Various
Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Vol. 68, No 420, October 1850
A WILD-FLOWER GARLAND. BY DELTA
THE DAISY
I
The Daisy blossoms on the rocks,
Amid the purple heath;
It blossoms on the river's banks,
That thrids the glens beneath:
The eagle, at his pride of place,
Beholds it by his nest;
And, in the mead, it cushions soft
The lark's descending breast.
II
Before the cuckoo, earliest spring
Its silver circlet knows,
When greening buds begin to swell,
And zephyr melts the snows;
And, when December's breezes howl
Along the moorlands bare,
And only blooms the Christmas rose,
The Daisy still is there!
III
Samaritan of flowers! to it
All races are alike,
The Switzer on his glacier height, —
The Dutchman by his dyke, —
The seal-skin vested Esquimaux,
Begirt with icy seas, —
And, underneath his burning noon,
The parasol'd Chinese.
IV
The emigrant on distant shore,
Mid scenes and faces strange,
Beholds it flowering in the sward,
Where'er his footsteps range;
And when his yearning, home-sick heart
Would bow to its despair,
It reads his eye a lesson sage —
That God is everywhere!
V
Stars are the Daisies that begem
The blue fields of the sky,
Beheld by all, and everywhere,
Bright prototypes on high: —
Bloom on, then, unpretending flowers!
And to the waverer be
An emblem of St Paul's content,
St Stephen's constancy.
THE WHITE ROSE
I
Rose of the desert! thou art to me
An emblem of stainless purity, —
Of those who, keeping their garments white,
Walk on through life with steps aright.
II
Thy fragrance breathes of the fields above,
Whose soil and air are faith and love;
And where, by the murmur of silver springs,
The Cherubim fold their snow-white wings; —
III
Where those who were severed re-meet in joy,
Which death can never more destroy;
Where scenes without, and where souls within,
Are blanched from taint and touch of sin; —
IV
Where speech is music, and breath is balm;
And broods an everlasting calm;
And flowers wither not, as in worlds like this;
And hope is swallowed in perfect bliss; —
V
Where all is peaceful, for all is pure;
And all is lovely; and all endure;
And day is endless, and ever bright;
And no more sea is, and no more night; —
VI
Where round the throne, in hues like thine,
The raiments of the ransom'd shine;
And o'er each brow a halo glows
Of glory, like the pure White Rose!
THE SWEET BRIAR
I
The Sweet Briar flowering,
With boughs embowering,
Beside the willow-tufted stream,
In its soft, red bloom,
And its wild perfume,
Brings back the past like a sunny dream!
II
Methinks, in childhood,
Beside the wildwood
I lie, and listen the blackbird's song,
Mid the evening calm,
As the Sweet Briar's balm
On the gentle west wind breathes along —
III
To speak of meadows,
And palm-tree shadows,
And bee-hive cones, and a thymy hill,
And greenwood mazes,
And greensward daisies,
And a foamy stream, and a clacking mill.
IV
Still the heart rejoices,
At the happy voices
Of children, singing amid their play;
While swallows twittering,
And waters glittering,
Make earth an Eden at close of day.
V
In sequestered places,
Departed faces,
Return and smile as of yore they smiled;
When, with trifles blest,
Each buoyant breast
Held the trusting heart of a little child.
VI
The future never
Again can ever
The perished gifts of the past restore,
Nor, to thee or me,
Can the wild flowers be
What the Briar was then – oh never more!
THE WALL-FLOWER
I
The Wall-flower – the Wall-flower,
How beautiful it blooms!
It gleams above the ruined tower,
Like sunlight over tombs;
It sheds a halo of repose
Around the wrecks of time.
To beauty give the flaunting rose,
The Wall-flower is sublime.
II
Flower of the solitary place!
Gray ruin's golden crown,
That lendest melancholy grace
To haunts of old renown;
Thou mantlest o'er the battlement,
By strife or storm decayed;
And fillest up each envious rent
Time's canker-tooth hath made.
