much of that literature of which I desire to treat, and in all that literature which merits the name of "poetic." I do not mean to say that it is expressly stated as a formal doctrine, or that it is brought before the reader in any defined theory, or parable, or other form. But, whether or not the writer presents it, or himself conceives it, formally, it underlies all that which is best and truest in literature.

And indeed it is difficult to present the thing formally. To do so one is obliged to use a parable or allegory. The fiction under which the great ideal philosopher Plato offers it is the following.

Led

He likens the soul before birth to a charioteer and two winged horses. One horse represents the evil passions, the other our nobler affections. by Zeus and all the gods the chariot-souls, with clashing of wheels and the plunging of foaming steeds, circle round the dome of the sky, striving upwards toward the apse of heaven. And those who, conquering the stubborn resistance of the evilpassioned horse, reach that upper sphere gaze on the forms of divine ideas, or essences of things visible to the soul alone. They, dropping down once more to earth, assume an "earthly body" and become men whereas those who are not able to reach the upper sphere, but circle in vain around the dome of the lower world, when they touch the earth, take the forms of animals. Now, when the human soul, clothed in its earthly vesture of the senses,

perceives anything on earth that is a material reflection (and all things on earth are such) of the heavenly idea, he is reminded of the celestial perfection, and he worships and adores the divinity symbolized by the idol that his senses perceive: he recognizes a divine message in the voice of nature; to him these things of earth are nothing but the form in which truth is presented to him-the shadows or reflections of that which truly exists. Such a man is the poet he that knows this mystery and cannot reveal it to his fellow-man, is the uncreative and unrecognized poet; he that both knows it and can reveal it, who has both the vision and the faculty divine, is the complete and recognized poet.

Let me now recall to your memories some wellknown lines of Wordsworth, which almost rival Plato's vision in imaginative sublimity :

"Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The soul that rises with us, our life's star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,

And cometh from afar :

Not in entire forgetfulness,

And not in utter nakedness,

But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home. . . .
The youth, who daily further from the east
Must travel, still is Nature's priest,
And by the vision splendid

Is on his way attended;

At length the man perceives it die away,
And fade into the light of common day.

Hence, in a season of calm weather,
Though inland far we be,

Our souls have sight of that immortal sea
Which brought us hither:

Can in a moment travel thither,

And see the children sport upon the shore,

And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore."

The truest poet, whether he write in a metrical form or not, will ever be he who by the language that earth and all the finite nature of man supplies him reveals to us the inner mystery. This, as I have said, is done by a power of metaphor; of making these finite ideas stand as symbols for what is infinite.

And here I would, for the present, leave this subject. But one point more I must touch upon; and that is the lower faculty of the poet of transferring our thoughts by association from a material object to an emotional-but one which is still finite. I mention it here, because I wish to affirm that it is merely a means that a poet may make use of for a higher purpose, and that it is not a true end of poetry, as is often thought. It does not make use of an appearance to represent an idea, but merely by association excites certain feelings without revealing the secret of such feelings; without, that is, giving that meaning to such feelings which make them a reality.

One of the finest examples, in any poet that I know, of this faculty of exciting an emotional feeling by mere association with material things, is the following.

It is written by Walt Whitman,

the American poet; for though many deny him the name of poet, and in the highest sense of the word he may not be one of the completest poets, yet I have no hesitation in saying that, especially in this power of associating appearances, which tends to draw our minds from the less to the greater, from the lower form of the finite to a higher form, he is a great poet. He is speaking of shapes-material forms and shapes of things.

"The shapes arise !"

he exclaims. At once all manners of shapes and forms present themselves to us. What shape will he choose?

"The shape measured, sawed, jacked, joined, stained." Why, what interest is there in this? A piece of wood, evidently; a plank. What do we care if it is measured ever so carefully, or sawed, or jacked, or joined, or stained? It is nothing to us. But listen!

“The coffin shape . ""

Ah! what is that?

Yes, that is something-a coffin

shape! Let us hear more:—

"The coffin shape for the dead to lie in within his shroud."

That is a shape indeed! Do you wish to hear of more shapes? Here they are

"The shape of the little trough, the shape of the rockers beneath, the shape of the baby's cradle ;

The shape of the floor planks. ...

Planks again! what do we care about planks? Patience!

"The floor planks for the dancers' feet."

There is our picture! The swiftly gliding feet of the dancers, the dancers with their hearts palpitating with love, with hope, with jealousy!

Again

"The shape of the roof of the home of the happy young man and woman, the roof over the well-married young man and

Yes, that is no mere common roof. What memories of sweet hopes, what joys and perhaps what sorrows may be associated with the shape of that roof in after years!

The shape of the prisoner's place in the court-room, and of him or her seated in the place :

The shape of the liquor-bar, leaned against by the young rumdrinker, and the old rum-drinker.”

Think of it! The well-worn greasy bar, leaned against by generation after generation of those who, as they lean, are sinking down lower and lower in the miry swamp of ruin and misery, soul and body. The young rum-drinker! Ah, who will save him? The old-in all his filthiness, with his blank lustreless eyes of despair, his foul breath, his steps tottering to hell!

Once again, what scenes do these words make