 
 est art, 262. 
 
 Sensuousness, the Miltonic canon, 
 27 ; how sensuous impressions 
 affect the soul, 154; required 
 by Goethe, 247 ; and see 262. 
 
 Sententiousness, the gift of " say- 
 ing things," 213. 
 
 Sentiment, lyrical, of southern 
 Europe, 264 ; of British song, 
 264, 265 ; and see Passion. 
 
 Sentimentalism, foreign to our 
 analysis, 8 ; of the minor By- 
 ronic poets, 121; Keats on, in 
 the preface to " Endymion," 
 122; and see 265. 
 
 Seriousness the poetry of Chris- 
 tendom, 143. 
 
 Shah Nameh, Firdusi, III. 
 
 Shairp, J. C., 218. 
 
 Shakespeare, his dramatic insight, 
 69 ; subjective sonnets, etc., 79, 
 1 68; wisdom of, 98; the unre- 
 vealed and " myriad-minded," 
 101 ; the playwright, stage and 
 period, 105 ; and Homer, 106 ; 
 The Tempest, 106, 107 ; imper- 
 sonality of, 107; "not a man 
 of letters," 151; his truth to 
 nature, 189; his stage effects, 
 191 ; his errors of fact immate- 
 rial, 201 ; the preeminent ex- 
 emplar of the imaginative fac- 
 ulty, 229-231 ; his future hold, 
 230 ; intelligibility of, 236 ; his 
 
 absolutely imaginative beings, 
 238 ; not strong in construction, 
 238 ; verbal felicity of, 240 ; his 
 artistic self-control, 243; and 
 Webster, 249 ; method of, 273 ; 
 his dramas and the stage, 274 ; 
 his faith, 290; quoted, 229, 236, 
 274; and see 57, 76, 113, 128, 
 170, 172, 179, 248, 256, 283. 
 
 Shelley, his Defense of Poetry, 25 ; 
 The Cenci, 69; Arnold on, 117, 
 118; poetry and character of, 
 123, 124 ; as Swinburne's prede- 
 cessor, 132 ; his mission ethical, 
 218; false criticism of his life 
 and works, ib.', his diction, 241 ; 
 as the " poet of cloudland," 246 ; 
 his imagination, ib. ; quoted, 
 143, 266; and see 89, 90, 169, 
 173, 179, 208, 251, 290. 
 
 Shelley, Mary (Godwin), 246. 
 
 Shenstone, W., on poets as crit- 
 ics, 12. 
 
 Sidney, Sir Philip, in the Defense 
 ofPoesie, 23; a maxim of, 140; 
 quoted, 62, 258 ; and see 57. 
 
 Sienkiewicz, novelist, 137. 
 
 Simonides, 87. 
 
 Simplicity, Milton's requirement, 
 27 ; essential to beauty, 175- 
 177 ; of the Hebrew idyls, 175 ; 
 of the antique and of the mod- 
 ern, 176; may be assumed, 177; 
 poetic force of a direct and sim- 
 ple statement, 193, 194 ; Bry- 
 ant's, 252. 
 
 Sincerity, averse to foreign and 
 classical reproductions, 201 ; no- 
 ble skepticism, 217; of emo- 
 tion, 261.
 
 332 
 
 ANALYTICAL INDEX 
 
 " Single- Poem Poets," 171. 
 
 " Sir Galahad," Tennyson, 266. 
 
 " Sisters, The," Tennyson, 270. 
 
 Skepticism, the nobler, of Lucre- 
 tius, Omar, Shelley, etc., 217 et 
 seq. ; and see Faith. 
 
 Smyth, A. H., quoted, 169, 170. 
 
 Snider, D. J., on the Homeric 
 epos, 95. 
 
 Snow-Bound, Whittier, 268. 
 
 Society Drama, 275. 
 
 Society Verse, Horace and his 
 successors, 93 ; and see 226. 
 
 Sohrab and Rustum, Arnold, 134, 
 194. 
 
 Songs and Lyrics, Jonson's, 
 Fletcher's, Suckling's, Waller's, 
 French chansons, etc., 170-172 ; 
 endurance of, ib. ; translation 
 of, ib. ; songs as distinguished 
 from the pure lyric, 178, Eng- 
 lish, German, etc., 179, mar- 
 tial, national, etc., 266; English 
 song dirges, 184. 
 
 Songs before Sunrise, Swinburne, 
 262. 
 
 Sonnets, Milton's, 117 ; Rossetti's 
 House of Life, 269. 
 
