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 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
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 Copyright, 1885, 
 
 l.y 
 C. W. Maci-arlane.
 
 Canons of Criticism. 
 
 An Introduction to 
 
 The Development 
 
 of 
 English Poetry. 
 
 By 
 
 C. W. Macfarlane.
 
 Contents. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 Poetry 7 
 
 Poet versus Philosopher 2g 
 
 Repose 43 
 
 Healthfulness 59 
 
 Humor 71 
 
 Resume 87
 
 
 Preface. 
 
 SOME years ago we attempted to sketch 
 "The Development of English Poetry," 
 but at the very outset found ourselves 
 confronted with this formidable difficulty, that 
 there is no generally accepted definition of 
 Poetry. While there is undoubtedly some 
 agreement as to the merit of special lines, 
 and man}' attempts to define Poetry or to 
 formulate a criterion by which all lines might 
 be safely judged, yet are these conflicting in 
 the extreme, while none seem willing to give 
 a reason for the faith that is in them. Until 
 this is done, until some general agreement has 
 been established among men in regard to a 
 criterion which shall say ; tliis is t)f low, and 
 this of high degree, no discussion of "The
 
 4 
 
 Development of English Poetry " can be with 
 any great profit. 
 
 Recognizing this, we have endeavored to 
 find some strand of agreement running through 
 the mass of conflicting opinion. Where one 
 has seemed arrayed against another, we have 
 striven, not so much to develop a new and 
 different truth, as to harmonize their contra- 
 diction, holding it as highly probable that they 
 were but different phases of the same truth. 
 
 Out of the original discussion there have 
 grown definitions of many of the terms in 
 current use in criticism, and yet about which 
 much difference of opinion exists. Lastly we 
 were constrained to define Humor, and this 
 widening of the discussion has compelled the 
 seemingly pretentious title " Canons of Criti- 
 cism;" and yet that the principles here enun- 
 ciated have a wider application than to Poetry, 
 he who runs may read. 
 
 That the time has come when, if Critical 
 Literature is to make further advance, there 
 must be some general agreement as to the 
 meaning of the terms employed, there can be 
 no question, though how successful we have
 
 5 
 
 been in our attempts to give definition to some 
 of these terms others must judge. This, at 
 least, we may say : " It is an honest Ghost." 
 
 No. 4728 Green Street, 
 Germantown, 
 
 Philadelphia. 
 
 C. W. M.
 
 a
 
 Poetry. 
 
 CRITICAL literature has of late been much 
 perturbed by the question, whether in 
 the brilliant ornateness of Shelley, or 
 in the serene contemplation of Wordsworth, 
 is found the greater poetic genius. Nor can 
 the perturbation be confined within the girth 
 of the original question; for, take what side 
 you will, the mere assertion that certain lines 
 are superior in poetic merit to certain others 
 commits you to the proposition, that some 
 measure, some test of poetic excellence, is 
 possible. 
 
 And so, no longer contented with vague 
 generalities, men seek for such a criterion, as 
 will enable them to determine for any and all
 
 8 
 
 examples of poetic endeavor, the order of their 
 going. 
 
 It is not possible within the limits of these 
 pages to review all previous definitions ; but 
 if we can find that among them there are two 
 or more under one or the other of which all 
 others may be included, we can expedite our 
 discussion by confining ourselves to these, and 
 so, building upon the foundation of the apostles 
 and prophets of afore-determined truth, may 
 be led to a definition of at least as great exact- 
 ness and generality as any yet proposed. 
 
 Conspicuous among recent efforts in this 
 direction is that of Mr. Matthew Arnold, who 
 in the preface to his " Selections from Words- 
 worth's Poems" writes: 
 
 " It is important that we hold fast to this: 
 that poetry is at bottom a criticism of life ; 
 that the greatness of the poet lies in his beau- 
 tiful and powerful application of ideas to life, 
 to the question how to live." 
 
 In the " Contemporary Review," Decem- 
 ber, 1 88 1, Mr. Alfred Austin combats this, and 
 offers in its stead the following : " Poetry is a 
 transfiguration of life ; in other words, an
 
 imac:^i native representation in verse or rhythm, 
 of whatever men perceive, feel, think, or do." 
 " The relative greatness of a poet depends upon 
 the amount of life he has transfigured ; in other 
 words, upon how much of whatever men per- 
 ceive, feel, think or do, he has in verse or 
 rh)'thm represented imaginatively." 
 