III
Thy roots outspread the ramparts o'er,
Where, in war's stormy day,
Percy or Douglas ranged of yore
Their ranks in grim array;
The clangour of the field is fled,
The beacon on the hill
No more through midnight blazes red,
But thou art blooming still!
IV
Whither hath fled the choral band
That filled the Abbey's nave?
Yon dark sepulchral yew-trees stand
O'er many a level grave.
In the belfry's crevices, the dove
Her young brood nurseth well,
While thou, lone flower! dost shed above
A sweet decaying smell.
V
In the season of the tulip-cup
When blossoms clothe the trees,
How sweet to throw the lattice up,
And scent thee on the breeze;
The butterfly is then abroad,
The bee is on the wing,
And on the hawthorn by the road
The linnets sit and sing.
VI
Sweet Wall-flower – sweet Wall-flower!
Thou conjurest up to me,
Full many a soft and sunny hour
Of boyhood's thoughtless glee;
When joy from out the daisies grew,
In woodland pastures green,
And summer skies were far more blue,
Than since they e'er have been.
VII
Now autumn's pensive voice is heard
Amid the yellow bowers,
The robin is the regal bird,
And thou the queen of flowers!
He sings on the laburnum trees,
Amid the twilight dim,
And Araby ne'er gave the breeze
Such scents, as thou to him.
VIII
Rich is the pink, the lily gay,
The rose is summer's guest;
Bland are thy charms when these decay,
Of flowers – first, last, and best!
There may be gaudier on the bower,
And statelier on the tree,
But Wall-flower – loved Wall-flower,
Thou art the flower for me!
THE MASQUERADE OF FREEDOM
I
When Freedom first appeared beneath,
Right simple was the garb she wore:
Her brows were circled with a wreath
Such as the Grecian victors bore:
Her vesture all of spotless white,
Her aspect stately and serene;
And so she moved in all men's sight
As lovely as a Maiden Queen.
II
And queenlike, long she ruled the throng,
As ancient records truly tell;
Their strength she took not from the strong,
But taught them how to use it well.
Her presence graced the peasant's floor
As freely as the noble's hall:
And aye the humbler was the door,
The still more welcome was her call.
III
But simple manners rarely range
Beyond the simpler ages' ken:
And e'en the Virtues sometimes change
Their vesture and their looks, like men.
Pride, noble once, grows close and vain,
And Honour stoops to vulgar things,
And old Obedience slacks the rein,
And murmurs at the rule of kings.
IV
So Freedom, like her sisters too,
Has felt the impulse of the time,
Has changed her garments' blameless hue,
And donn'd the colours dear to crime
First in a Phrygian cap she stalked,
And bore within her grasp the spear;
And ever, when abroad she walk'd,
Men knew Revenge was following near.
V
She moves again – The death-drums roll,
The frantic mobs their chorus raise,
The thunder of the Carmagnole —
The war-chant of the Marseillaise'
Red run the streets with blameless blood —
The guillotine comes clanking down —
And Freedom, in her drunken mood,
Can witness all without a frown.
VI
Times change again: and Freedom now,
Though scarcely yet less wild and frantic,
Appears, before men's eyes below,
In guises more intensely antic.
No single kind of garb she wears,
As o'er the earth she goes crusading;
But shifts her habit and her airs
Like Joe Grimaldi masquerading.
VII
Through Paris you may see her tread,
The cynosure of all beholders;
A bonnet rouge upon her head,
A ragged blouse upon her shoulders.
More decent now than once she was,
Though equally opposed to riches,
She still upholds the good old cause,
Yet condescends to wear the breeches.
VIII
The Huns behold her as of yore,
With grisly beard and monstrous swagger;
The swart Italian bows before
The Goddess with the mask and dagger.
The German, as his patriot thirst
With beer Bavarian he assuages,
Surveys her image, as at first
'Twas pictured in the Middle Ages.
IX
Her glorious form appears to him
In all its pristine pomp and glitter,
Equipped complete from head to heel,
In semblance of a stalwart Ritter.