 Sonnets from the Portuguese, Mrs. 
 Browning, 128. 
 
 Sophocles, on ^Eschylus, 46 ; and 
 the Greek drama, 98, 99 ; im- 
 personality of, 107 ; and see 
 142, 169, 190, 238. 
 
 Sordello, Browning, 108. 
 
 Sound. See Rhythm and Melody. 
 
 Southey, 235. 
 
 Specialists, poetic, 80. 
 
 Speech. See Language. 
 
 Spencer, Herbert, on music, 65. 
 
 Spenser, as a picture-maker, 67 ; 
 art of, 170; and see 90, 115, 
 249. 
 
 Spirituality, the universal extra- 
 mundane conception of beauty, 
 163. 
 
 Spontaneity, a test of, II ; Ar- 
 nold's, 134; vs. the common- 
 place, 219; and see 135, 227, 
 264, 284, 285. 
 
 Stage, The, Elizabethan, 191 ; and 
 see 27 1 ; also The Drama. 
 
 " St. Agnes," Tennyson, 266. 
 
 St. Gaudens, A., sculptor, 13. 
 
 Stendhal. See M. H. Beyle. 
 
 Sterility, metrical impotence, 
 want of creative power in adroit 
 mechanicians, 44 ; uncreative 
 periods, 48. 
 
 Stoddard, Elizabeth, 253 ; her nov- 
 els, 273. 
 
 Stoddard, R. H., " An Horatian 
 Ode," 239 ; his imaginative odes 
 and blank verse, 252; quoted, 
 237 ; and see 129, 179. 
 
 Straffbrd, Browning, no. 
 
 Street, A. B., 190. 
 
 Style, Browning's lack of, 91 ; 
 Tennyson's, 91 ; charm of Ver- 
 gil's, 91 ; Shakespeare's, 109 ; 
 the Miltonic, 1 16 ; extreme indi- 
 viduality of Swinburne's, 132, 
 133; is subjective, 144; direct- 
 ness, 192, 193 ; methods as af- 
 fecting quality, 214,215; "The 
 grand manner," 248. 
 
 Subjectivity (the personal note), 
 one of the two ruling qualities 
 of art, 77 ; the subjective poet, 
 80, 8 1 ; specialists, ib. ; how far
 
 ANALYTICAL INDEX 
 
 333 
 
 a trait of the speechless arts, 80 ; 
 of the Hebrew lyrists, 82-85 ; 
 modern self-consciousness, 85 ; 
 of the Greek lyrists, anthologists, 
 idyllists, 87-90; of Euripides 
 and his satirist, 88 ; of style, 
 as in Vergil, etc., 91 ; of Latin 
 song, 92-94 ; the cry of adoles- 
 cence, 79, 101 ; the subjective 
 modern drama of Browning, 
 1 08; subjective undertone of 
 later epic masterpieces, 111,112; 
 of Dante, 113; beginning of 
 English self-expression, 115; 
 of Milton's epic and sonnets, 
 115-118; typical of the nine- 
 teenth century, 118; finds its 
 extreme in the Romantic and 
 Georgian schools, 118-127 ; ne- 
 cessity for self - utterance in 
 youth, its force and dangers, 
 121 ; Byron an eminent exem- 
 plar of, 122, 123; Shelley's, 
 124 ; Heine's, 125-127 ; may be 
 termed feminine, 127; Mrs. 
 Browning's, 128; qualified vi- 
 sion of the modern art-school, 
 129 et seq.; of style, in Swin- 
 burne, 131 ; a matter of tempera- 
 ment, 133 ; Arnold's theory 
 against, 133, his subjective 
 poetry, 134, 135; not opposed 
 to genius, 139 ; a pervading 
 characteristic of the poetry of 
 Christendom, as contrasted with 
 the antique, 139-143; sympa- 
 thetic quality, 140; its intro- 
 spection typified by Diirer's 
 " Melencolia," 140, 141 ; to 
 what extent neurotic sensitive- 
 
 ness, 141, 142 ; resulting loss 
 and gain, 142 ; great worth of 
 individuality in style and feel- 
 ing, 143 et seq. ; the poet finds 
 in nature his own mood, 202- 
 204; the "pathetic fallacy," 
 204-210; of English emotional 
 verse, 265 ; and see 250. 
 
 Sublimity, of the Vague, 244 ; and 
 see Imagination. 
 
 Suckling, Sir J., 171. 
 