 What, in simple, are we to understand 
 from these criteria ? I\Ir. Austin interprets 
 Mr. Arnold as declaring that it is in the criti- 
 cism or philosophy of life, in the tJiought con- 
 tained in any lines, that we must find the 
 measure of the poet's work and genius, while 
 his own may be fairly interpreted as declaring, 
 that the poet evidences his genius in a special 
 mode of representing the thought, or by his 
 " transfiguration " of the same. But what of 
 this " transfiguration," for before passing judg- 
 ment upon a statement, we must needs have 
 some clear idea as to the meaning of the terms 
 employed. 
 
 Among the many examples quoted in the 
 course of Mr. Austin's argument is the follow- 
 ing from Wordsworth's " Simon Lcc the Old 
 Huntsman : "
 
 lO 
 
 " And he is lean and he is sick ; 
 
 His body dwindled and awry 
 Rests upon ankles swollen and thick : 
 
 His legs are thin and dry. 
 One prop he has and only one, 
 
 His wife, an aged woman, 
 Lives with him near the waterfall, 
 
 Upon the village common," etc. 
 
 " Need I hesitate to say, " writes Mr. 
 Austin, and we must perforce agree with him, 
 "that, though written by Wordsworth, this 
 is not poetry?" Farther on he writes: — 
 " If any one wants to see how the same writer 
 can lift narrative from the ground and endue 
 it with the ethereal buoyancy of poetry, let him 
 turn to ' The Leech-Gatherer.' 
 
 " Beside a pool bare to the eye of heaven, 
 I saw a man before me unawares ; 
 The oldest man he seemed that ever wore gray hair. 
 Himself he pressed, his body, limbs and face, 
 Upon a long gray staff of shaven wood ; 
 And still as I drew near with gentle pace 
 Up07i the margin of that moorish Jlood 
 Motionless as a cloicd the old man stood. 
 That heareth not the loud winds when they call, 
 And ))iovctIi all together, if it move at all."
 
 II 
 
 "The peom is of some length," continues 
 Mr. Austin, "and therefore cannot be quoted 
 in its integrit}'. But anybody can perceive at 
 once, that the narrative is conducted at a dif- 
 ferent elevation from that of ' Simon Lee.' We 
 are listening on the high mountain and the old 
 man is transfiguredy Now while all this is 
 doubtless true, yet have we somewhat against 
 the vague indefiniteness of the term — transfig- 
 ured — since, like charity, it may cover a mul- 
 titude of sins. 
 
 We would further urge, that the criterion 
 which is the outcome of this, not only contains 
 " nothing novel, nothing strange," which were 
 an indifferent fault, but what is more serious, 
 it falls short, both in generality and exactness, 
 of a criterion offered some three centuries ago. 
 For as Sir Philip Sidney has written in his 
 " Defense of Poesy : " — " It is not rhyming or 
 versing that makcth a poet, but it is the 
 feigning of notable images of virtues, vices, or 
 what else, with that delightful teaching which 
 must be the right describing note to know 
 a poet by * * ^^ * j^c coupleth the 
 general notion with the particular example."
 
 12 
 
 That in this we have a criterion of greater 
 exactness and generahty than that offered by 
 Mr. Austin, may be readily shown. 
 
 First notice that it holds, and we think 
 rightly, that metrical structure is not an essen- 
 tial or necessary condition of Poetry. In its 
 early days, ere Poetry and Music had become 
 differentiated from each other, or when all 
 Poetry was recited or sung, the bond between 
 them was much closer than it is now, when a 
 Wordsworth enjoins you — Read my lines rhyth- 
 mically if you can, but, at all events, read them 
 so as to get the sense. Again, if, as Mr. Austin 
 states, we can have rhythmical Prose and un- 
 rhythmical Poetry, rhythm can neither be pecu- 
 liar nor essential to Poetry. Or while the Poet 
 does still avail himself of this as an additional 
 source of pleasure, yet may he evidence great 
 genius as a Poet, though his rhythm be never 
 so faulty. 
 
 Notice, too, that Sidney gives definition 
 to Mr. Austin's vague term — " transfigura- 
 tion," — in that he takes cognizance of its 
 cause, the " feigning of notable images." 
 Turn to the lines from " The Leech-Gatherer,"
 
 13 
 
 in which the presence oi this so-styled "trans- 
 figuration " is most manifest, and you certainly 
 find present fgiirts of great credit, while the 
 lines from " Simon Lee " lack all creditable 
 figure. So throughout all the examples which 
 Mr. Austin marshals in defense of his cri- 
 terion, wherever we have " transfiguration " we 
 find "notable images" or figures, while in 
 those lines which fail of any " transfiguration " 
 figures are either entirely absent, or, when 
 present, are of but little merit. 
 
