the Eternal World of the future." If some punctilious critic asks us wherein lies the wisdom of these sayings, and what proof can be given of their truth, we are compelled, as far as Blake's work is concerned, to leave his questions unanswered. If he doubts the exactness of our interpretation, we cannot venture to blame him. And if, finally, he desires to know why such enigmatic language is employed, and quotes to us La Bruyère's famous saying-" You wish to tell me that it is cold, Acis then say, 'It is cold '"-we must come very near to agreeing with him.

Such a method of expressing abstract ideas does not make them either clearer or more forcible. It does not strike the reader's imagination, since no one can describe these ingenious riddles as imaginative poetry. It is a mere convention; an almost mechanical stylistic process, like some code-writing the key to which has been lost. It is ingenious, certainly; and the maintaining of this cryptographic style to the end shows great patience and strength of mind, as would also the making of abstruse mathematical calculations, or the solving of difficult problems in chess. But it is not a fit employment for the poetic genius: at best, we can only call it a deflection of that genius into ways altogether dangerous and wrong.

And Blake, blinded by his enthusiasm, never knew when to stop. Not satisfied with transforming the human soul into a map of England or a plan of London, he must needs go further. Albion had children: he was the progenitor. of the Jews, the twelve tribes. So Blake must next divide England, Scotland and Ireland into twelve portions, as Palestine was divided, and assign each portion to one of the tribes; must subdivide all these into twenty-four, so as to give each of Albion's sons and daughters a part of the land; must associate men with provinces, according to a system so complicated that one might well call it entirely capricious; and write at the end long lists of names filling some of the most senseless pages that ever claimed to rank as poetry. And, by way of further complications, men and cities are made to change places, as the states of their souls change there is sometimes a doubt as to which they are. Go thou," says Los in one passage,1 "to Skofield: ask him if he is Bath or if he is Canterbury." Skofield does not give any answer, and the ordinary reader scarcely regrets it. Skofield, Verulam, Canterbury and Los himself whirl before his eyes as if in some wild, infernal dance, a medley of indistinguishable shapes, from which, in the end, he 1 Jerusalem, p. 17, 59.

averts his gaze. If it should ever become necessary to show how literary symbolism, pushed to extremes, leads to the destruction of all real poetry, one could hardly find clearer proofs than are to be found in only too many passages of the Prophetic Books, and especially in Jerusalem. It is no excuse, in Blake's case, that he followed what he believed to be the example of the Old Testament writers. The Bible certainly contains whole pages filled with historical or geographical names, and we also find in it innumerable references to the cities, rivers and mountains of Palestine. But the details given in these passages can be of no interest, in our day, except to a professional historian. They add nothing to the value of the book in which they appear, and we are quite indifferent to them. It is of little consequence whether Saul lost his army at Gilboa or elsewhere, whether his body was found at Bethshan and buried at Jabesh. His defeat and his death are all that interest us. It was otherwise with the Jews, because to them all these names represented well known places. It was otherwise with Blake, on account of the spiritual significance which he attributed to places, and which he believed to have been given to them by God Himself. Why then should he not do as the Prophets did, and why should modern geographical names seem stranger to us in this connection than did Jewish names? He did not see that what was reasonable and necessary in a record of actual events became absurd in an exposition of metaphysical ideas. We can attach a certain strictly conventional meaning to such names as Dan and Beer-sheba, which are those of places far off and unknown. But no metaphysical idea can connect itself in our minds with Finchley, Islington or Canterbury, through the streets of which we have often walked. And if, by chance, these places do evoke some such idea in us, it will be because of some recollection or some definite fact. Tyburn or the Bastille might suggest the idea of tyranny, but never that of materiality or of love, from the mere fact of their position in London or in Paris. One wonders why the discordance between the two meanings, between the spiritual fact and its symbol, which we cannot regard as symbolising it at all, should never have been felt by Blake, since it is universally evident. Only the depth of his mysticism, and his contempt for the whole visible world, can explain his insensibility to it.