 Suggestiveness, in Japanese art, 
 31 ; an imaginative factor, 239; 
 and see 59. 
 
 Supernatural, the, not always an 
 imaginative element, 236, but 
 sometimes purely so, 238 ; of 
 the Southern and Northern lit- 
 eratures, compared, 243. 
 
 Supernaturalism, of Camoens and 
 Milton, 245. 
 
 Swift, 94. 
 
 Swinburne, subjective style of, 
 132 ; strength and beauty of 
 his dramas, 132 ; certain results 
 of his lyrical individuality, 132, 
 133 ; his erotic verse and true 
 passion, 262 ; quoted, 63 ; and 
 see 131, 179, 200, 203, 251. 
 
 Symbolism. See Allegory. 
 
 Sympathetic quality. See Subjec- 
 tivity. 
 
 Sympathy, poets of, 268. 
 
 Symphonic quality, the Liturgy, 
 293- 
 
 TAINE, 8, 50 ; his theory of envi- 
 ronment, etc., 276- 
 
 Tale of Two Cities, A, Dickens, 
 55. i37.
 
 334 
 
 ANALYTICAL INDEX 
 
 Talent, as distinguished from ge- 
 nius, 279 ; value of, ib. 
 
 " Talking Oak, The," Tennyson, 
 215. 
 
 " Tarn o' Shanter," Burns, 268. 
 
 Tasso, 79, 112. 
 
 Taste, renounced by Wordsworth, 
 20 ; Poe's view of its preemi- 
 nence, 26 ; as wrongly forsworn 
 by certain poets, 47 ; Schlegel 
 on, ib. ; often falsely assumed, 
 48 ; " the artistic ethics of the 
 soul," 49 ; discordant, how pro- 
 duced, 158 ; inborn, though cul- 
 tivable, 161 ; and fashion, ib.; 
 limitations of Anglo-Saxon, ib. ; 
 the maxim De gustibus, 166; 
 not always allied with creative 
 faculty, 280; an exquisite pos- 
 session, 280, 281 ; and see 283. 
 
 Taylor, Bayard, imaginative po- 
 ems of, 254; and see 129, 195. 
 
 Taylor, Sir H., Philip van Arte- 
 velde, 104; dramas of, 132. 
 
 Taylor, Jeremy, 59. 
 
 Technique, poetic forms, meas- 
 ures, etc., 77 ; Hebraic allitera- 
 tion, parallelism, etc., 85 ; blank 
 verse, 105; modern mastery of, 
 130, 225 ; " French Forms," 
 158; over-elaboration and over- 
 decoration, 177. 
 
 Temperament, Hugo's, 119; Lan- 
 der's, Alfieri's, etc., 125, 133; 
 the artistic is androgynous, 127 ; 
 modern view of the poetic, 141 ; 
 the Greek, 142 ; governs a po- 
 et's product, 133 ; Arnold's in 
 conflict with his theory, 133- 
 135; should be respected, 135, 
 
 136; the English, as respects 
 taste, 161 ; of Pope, 214. 
 
 Tempest, The, Shakespeare, analy- 
 sis of its components, 106, 107. 
 
 Tennyson, his " Day - Dream " 
 quoted, 68-70 ; as poet-painter, 
 68, 70 ; early poems of, 168 ; 
 as a technicist, 177 ; his dra- 
 mas, 191 ; as a poet of nature, 
 193; as an idyllist, ib.; on 
 Truth, 198 ; In Memoriam, the 
 representative Victorian poem, 
 212; sententiousness of, 213, 
 215 ; The Princess, 237 ; vocab- 
 ulary of, 242 ; anecdote of, 255 ; 
 his gain in passion, 269 ; quoted, 
 35, 102, 167, 187, 208, 264, 291 ; 
 and see 10, 130, 131, 136, 142, 
 172, 179, 200, 225, 235, 266, 268. 
 
 Terence, 100. 
 
 Thackeray, cited, 103; and see 
 58, 137, 215, 283. 
 
 "Thalysia," Theocritus, 90. 
 
 " Thanatopsis," Bryant, 252. 
 
 Theatre. See The Drama and 
 Dramatic Poetry. 
 
 Theme, not always the essential 
 factor, 236. 
 
 Theocritus, Vergil's imitations of, 
 91 ; quoted, 1 79 ; and see 90, 
 
 193- 
 
 Theognis, 212. 
 