With doublet slash, and fierce moustache,
And wrinkled boots of russet leather,
And hose and belt, with hat of felt
Surmounted by a capon's feather.
X
Mysterious as Egyptian Sphinx,
A perfect riddle – who can solve her?
One while she comes with blazing links,
The next, she's armed with a revolver.
Across the main, whene'er the shoe
Upon her radiant instep pinches,
To-day, she'll tar and feather you;
To-morrow, and she merely Lynches.
XI
While thus abroad, in varied guise,
We see the fair enchantress flitting,
She deigns to greet in other wise
Her latest satellites in Britain.
Sometimes, in black dissenting cloth,
She figures like an undertaker;
And sometimes plunges, nothing loath,
Into the garments of a Quaker.
XII
You'll find her recommending pikes
At many a crowded Chartist meeting,
Where gentlemen, like William Sykes,
To exiled patriots vote their greeting.
You'll find her also with her friends,
Engaged upon a bloody errand,
When, stead of arguments, she sends
Her bludgeoneers to silence Ferrand.
XIII
You'll find her too, at different dates,
With men of peace on platforms many,
Denouncing loans to foreign states
Whereof they could not raise a penny.
In short, to end the catalogue,
There's hardly any son of Edom
Who, in his character of rogue,
Won't tell you that he worships Freedom.
XIV
Yet hold – one sample more – the last,
Ere of this theme we make a clearance;
One little month is barely past
Since London saw her grand appearance,
In one of those enormous hats,
Short leggings and peculiar jerkins,
Which men assume who tend the vats
Of Barclay and his partner Perkins.
XV
To that great factory of beer,
Unconscious wholly of his danger,
Nor dreaming that a foe was near,
There came, one day, an aged stranger.
He was a soldier, and had fought
In other lands 'gainst revolution;
And done his utmost – so he thought —
To save his country's constitution.
XVI
But saving states, like other things
Is not in highest vogue at present;
And those who stand by laws and kings
Must look for recompense unpleasant.
Fair Freedom, brooding o'er the drink
That makes the Briton strong and hearty,
Began to sneeze upon the brink
As though she scented Bonaparte.
XVII
"Ah, ha!" she cried, and cried again —
At every word her voice grew louder —
"I smell an Austrian or a Dane,
I smell a minion of gunpowder!
Some servant of a kingly race
My independent nostril vexes!
Say – shall he dare to show his face,
Within this hall of triple X's?
XVIII
"'Tis true – he is unarmed, alone,
A stranger, weak, and old, and hoary —
Yet – on, my children! heave the stone!
The less the risk, the more the glory!"
She ceased: and round the startled man,
As round the Indian crowds the cayman,
From vat, and vault, and desk, and van,
Thronged brewer, maltster, clerk, and drayman.
XIX
"A precious lark!" the foremost cried;
"Come – twig him, Tom! come – pin him, Roger!"
"Who is it?" Then a sage replied —
"He's some infernal foreign sodger!
He looks as how he'd scored ere now
Some shoulders black and blue with lashes
So pitch him here into the beer —
And, lads – we'll pull off his moustaches!"
XX
They did – what brutal natures scorn.
What savages would shrink to do —
What none but basest cowards born,
And the most abject and most few,
Would offer to an old man's head!
O shame – O shame to Englishmen!
If the old spirit be not dead,
'Tis time it showed itself again!
XXI
What! in this land which shelter gave
To all, whatever their degree,
Or were they faint, or were they brave,
Or were they slaves, or were they free —
In this Asylum of the Earth —
The noblest name it ever won —
Shall deeds like these pollute our hearth,
Shall open shame like this be done?
XXII
O most ignoble end of all
Our boasted order and renown!
The robber in the tribune's hall —
The maltster in the Judge's gown!
The hospitable roof profaned;
Old age by ruffian force opprest,
And English hands most vilely stained
With blood of an unconscious guest!
XXIII
O Freedom! if thou wouldst maintain
Thy empire on the British shore,
Wash from thy robes that coward stain,
Resume thy ancient garb once more.