The reader can only understand these things by following the poet's example, by suppressing the material object, and regarding only the world of the spirit. Let him climb one of the heights overlooking London, to the topmost point of Hampstead Heath, for

instance, and gaze down upon the forest of roofs, chimneys and spires that stretches away beneath him, half lost and obliterated in the vast, misty distance. There, if he can put himself in Blake's place, and lose himself in the dreams that Blake dreamed, he may fancy that it is not London that lies before him, hidden in its grey mantle of fog, but some new-born city of the millennium, the Heavenly Jerusalem, come down to earth. Then, little by little, his imagination will fill the mist with rays of light, and tinge its gloom with gold. The splendour of the sun of righteousness will shine through it. The smoke of the factories will become clouds of incense rising to Heaven. It will no longer be the Monument or the dome of St. Paul's that he sees all the city will have become the Temple of the Lamb, whence the Good Tidings are sent forth to the people. That sombre fortress from which everchanging lights are reflected is no longer the Tower: it is the translucent gateway of the Heavenly City, and in the further distance shine its other gates. And " every several gate was of one pearl: and the street of the city was pure gold, as it were transparent glass.' ."1 And the vast hum of the city is the music of joyous hymns that rise to God's throne; and all around are green pastures where Christ and his chosen saints walk in eternal bliss. London has vanished from the beholder's eyes, and he sees instead Jerusalem, decked as a bride to welcome her divine bridegroom.

The fields from Islington to Marybone,

To Primrose Hill and Saint John's Wood,
Were builded over with pillars of gold,
And there Jerusalem's pillars stood.
Her Little ones ran on the fields,
The Lamb of God among them seen,
And fair Jerusalem his Bride,
Among the little meadows green.

Pancrass and Kentish-town repose
Among her golden pillars high:
Among the golden arches which
Shine upon the starry sky.

Here the two myths become almost inextricably mingled. Jerusalem is both a city and a woman, and appears sometimes as the one and sometimes as the other in the course of her capricious wanderings.

But we cannot follow Blake much further. Even this fair picture of the Heavenly Jerusalem is only evoked by an effort. And the effort will be altogether beyond our powers when the Vision extends itself to the whole of England, to Europe, to the universe, and to the worlds added to it by the poet's imagination; when its stage is trodden by all kinds of personages, real and symbolical; when every individual in all this multitude, and every place upon this vast map, is but a complex and everchanging symbol, behind which we have to discover some spiritual reality. We lack the mystic's all-seeing eye that can pierce the thick walls of our material world; and we would rather that he did not go beyond the limits of our vision. But Blake always ignored the limitations to which we ordinary men are subject. The peculiar tendency of his mysticism prevented him from seeing at what point his symbols would become inaccessible to us. Besides, did he not write for the dwellers in Eternity, who understand all things? And, further, his language needs a special dictionary, which it would be almost impossible to compile, and the use of which would be destructive of any real poetry. It is the poet's right and his duty to show us gleams of light from the world of the Eternal, but our eyes should be able to see them in the world of time. This last condition Blake too often omits to fulfil, and therein lies his condemnation.

XVI: THE FEELINGS AND THE EMOTIONS

T

HE feelings evoked by the music of Blake's poetry are not many, but what they lose in variety and number they often gain in intensity. Many of the sentiments common to poetry are, in his work, almost entirely absent, submerged in the flood of his mysticism. Why should the mystic, who regards the whole world as a dream, interest himself in, or attach himself to, the fancied image which the first rays of the rising sun will cause to vanish? It is not the created universe that we must love or desire. Our hopes and our love must go out only to that which is eternal. "We must raise our souls above all earthly things, must pass out of ourselves, and fly higher even than our own souls; and so shall we see, O great Creator, that thou hast naught in common with the created world. . . . He who has not separated himself from the love of the creature cannot freely devote himself to the things that are of God." 1

Blake's mysticism, however, did not attain to the height of absolute renunciation insisted on by the monkish author of the Imitation. True, he found no attraction in riches, glory, or any of the good things of this world, and he never sought them for himself. He condemned the love of money in the most forcible terms.

Pray'st thou for Riches? Away! away!
This is the Throne of Mammon grey.

The accuser of sins by my side doth stand,
And he holds my money bag in his hand.

For my worldly things God makes him pay,
And he would pay for more if to him I would pray.

He says, if I do not worship him for a God,

I shall eat coarser food, and go worse shod;

So, as I don't value such things as these,

You must do, Mr. Devil, just as God please.

But if wealth had no temptations for him, there were other good things in life, to which he was by no means indifferent.

1 Imitation of Christ, III, xxxi.

2 Mammon, Rossetti MS. No. 130.