 Thomson, James [1834-82], 133. 
 Thomson, The Seasons, 189. 
 Thoreau, 193. 
 Thought, poetry as the voice of 
 
 the conscious intellect, 48 ; must 
 
 not disregard beauty, 48, 49; 
 
 exact, inexpressible by music, 
 
 66; and see 147.
 
 ANALYTICAL INDEX 
 
 335 
 
 Thoughts on Poetry, Mill, 20. 
 
 Three Memorial Poems, Lowell, 
 267. 
 
 " Threnody," Emerson, 267. 
 
 Tilden, American sculptor, 200. 
 
 " Tintern Abbey," Wordsworth, 
 205. 
 
 Tolstoi, 137. 
 
 " To Mary in Heaven," Burns, 
 265. 
 
 "To the Sunset Breeze," Whit- 
 man, 253. 
 
 Tourgenieff, novelist, 58, 137. 
 
 Tradition, the war upon, 290. 
 
 Tragedy, Aristotle's definition, 
 103 ; ethics of, ib. ; why it ex- 
 alts the soul, 103, 271, 272; its 
 reconciliation of Deity and Des- 
 tiny, 104 ; and see The Drama. 
 
 Training, poetic, 9-11 ; cleverness 
 of modern, 59-61 ; a true voca- 
 tion indispensable, 60; "The 
 Science of Verse," 61 ; self- 
 consciousness in youth, 101 ; 
 Heine's song-motive, 127 ; of 
 the taste, 166 ; effects of town 
 and of country in youth, 195 ; 
 the formative period, 218; ju- 
 venile contemporaneousness, 
 226 ; a neophyte's errors, 235. 
 
 Transcendentalism, from Plato to 
 Emerson, 21-24; the Concord 
 School, 23, 24; indifference to 
 form, beauty, etc., of certain 
 modern idealists, 149. 
 
 Transition Periods, 114; the re- 
 cent one, 294. 
 
 Translation, from the Sanscrit, 
 Arabic, etc., 82 ; English ver- 
 sion of the Hebrew Scripture, 
 
 85 ; renderings from the Greek 
 anthology, by Cory, Lang, etc., 
 89 ; does not convey the full 
 beauty of a poem, 166; of early 
 French chansons, etc., 171. 
 
 Trilogy, Swinburne's, of Mary 
 Stuart, 132. 
 
 Tristia, Ovid, 92. 
 
 Truth, the essential verities, 4 ; 
 wisdom and ethics of the grand 
 drama, 97-104 ; Browning's phi- 
 losophy, 108; Dante as an ethi- 
 cal teacher, 114; The Faerie 
 Queene, 114; pure, symbolized 
 by beauty, 168; as an element 
 of poetry, 187-223; what is 
 meant by its unity with beauty, 
 187 ; the didactic heresy as the 
 gospel of half-truths, 188; a 
 matter of course in good art, 
 189 ; incidental, better than pre- 
 meditated, ib. ; side-glimpses of 
 it more effective than details, 
 190 ; broad and universal, or 
 minute and analytic, 191, 192 ; 
 of Browning and Tennyson, in 
 comparison, 192, 193 ; requires 
 naturalness, 193; force of its 
 direct statement, 193, 194; of 
 Wordsworth and Bryant's broad 
 method, 194; of the American 
 poets of nature, 195, 196; not a 
 display of mere facts, 196; nor 
 a servile imitation, 197 ; is alive 
 with interpretation. 198 ; must 
 pay regard, also, to things as 
 they appear to be, 198; of real- 
 ism and ideality, 199 ; of fidelit" 
 to one's environment, ib. ; of 
 "local flavor," 200 ; of sincerity,
 
 336 
 
 ANALYTICAL INDEX 
 
 201 ; not to fetter the poet's 
 imagination, 201 ; mere descrip- 
 tion unsatisfactory, 202 ; largely 
 subjective, 202, 203; question 
 of the " pathetic fallacy," 204- 
 210; of nature's apparent sym- 
 pathy, 205 ; scientific truth, the 
 fearless desire for, 207 ; philo- 
 sophical truth, 211-219; f the 
 higher didacticism, 211-213; of 
 ethical insight, 216; of a noble 
 iconoclasm, 217-219 ; hostile to 
 the commonplace, 219 ; free 
 and alert, 220 ; finally coherent 
 with beauty, 220, 221 ; the God 
 of, also the God of art, 223; 
 and see 46, 147, also Ethics and 
 Didacticism. 
 
 Tudor sonneteers, 115. 
 