In virgin whiteness walk abroad,
Maintain thy might from sea to sea,
And, as the dearest gift of God,
So men shall live and die for thee!
Dies Boreales.
No. VIII.
CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS
Camp at Cladich
Scene —The Wren's Nest
Time —Evening
North – Talboys – Seward – Buller
NORTH
Have you dined?
TALBOYS
That we have, sir.
NORTH
With me this has been Fast-day.
TALBOYS
We saw it was, at our breakfast. Your abstinence at that meal, and at luncheon, we knew from the composure of your features, and your benignant silence, was not from any disorder of material organisation, but from steady moral resolve; so his absence from the Dinner-Table gave us no uneasiness about Numa.
NORTH
No Nymph has been with him in the Grot.
TALBOYS
His Good Genius is always with him in Solitude. The form we observed stealing – no, not stealing – gliding away – was, I verily believe, but the Lady of the Wood.
NORTH
The Glen, you know, is haunted; and sometimes when the green umbrage is beginning to look grey in the still evening, I have more than a glimpse of the Faery Queen.
SEWARD
Perhaps we intrude on your dreams. Let us retire.
NORTH
Take your seats. What Book is that, beneath your arm, Talboys?
TALBOYS
The Volume you bid me bring with me this Evening to the Wren's Nest.
NORTH
Yes, yes – now I remember. You are here by appointment.
TALBOYS
Else had we not been here. We had not merely your permission, sir – but your invitation.
NORTH
I was expecting you – and by hands unseen this our Round Table has been spread for my guests. Pretty coffee-cups, are they not? Ask no questions – there they are – but handle them gently – for the porcelain is delicate – and at rude touch will disappear from your fingers. A Book. Ay, ay – a Quarto – and by a writer of deserved Fame.
SEWARD
We are dissatisfied with it, sir. Dugald Stewart is hard on the Poet, and we desire to hear a vindication from our Master's lips.
NORTH
Master! We are all pupils Of the Poet. He is the Master of us all. Talboys, read out – and begin at the beginning.
TALBOYS
"In entering on this subject, it is proper to observe, that the word Poet is not here used in that restricted sense in which it is commonly employed; but in its original acceptation of Maker, or Creator. In plainer language, it is used to comprehend all those who devote themselves to the culture of the Arts which are addressed to the Imagination; and in whose minds it may be presumed Imagination has acquired a more than ordinary sway over the other powers of the Understanding. By using the word in such a latitude, we shall be enabled to generalise the observations which might otherwise seem applicable merely to the different classes of versifiers."
NORTH
That Mr. Stewart should, as a Philosopher, mark the liberal and magnanimous, and metaphysical large acceptation of the Name is right and good. But look at his Note.
TALBOYS
"For this latitude in the use of the word Poet, I may plead the example of Bacon and d'Alembert, the former of whom (De Aug. Scient., lib. xi. cap. 1) comprehends under Poetry all fables or fictitious histories, whether in prose or verse; while the latter includes in it painting, sculpture, architecture, music, and their different divisions."
NORTH
"I may plead the example" appears to me a somewhat pompous expression to signify that you have (very properly) adopted one doctrine of one of the wisest, and another of one of the ablest of men. But he does not seem to know that d'Alembert might have "pleaded the example" of Aristotle in "including painting, sculpture," &c. "Poetry," says the Stagyrite, "consists in imitation, and the imitation may be by pictures, sculpture, and the like." It is μιμησις – and it is Man's nature to rejoice in imitation – χαιρειν τοις μιμημασιν. But a singular and illustrative trait in Mr Stewart's treatment of the subject is, that though he thus, at the outset, enlarges the Poet into the Painter, the Sculptor, &c., yet throughout the whole composition, (I know not if an incidental word may anywhere occur as an exception,) every point of the argument regards the Poet in words and verse! In what frame of understanding could – did he put this Head to these fragments of limbs?
BULLER
In the name of the Prophet – Figs!