 But though it be shown that the " trans- 
 figuration " of Mr. Austin is the "feigning of 
 notable images " or figures of Sir Philip Sidney, 
 yet does the question remain whether, after all, 
 this " transfiguration," this " feigning of notable 
 images " or figures, is the essential and peculiar 
 element of Poetry, since at the hands of a most 
 able critic, Mr. Matthew Arnold, we have the 
 statement that " Poetry is at bottom a criticism 
 of life." Of this more again, sufficient for the 
 present is the fact, which the reader can verify 
 for himself, that under one or the other of the 
 above all attempts to formulate a criterion may 
 be included ; or, while men may and do differ
 
 14 
 
 as to which of these is the true measure of 
 poetic merit, they are yet substantially agreed 
 that in one or the other, in the character of the 
 figure, or in the character of the thought, the 
 essential and peculiar element of Poetry must 
 be found. 
 
 In favor of the latter assumption it might 
 be urged, and as even the advocate of figure 
 must admit, that thought is essential, since 
 there can be no figure save as it expresses 
 some thought. Further, that thought is the 
 true measure of poetic excellence seems evi- 
 denced by the fact that the highest Poetry is 
 ever the most thoughtful. On the other hand, 
 it might be urged against this, that the pleasure 
 due to the beauty, pathos, sublimity, etc., of 
 the scene, conception, or thought represented, 
 is not peculiar to Poetry, but is alike common 
 to nature, philosophy, etc. ; while in the highest 
 Poetry we have not only the greatest thought, 
 hvit figures of the greatest merit as well. So, 
 too, when we turn to the opinions that obtain 
 in regard to particular examples, as the lines 
 already quoted from "Simon Lee," while there 
 are those who, with Mr. Austin, will declare
 
 15 
 
 of this that it is barren of all poetic merit, there 
 are others who will regard it as within the limits 
 of Poetry. 
 
 What shall we say, then, — that no consen- 
 sus exists, and hence that no definition is pos- 
 sible ? Not at all. For while men have failed 
 to agree in their attempts to define Poetry ; 
 failed to agree whether sucli protozoa of litera- 
 ture as the lines from "Simon Lee" shall be 
 included under the head of Poetry or of Prose, 
 — they do not fail to agree that these lines are 
 infinitely inferior in poetic merit to such lines 
 as Mr. Austin has quoted from " The Leech- 
 Gatherer." Here, then, in this substantial 
 agreement, we must find the basis of any 
 satisfactory definition. 
 
 Were the thought expressed in these ex- 
 amples essentially different, they would help 
 us but little in our present difficulty; but, for- 
 tunately, the thought is much the same in 
 both — a superannuated old man from the 
 lower walks of life — and yet despite this fact, 
 tJiat the tJiought is the sa7?iL\ the poetic merit 
 of the lines varies most widely. Surely, much 
 may be seen in this.
 
 i6 
 
 But that the above may be perfectly clear 
 let us take another pair of examples. 
 
 The scholarly Horatio salutes the break- 
 ing day : 
 
 " But look the morn in russet mantle clad 
 Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastern hill." 
 
 That this is Poetry all will agree, and yet 
 how it pales before those marvellous lines from 
 the 33d Sonnet: 
 
 " Full many a glorious morning have I seen 
 Flattfr \ht mountain-top with sovereign eye." " 
 
 That in both of these we have the same 
 scene, conception, or thought, — morn, — is 
 manifest, the figure alone changing with the 
 ascent from the lowest to the highest tones of 
 the poetical gamut. In view of this, may we 
 not conclude that the measure of poetic excel- 
 lence must be found, not in the character of the 
 scene, conception, or thought represented, but 
 in the terms of the figure by which this thought 
 is represented, or that : — Poetry is the expressing 
 of thought by means of figure. 
 
 It does not tell against this that it rele-
 
 17 
 
 gates some of the protozoa of literature to the 
 domain of Prose. Nor does it, as you shall see 
 further on, contradict what of truth there is in 
 the assertion that the highest Poetry is the 
 most thoughtful. For the present, however, let 
 us inquire whether or not our definition will 
 make rational, or give coherence to our many 
 vague notions about Poetry. 
 
 Among all our ideas in regard to Poetry, 
 perhaps none is held with greater assurance 
 than this, that : — Poetry is, in some way, the 
 opposite of Prose. 
 