 TURNBULL MEMORIAL LECTURE- 
 SHIP, THE PERCY, 4 ; its found- 
 ers, 6 ; design of its initial 
 course, ib. ; theory of these lec- 
 tures, 76 ; and see 93. 
 
 Turnbull, Percy Graeme, 93; and 
 see INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Turner, J. W. M., painter, 210, 246. 
 
 Two Worlds, Gilder, 257. 
 
 Tyndall, scientist, quoted, 39. 
 
 UNCONSCIOUS, THEORY OF THE, 
 Hartmann, 46, 147, 156. 
 
 Universality, of the arts, 13; 
 world -poems, 112; Shake- 
 speare's, 230; of genius, 283; 
 and see 191. 
 
 "Universal Prayer, The," Pope, 
 214. 
 
 Universities, ideal side of, 4, 5. 
 
 Utility, its relation to beauty, 156; 
 
 La Farge on the relations of 
 fitness and beauty, 163. 
 Utterance, poetry is, 62; and see 
 264, also Expression and Lan- 
 guage. 
 
 VAGUE, THE, imaginative effect 
 of, 244-247 ; in Hebrew poetry, 
 244; in Camoens, Milton, Cole- 
 ridge, 244, 245 ; in Shelley's 
 cloudland, 246; of thought and 
 style, its reflex action, 235. 
 
 Vanity Fair, Thackeray, 137. 
 
 Variety, advance in poetic mate- 
 rials for color, diction, etc., 
 176. 
 
 Vates, the, 287. 
 
 Vedder, E., painter, 212. 
 
 Velasquez, painter, 150. 
 
 Vergil, the Vergilian style, 91 ; 
 " Tu Marcellus eris," 93 ; quo- 
 ted, 286; and see 43, 212. 
 
 Veron, E., critic, his subjective 
 theory of Beauty and the ^Es- 
 thetic, 152, 157; cited concern- 
 ing Genius, 283. 
 
 Vers de Societe. See Society 
 Verse. 
 
 Verse, the true antithesis of Prose, 
 20. 
 
 Versifiers and Verse-making, 8, 
 ii, 13; delusion of poetasters, 
 24 ; Milton on rhymers, etc., 27 ; 
 Sidney on, 62. 
 
 Vibrations, their function, as the 
 only media through which im- 
 pressions reach the incarnate 
 human soul, 52, the soul 
 thrilled by, and responsive to 
 them, ib. ; impalpable, 53 ; mu-
 
 ANALYTICAL INDEX 
 
 337 
 
 sical, 65 ; excite reflex action, 
 72 ; their expression of the 
 quality of Beauty, 153-155; ac- 
 tually operative, 1 54 ; appeal, 
 through all the senses alike, to 
 spiritual feeling, ib. ; Beauty's 
 under-vibration, 180; and see 
 Rhythm, etc., and INTRODUC- 
 TION. 
 
 Victorian Period, School of, 55 ; 
 Browning, no; In Memoriam, 
 212; its reserve, 265; and see 
 125, 138. 
 
 VICTORIAN POETS, by the author 
 of this volume : references to, 
 33, 61, 108, 177, 192, 226, 269. 
 
 Villon, 167, 171, 184. 
 
 Virility, of the ancients, 142; of 
 scientists, ib. ; of recent poets, 
 ib. ; healthfulness of imperson- 
 al effort, 142 ; and see Mascu- 
 linity. 
 
 Vision, absolute and uncondi- 
 tioned, 77-80 ; conditioned, 80 ; 
 clearness of the artistic, 233; 
 Blake on, ib.. ; the poet depen- 
 dent on, 234 ; and see 255. 
 
 Vocabulary, the poet's, how ac- 
 quired, 10; and see Diction. 
 
 Volapiik, 216. 
 
 Voltaire, 82. 
 
 WALLENSTEIN, Schiller, 104. 
 Waller, 171. 
 
 Ward, J. Q. A., sculptor, 13, 200. 
 Watts, T., essay on Poetry in the 
 
 Encyc. Brit., 25, 26, 28. 
 Waverley Novels, the, 131. 
 Webster, John, 108 ; The fiuchess 
 
 of Malfi, 249. 
 
 Webster, D., and Choate, remi- 
 niscence of, 192. 
 
 " Wertherism," 121. 
 
 Westward Ho ! Kingsley, 137. 
 
 " West Wind, Ode to the," Shel- 
 ley, 266. 
 
 " What is the Use ? " Ellsworth, 
 289. 
 