NORTH
I am more than half disposed to hint an objection to the use of the words "sway over the other powers." We should have said – and we do say, "predominance amongst the other powers." I see in "sway" two meanings: first, a right meaning, or truth, not well expressed; to wit, in thinking poetically – for his art, whatever it may be – or out of his art – the Poet's other faculties minister to his Imagination. She reigns. They conform their operations to hers. This manner of intellectual action happens in all men, more or less, oftener or seldomer; in the Poet – of what Art soever – upon each occasion, with much more decision and eminence, and more habitually. But secondly, a wrong meaning, or error, is better expressed by the word "sway," to wit, that Imagination in the Poet illegitimately overbears the other intellectual powers, as judgment, attention, reflection, memory, prudence. Now, you may say that every power that is given in great strength, tends to overbear unduly the other powers. The syllogistic faculty does – the faculty of observation does – memory does – and so a power unbalanced may appear as a weakness – as wealth ruins a fool. But in the just dispensation of nature every power is a power, and to the mind which she constitutes for greatness she gives balanced powers. Giving one in large measure – say Imagination – she gives as large the directly antagonistic power – say the Intellective, the Logical; or she balances by a mass of powers. I suspect that the undue over-swaying was in Stewart's mind, and has probably distorted his language. I know that Genius is the combination of ten faculties.
SEWARD
Our expectations were raised to a high pitch by such grandiloquent announcement: and we have found in the Essay – which is unscientific in form – has no method – makes no progress – and is throughout a jumble, – not one bold or original thought.
BULLER
Too much occupied with exposure of vulgar errors – and instances beneath the matter in hand. Great part too —extra thesin.
SEWARD
You expect great things from the title – the Idea of the Poet. You then see that Mr Stewart after all does not intend this, but only certain influences, moral and intellectual, of characteristic pursuits. This, if rightly and fully done, would have involved the Idea – and so a portraiture indirect and incidental – still the features and their proportion. Instead of the Idea, you find —
BULLER
I don't know what.
TALBOYS
The reader is made unhappy, first, by defect, or the absence of principal features – then by degradation, or the low contemplation – and by the general tenor.
NORTH
Why, perhaps, you had better return the Quarto to its shelf in the Van. Yet 'twould be a pity, too, to do so. I am for always keeping our engagements; and as we agreed to have a talk about the Section this evening, let us have a talk. Read away, Talboys – at the very next Paragraph.
TALBOYS
"The culture of Imagination does not diminish our interest in human life, but is extremely apt to inspire the mind with false conceptions of it. As this faculty derives its chief gratification from picturing to itself things more perfect than what exist, it has a tendency to exalt our expectations above the level of our present condition, and frequently produces a youth of enthusiastic hopes, while it stores up disappointment and disgust for maturer years. In general, it is the characteristic of a poetical mind to be sanguine in its prospects of futurity – a disposition extremely useful when seconded by great activity and industry, but which, when accompanied, as it too frequently is, with indolence, and with an overweening self-conceit, is the source of numberless misfortunes."
BULLER
Why, all this is —
NORTH
Stop. Read on, Talboys.
TALBOYS
"A thoughtlessness and imprudence with respect to the future, and a general imprudence in the conduct of life, has been often laid to the charge of Poets. Horace represents them as too much engrossed and intoxicated with their favourite pursuits to think of anything else —
BULLER
Leave out the quotation from old Flaccus – and go on.
TALBOYS
"This carelessness about the goods of fortune is an infirmity very naturally resulting from their studies, and is only to be cured by years and experience; or by a combination – very rare, indeed – of poetical genius with a more than ordinary share of that homely endowment COMMON SENSE."
BULLER
Speak louder – yet that might not be easy. I feel the want of an ear-trumpet, for you do drop your voice so at the end of sentences.
TALBOYS
"A few exceptions" —
BULLER
Stentor's alive again – oh! that I were head over ears in a bale of cotton.
TALBOYS
"A few exceptions to these observations may undoubtedly be found, but they are so very few, as, by their singularity, to confirm rather than weaken the general fact. In proof of this, we need only appeal to the sad details recorded by Dr Johnson in his Lives of the Poets."
