Hence, in a season of calm weather, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea 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? Pa tience! "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 woman." 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 rise before us! What memories, what feelings they excite! "I see the European headsman : He stands masked, clothed in red, with huge legs and strong naked arms, And leans on a ponderous axe. (Whom have you slaughtered lately, European headman? Whose is that blood upon you, so wet and sticky?)" While I cite these passages as examples of associative power, I am aware that Whitman's poem has a loftier scope than mere pathos. The "drift of it is something grand," as he would say; its tendency at least is upwards-towards some sort of ideal, if not the highest. After what has been said, I can with less need of explanation state more definitely what I believe to be the true nature and function of literature, and our duty as students of literature. In the first place, as regards its nature, literature, in our sense of the word, shall not mean all books. It shall mean rather those writings which convey to us not facts alone, but their true meanings also: not impressions and feelings merely, but their message: not appearances solely, but ideas. Fact-truth alone constitutes the proper domain of science, under which term we may include history : and, roughly speaking, any writing, so far as it treats a subject merely scientifically, that is with sole regard to fact-truth, is not literature. I do not, of course, mean to limit the word literature to imagina tive productions, and to exclude all historical and scientific writings, which are sometimes of high literary value; still less should we limit the term to books. in which abstract ideas are formally presented. Nor do I say that fact-truth may not be largely present in imaginative literature. Indeed, every realistic description, every natural or historical fact, used by a poet is of this nature, and constitutes a legitimate material. But what we should demand in true literature is that the writer should use these materials so as to reveal to us the inner meaning of the facts that he presents; and this is especially the case in the highest class of literature, namely poetry. I would therefore limit the expression, not solely to imaginative writings, but to writings which so present appearances to us that we learn somewhat at least from them of that message which it is the end of all appearance to convey. Further, this characteristic of true literature will inevitably display itself in the language of the writer. In scientific writings the only object is to transmit facts as distinctly as possible. The more definite and clear-cut is the language, the more limited to one conception is each word, the less of metaphor, of fancy, and of imagination is admitted, so much the nearer is our object attained. But the personal element, the bodying forth of one's inner belief, in true literature necessitates a personal character in the style of the writer. Let |