 White, R. G., critic, cited, 246. 
 
 " White Rose, The," anon., quo- 
 ted, 171. 
 
 Whitman, W., his Americanism, 
 129; as a poet of Nature, 195; 
 compared with Lanier, 196; 
 his defects, ib.; genius and cos- 
 mic mood, 253 ; quoted, 38 ; 
 and see 35, 158. 
 
 Whittier, national sentiment of, 
 129; passion of his song, 268; 
 a poet of sympathy, ib. ; Snow- 
 Bound, ib. ; and see 136, 195. 
 
 "Will Waterproof's Lyrical Mo- 
 nologue," Tennyson, 215. 
 
 Wilson, J., 58. 
 
 Winter's Tale, A, Shakespeare, 
 189. 
 
 Wisdom, of true genius, 284 ; and 
 see Didacticism, Truth, etc. 
 
 Wit, 213. 
 
 Witch of Atlas, The, Shelley, 246. 
 
 With Fire and Sword, Sienkie- 
 wicz, 137. 
 
 Wonder, 245 ; and see Imagina- 
 tion. 
 
 " Woodnotes," Emerson, 225. 
 
 Words, the Power of. See Lan- 
 guage. 
 
 Wores, T., painter, quoted, 31. 
 
 Wordsworth, on imagination, 20 ; 
 on prose and verse, ib. ; on po-
 
 338 
 
 ANALYTICAL INDEX 
 
 etry as the antithesis of science, 
 ib., and 28 ; on insight, 45 ; his 
 classification of his poems, 77 ; 
 his more enduring poems, 172 ; 
 his pathetic lyrics, 184 ; broad 
 effects of, 194 ; his repose, 203 ; 
 his study of nature's effects upon 
 himself, 204; reasons for his 
 influence, 210; Shairp's view 
 of, 218, 219; "the faculty di- 
 vine," 259 ; on poetry as emo- 
 tion, 263 ; the " passion " of, 
 ib. ; originality of, 277 ; quoted, 
 63, 136, 205, 206, 236, 261 ; and 
 
 see 60, 125, 142, 173, 189, 190, 
 
 193, 252. 
 Wordsworthians, the, 47 ; Arnold 
 
 on, 219. 
 Wutkeriftg Heights, E. Bronte, 
 
 137, 273. 
 
 "Ye Mariners of England," Camp- 
 bell, 266. 
 
 Zest, of the antique temperament, 
 J 39> T 43! i ts worth, and how 
 sustained, 160, 161 ; dough's, 
 295- 
 
 THE END.
 
 VICTORIAN POETS. 
 
 With Topical Analysis in margin, and full Analytical 
 Index. Twenty-first Edition. Revised and extended, by 
 a Supplementary Chapter, to the Fiftieth Year of the 
 Period under Review. Crown 8vo, $2.25 ; half calf, 
 
 The leading poets included in Mr. Stedman's survey are 
 Tennyson, Landor, the Brownings, Hood, Arnold, " Barry 
 Cornwall," Buchanan, Morris, Swinburne, and Rossetti. 
 It also embraces very fully the minor poets and schools of 
 the period, and with its copious notes and index forms a 
 complete guide-book to the poetry of the Victorian era. 
 
 AMERICAN CRITICISMS. 
 
 The new chapter which Mr. Stedman has added to his " Victorian Poets " 
 reviews the product of the past twelve years, thus bringing the English record 
 down to even date with the " Poets of America," and making the two books 
 more exactly the companions and complements of each other. The fresh ma- 
 terial, which comprises about seventy pages, is devoted in a large measure to 
 the examination of present poetical tendencies, and this is necessarily illus- 
 trated with mention of a great number of minor poets, so many that we have 
 a nearly exhaustive record of those entitled even to passing attention. Such 
 a catalogue, pointed by quick touches of criticism, is of high value in defining 
 the literary movement, and has no relation to any excessive estimate of the 
 real value of the current poetical work. . . . We close the book with re- 
 newed admiration of the masterly handling of a fascinating but difficult sub- 
 ject, and with the gratification of knowing that America has produced the best 
 book yet written on the English poetry of th'is age. New York Tribune. 
 
 This delightful book. . . . Among the best examples of criticism in our lit- 
 erature. . . . We ought, in justice to its encyclopedic character, to state that 
 it contains notices, more or less extended, of every poet of any pretension* who 
 has flourished in England since 1835; and that these notices are not simply 
 critical, but al*o biographical, those incidents and influences in the lives of 
 the subjects which may be supposed to have had a moulding influence upon 
 them being made prominent. The book is thus a handbook to the poets and 
 poetry of the period. Hartford Courant. 
 