BULLER
Skip – skip – skip —
SEWARD
Skip – skip – skip —
TALBOYS
May I, sir?
NORTH
You may.
TALBOYS
"Considered in its moral effects on the mind, one of the most unfortunate consequences to be apprehended from the cultivation of a poetical talent, is its tendency, by cherishing a puerile and irritable vanity, to weaken the force, and to impair the independence of character. Whoever limits his exertions to the gratification of others, whether by personal exhibition, as in the case of the actor and mimic, or by those kinds of literary composition which are calculated for no end but to please or to entertain, renders himself, in some measure, dependent on their caprices and humours."
BULLER
Skip – skip – skip —
TALBOYS
"In all the other departments of literature besides, to please is only a secondary object. It is the primary one of poetry. Hence that timidity of temper, and restless and unmanly desire of praise, and that dependence on the capricious applause of the multitude, which so often detract from the personal dignity of those whose productions do honour to human nature."
NORTH
I don't quite understand what Mr Stewart means here by "the culture of Imagination." I see three senses of the word. First, the cultivation by the study of written Poetry and the poetical arts, and of the poetry poured through the Universe – to those minds which receive without producing – a legitimate process. Secondly, the cultivation as in Edwin, Beattie's young Minstrel, the destined and self-destining Poet – a legitimate process. And thirdly, the self-indulgence of a mind which, more sensitive than volitive, more imaginative than intellectual, more wilful than lawful, more self-loving than others-loving – turns life into a long reverie – an illegitimate process. Which of these three classes of minds does Stewart speak of? Strong native imagination in a young powerful enthusiastic mind, tutored by poetical studies, but whom the Muse has not selected to the services of her shrine? Or the faculty as in the Poet-born self-tutored, and now rushing into his own predestined work? Or the soft-souled and indolent fainéant Dreamer of life? Three totally distinct subjects for the contemplation of the Philosopher, but that here seem to hover confusedly and at once before our Philosopher.
BULLER
By his chosen title of the Section, The POET, he was bound to speak of him according to Bacon, d'Alembert, and Aristotle.
NORTH
The word culture must, I think, here specifically touch the First Case. Shall we then be afraid of giving a share, and a large share too, to the reading of the Poets, and the regard of the Fine Arts, in a liberal Education? Poetry, History, Science, are the three strands of the cable by which the vessel shall ride – Religion being the sheet-anchor.
SEWARD
Perhaps it is meant to touch the Second Case too?
NORTH
It may be meant to do so, but it does not. The word "culture" is dictated by or is proper to the First Case – for culture is deliberate and elective. But in him – the young Poet – the Edwin – in whom imagination is given in the measure assigned by the Muse to her children, the culture proceeds undeliberate and unwilled. Edwin, when he roves "beneath the precipice o'erhung with pine," or sitting to watch the "wide-weltering waves," or is seized from the hint of ballad or tale, or any chance word, with dreams and visions of the more illustrious Past – follows a delight and desire that have the nature and may have the name of a passion. All this is involuntary to the unforeseen result – but afterwards, when he has accepted his art for a vocation, he more than any man deliberately cultivates. Has the Philosopher, then, in mind only the third class, and do the dangers of "the culture of imagination" apply to them only – "the indolent fainéant dreamers of life?" If so, he not only forgets and loses his subject, as announced by himself, but wastes words on one altogether below it. "False conceptions of human life!" Here is an equivocation which must be set right. "Conceptions of human life" are here meant to apply to expectations of the honesty, gratitude, virtue of the persons in general with whom you or I shall come in contact in life. Good. The contemplation of human beings – men and women —ideally drawn by the Poet lifts me too high – tinges hope in me with enthusiasm, and prepares disappointment. So it has been often said, and said truly. This is conception prospective and personal; and more philosophically termed Expectation. But then "conception of human life" – from the lip of a philosopher should mean rather "intelligence of man's life." Now I repeat that only through the Poet have you true intelligence of man's life – either external or internal. In the Actual the Poet sees the Idea – just as a Painter does in respect of the visible man. In the man set before him He sees two men – the man that is and the man of whom at his nativity was given the possibility to be. He reads cause and effect; and sees what has hindered the possible from being. Who, excepting the Poet, does this? And excepting this, what intelligence of man is an intelligence?