 The work is as admirable in form as it is skillful in method. Biography, 
 analysis, and criticism constitute the threefold direction in which Mr. Stedman 
 has expended his thought. In all the field he shows himself thoroughly at 
 home, a familiar friend as it were of the men and women of whose characters 
 and lives he writes, an intelligent student of their writings, and an apprecia- 
 tive though discriminating critic of their qualities. The Congtegationalist 
 (Boston).
 
 With its companion volume, " Poets of America," it is an example of a very 
 high if not the highest kind of criticism. While giving the best studies of 
 individuals and schools, it yet goes beyond the individual and school, and 
 treats the art of puetry in the most comprehensive way. It suggests to us that 
 as modern historians have made a vast improvement in the writing of State 
 hi.itory, in a somewhat similar way Mr. btedman has improved on former 
 methods of criticism. The New Englander. 
 
 Like all really good work of the sort, it cannot be made known to the reader 
 except in the author's ipstssima verba. We can only counsel our friends to 
 read for themselves, and tell them that they will find store of delights in the 
 matured and thoughtful exposition of a scholar and man of letters, who under- 
 stands his business thoroughly, and is constrained neither by fear nor favor to 
 say the thing he does not feel. The Churchman (New York). 
 
 One of the most thorough, workman-like, and artistic pieces of real critical 
 writing that we have in English. For the period covered by it, it is the most 
 comprehensive, profound, and lucid literary exposition that has appeared in 
 this country or elsewhere. Prof. MOSES COIT TYLER, Cornell University. 
 
 Mr. Stedman's volume is not merely good, but it presents the best view of 
 the poets of the present generation in England that is anywhere to be bad. 
 ARTHUR OILMAN. 
 
 ENGLISH CRITICISMS. 
 
 We ought to be thankful to those who write with competent skill and under- 
 standing, with honesty of purpose, and with diligence and thoroughness of 
 execution. And Mr. Stedman, having chosen to work in this line, deserves 
 the thanks of English scholars by these qualities and by something more. He 
 is faithful, studious, and discerning ; of a sane and reasonable temper, and 
 in the main a judicial one ; his judgment is disciplined and exercised, and his 
 decisions, even when we cannot agree with them, are based on intelligent 
 grounds. The Saturday Review (London). 
 
 There is none among ourselves who equals him in breadth of sympathy, or 
 in ability to resist allurement by the will-o'-the-wisp of mere form. ... It is 
 because Mr. Stedman strenuously endeavors to maintain his position on a 
 truer foundation that his history of poetry in the Victorian epoch is so valua- 
 ble. . . . Not only the best book of its kind, but worth (say) fifty reams of 
 ordinary anonymous criticism of home production. WILLIAM SHARP, in The 
 Academy (London). 
 
 He has undertaken a wide subject, and has treated it with great ability and 
 competent knowledge. The Spectator (London). 
 
 The book is generous and enlightened, and bears the stamp of unfailing 
 honesty. The Academy (London).
 
 POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 With full Notes in margin, and careful Analytical Index. 
 By EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN, author of "Victorian Poets," etc. 
 Eleventh Edition. I2mo, $2.25; half calf, $3.50. 
 
 CONTENTS : Early and Recent Conditions ; Growth of the American School ; 
 William Cullen Bryant; John Greenleaf Whittier; Ralph Waldo Emerson; 
 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow; Edgar Allan Poe ; Oliver Wendell Holmes; 
 James Russell Lowell ; Walt Whitman ; Bayard Taylor ; The Outlook. 
 
 AMERICAN CRITICISMS. 
 
 The appearance of this book is a notable event in American letters. No 
 such thorough and conscientious study of the tendencies and qualities of our 
 poetry has been attempted before, nor has any volume of purely literary criti- 
 cism been written in this country upon so broad and noble a plan and with 
 such ample power. . . . Mr. Stedman's work stands quite alone ; it has had no 
 predecessor, and it leaves room for no rival. New York Tribune. 
 
 It is indeed refreshing to come upon a volume so devoid of the limitations 
 of current criticism, so wholesome, so sane, so perceptive, so just, and so vivi- 
 fying as we find in this collection of essays on the "Poets of America." . . . The 
 volume may indeed be regarded as epoch-making. Its influence on our na- 
 tional literature is likely to be both deep and lasting. The Literary World 
 (Boston). 
 
 Mr. Stedman's temperament, training, and experience eminently fit him for 
 the execution of a critical work on the poets of America, or, indeed, the poets 
 of any land. He has ingrained honesty, breadth of apprehension, versatile 
 sympathies, exact knowledge, and withal he is a poet with a poet's passion for 
 beauty and love of sOng ; and so he is a wise critic, a candid and luminous inter- 
 preter of the many-voiced muse. . . . The candor, sincerity, and sympathetic 
 spirit in which Mr. Stedman treats the many themes that come under review 
 in connection with the poets included in his scheme are apparent all through 
 the treatise. The Dial (Chicago). 
 
 Such a work involves many kinds of talent, great patience, and am-ple schol- 
 arship; above all, it involves genius, and if the quality of this book were to be 
 summed up in a single word, this one pregnant word comes first to mind, and 
 remains after fullest reflection. ... As a body of criticism this volume stands 
 alone in our literature, and is not likely soon to have a companion ; it justifies 
 and permanently establishes a reputation in this field already deeply grounded. 
 It gives our criticism a standard at once exacting and catholic, and it restates, 
 by way of commentary on our own poetry, the great underlying laws of verse. 
 It is criticism of a kind which only poetic minds produce. Christian Union 
 (New York). 
 
 Mr. Stedman brings to the task an unusual familiarity with the whole of our 
 literature, unusual acquaintance with the tools of the poetical p;uild, and a very 
 keen notion as to how those tools have been used abroad as well as at home. 
 . . . The studies themselves are admirable. They show a conscience which 
 takes in good work, and, at the same time, considers the humanities, which 
 remembers what is due to art, and what must be granted to human frailty. 
 The Critic (New York). 
 
 The book is one which the student and lover of poetry cannot deny himself. 
 Christian Register (Boston).
 
 It will not be possible for any sensitive reader of the poets of America to 
 forget that Mr. Stedman is also a poet; but it will be equally impossible for 
 such a reader to regret it. The solid qualities of the book are the result of 
 patient, conscientious, scholarly work, which shows on almost every page ; its 
 finer qualities, the delicate touch of sympathy, the glow of hope, the spiritual 
 magnetism, are the fruit of tne poetic temperament which no amount of in- 
 dustry can ever cultivate unless it first has the seed. The New Princeton 
 Review. 
 
 A true critical insight enables Mr. Stedman to deal with his subject in a 
 generous and a noble spirit, and yet in one that is eminently just and faithful 
 to fact. His critical gifts are of a kind rarely to be found in this country, and 
 none are more needed in our literature at the present time. Unitarian Re- 
 view. 
 
 This book should quickly become a standard wherever cultivated persons 
 desire an honest, sympathetic, suggestive, entertaining, and experienced guide 
 to the most interesting epoch of American literature. The Independent. 
 
 We are greatly indebted to Mr. Stedman for this fine example of what lit- 
 erary criticism should be. . . . No one not himself a poet, and a poet with a 
 noble spirit, could have written this book. THOMAS S. HASTINGS, D. D., 
 in The Presbyterian Review. 
 
 This is the history of American poetry ; it is conceived and executed in the 
 grand style of literary criticism, and it does not fall below its promise. GEO. 
 E. WOODBERRY, in The Atlantic Monthly. 
 
 FOREIGN CRITICISMS. 
 
 In his " Poets of America " Mr. Stedman displays the same competent skill, 
 honesty of purpose, and painstaking thoroughness of execution [as in his 
 work on " Victorian Poets "|; and he adds to these qualities the great ad- 
 vantage of being on his native soil. To the students of American verse his 
 volume is almost indispensable. . . . Every one will not agree with his con- 
 clusions; but no one can differ from so well-informed and conscientious a 
 critic without self-distrust. The Quarterly Review (London). 
 
 This book, with its few and only superficial defects, and with its many solid 
 merits, is one which most persons of taste and culture will like to possess. 
 The Saturday Review (London). 
 
 Mr. Stedman deserves thanks for having devoted his profound erudition 
 and the high impartiality of which he is capable, to making us acquainted with 
 the literature of poetry as it has existed from the beginning in his country. 
 His important and thorough study is conducted with the method, the scrupu- 
 lousness, the perspicacity, which he applied formerly to the work of the Vic- 
 torian Poets. La Revue des Deux Mondes (Paris).
 
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