SEWARD
There are two world-Wisdoms. One, to know men, as for the most part they will show themselves – commonly called Knowledge of the World: one, to know them as God made them. I forget what it is called. Possibly it has no name.
NORTH
Observe, my dear Seward, the precise error of that expectation. It is to believe the good more prevalent than it is. It is no misunderstanding as to the constitution of the good. The good is; and the important point of all is to know it, when you meet it. To be cheated, by not apprehending the ill of a man, is a wound to your purse, and when you at last apprehend, to your heart. To be cheated by not apprehending the good of man is —death, which you bear in yourself, and know it not.
SEWARD
What is desired? Is it that we should go into the world with hope not a whit wider and higher than the dimensions of the reality that we are to encounter? I trow not.
NORTH
Your hope will elect your own destiny – will shape it – will be it. There are possibilities given of the nobler happinesses, as well as of the nobler services; and your hope, faithful to itself, will reach and grasp them. And only to such hope are they given. Moreover, in all men there is under the mask of evil which the world has shaped on them, the power inextinct which the Creator sowed there; and they may, if they dare to believe in it, and know to call to it, bring it out with a burst. But belief is the main ingredient of the spell, and hope is the mother of belief.
TALBOYS
The Poet has glorious apprehensions of human existence – visions of men – visions of men's actions – visions of men's destinies. He pitches his theory of the human world above reality – and that he shall, in due season or before it, learn – to his great loss and to his great gain. In the meanwhile do not speak of the temper in him, as if you would upbraid him with it. Do not lay to his charge the splendour of his powers and aspirations. Do not chide and rate him for his virtues.
SEWARD
"False conceptions!" a term essentially of depreciation and reproach. They are not false, they are true. For they are faithful to the vocation that lies upon the human beings; but they, the human beings, are false, and their lives are false; falling short of those true conceptions.
NORTH
Well. He – the Poet – comes to the encounter. It is the trial set for him by his stars – as it is the trial set for all great spirits. He finds those who disappoint him, and those who do not. But, grant the disappointment, rather. What shall he do? That which all great spirits do – transfer the grandeur of his hopes, over which fate, fortune, and the winds of heaven ruled, to his own purposes of which he is master.
TALBOYS
Why did not Mr Stewart say simply that the Poet – and the young enthusiast of Poetry – thinks better of his fellows than they deserve, and brings a faith to them which they will take good care to disappoint? Why harp thus on the jarring string; torturing our ears, and putting our souls out of tune?
NORTH
Who doubts – who does not know, and admire, and love Hope – in the ardent generous spirit – looking out from within the Eden of Youth into the world into which it shall, alas! fall? What is asked? That the spring-flowering of youth shall be prematurely blighted and blasted by winds frosty or fiery, which the set fruit may bear? Of course we hope beyond the reality, and it is God's gift that we do.
TALBOYS
And why lay that Imagination which looks into Life with unmeasured ideas to the charge of the Poet alone? Herein every man is a Poet, more or less; and, most, every spirit of power – the hero, the saint, the minister of religion, the very Philosopher. Would we ask, sir, for a new law of nature? Upon the elements, fewer or more, which an anticipated experience gathers, a spirit impelled by the yearnings inseparable from self-conscious power, and mighty to create, works unchecked and unruled. What shall it do but build glorious illusions?
NORTH
"The culture of Imagination," – understanding thereby, first, in the Great Poets themselves, the intercourse of their own minds with facts which imagination vivifies, and with ideas which it creates – of humanity; and secondly, in all others, as poets to be or not to be, the reading of the Great Poets, Mr Stewart says – "does not diminish our interest in human life." Does not diminish! Quite the reverse. It extraordinarily deepens and heightens, increases and ennobles. For who are the painters, the authentic delineators and revealers of human life, outer and inner —