 We feel that while both express thought 
 by means of language, yet is there some an- 
 tithesis between them, of which cognizance 
 must be taken, in any attempt to define either. 
 Argument is hardly necessary to show that 
 all figure is a substitution of the concrete for 
 the abstract, and if, as Coleridge has main- 
 tained. Scientific is a better term than Prose, 
 it is then manifest, since science is ever a 
 seeking for broader generalizations, that the 
 Scientific or Prose method of expressing 
 thought, is the substitution of the general or 
 abstract, fur the particular or concrete. It
 
 i8 
 
 says to a child : " One and two make three," 
 and only in the event of his failing to under- 
 stand this does it deign to say : " If you had two 
 apples, and I should give you two more apples," 
 etc., or reversing its method, it then substitutes 
 the familiar for the unfamiliar, the particular or 
 concrete, for the general or abstract, or it has 
 recourse to the method of the Poet, who, as 
 Sidney has said, " coupleth the general notion 
 with the particular example." Here, then, in 
 germ, we have the method of the Poet, his 
 grandest efforts being akin to the above. 
 
 If he wishes to convey an idea of the 
 whiteness of his mistress' hand, it is a lily 
 hand ; or if it is the loveliness of her voice, 
 it is liquid music. If, in more ambitious 
 mood, he seeks to convey an idea of the rela- 
 tion of life to eternity, he says : 
 
 " Life, like a dome of many-colored glass, 
 Stains the white radiance of eternity." 
 
 Adottais. Shelley. 
 
 or " he coupleth the general notion " — life — 
 " with the particular example" — dome of many- 
 colored glass, — " feigning notable images," or
 
 19 
 
 figures. While in contrast with this the Philoso- 
 pher writes : " Life is the continuous adjust- 
 ment of internal relations to external relations," 
 substituting the general or abstract for the par- 
 ticular or concrete. Not only does this make 
 clear the difference between Prose and Poetic 
 composition, but it will also enable us to distin- 
 guish between Imaginative and Fanciful Poetry, 
 a problem which has troubled criticism not a 
 little ; Wordsworth, Leigh Hunt and Coleridge 
 severally devoting themselves to its solution. 
 
 We have seen, that men in their endea- 
 vor to convey the more abstract ideas, are 
 constrained to substitute the concrete for the 
 abstract, and, as Sidney has noticed, there is 
 delightfulness or pleasure peculiar to this 
 mode of teaching, — a pleasure which, in a large 
 measure, is independent of the character of the 
 thought to be conveyed. 
 
 Mercutio, chafing the love-lorn Romeo, 
 says : 
 
 " O, then I see Queen Mab has been with you. 
 Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut, 
 Made by the joiner squirrel or old grub, 
 Time out of mind the fairies' coach-maker."
 
 20 
 
 In this the figures, as in the transfigura- 
 tion ot an empty hazel-nut into a chariot, made 
 by the joiner squirrel, etc., are the source of 
 exquisite pleasure, and yet the thought is of 
 but little importance. Mercutio, indeed, ac- 
 knowledges this, saying : 
 
 " True, I talk of dreams, 
 Which are the children of an idle brain.'' 
 
 And that the above is Fanciful Poetry we need 
 hardly urge. 
 
 In Imaginative Poetry, however, the mind 
 is no longer idle, but is possessed by a thought 
 or feeling, and, seeking utterance, finds it most 
 readily in figure. 
 
 " Blow winds, and crack your cheeks ! rage ! blow ! 
 You cataracts and hurricanes spout 
 Till you have drench'd our steeples, drown'd the 
 
 cocks ! 
 You sulphurous, and thought-executing fires, 
 Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts, 
 Singe my white head ! " Lear. 
 
 That, in this, the figures are the creatures of the 
 great wrongs that hold the old king's mind in
 
 21 
 
 thrall, or that thc\- are Imaginative, none will 
 question ; and I fancy that those who have fol- 
 lowed the argument thus far, will begin to 
 realize that the definitions — Poetry is at bottom 
 a criticism of life and Poetry is a transfigura- 
 tion of life — are more akin than at first sight 
 appeared. P^or it is undoubtedly true that the 
 most marvellous transfigurations are ever those 
 in which the Poet has been seriously concerned 
 about the question " how to live." 
 
 Here then we have the real distinction 
 between Imaginative and P'anciful Poetry. In 
 the former, the mind is possessed with a par- 
 ticular thought or feeling compelling utterance 
 in figure ; while the latter is rather " the play 
 of the mind," in which, as in Mercutio's lines, 
 figures are created whose only reason for being 
 is their own delightfulness ; the child of simple- 
 featured utility become " the world's fresh 
 ornament." They are not, then, as Coleridge 
 has maintained, the products of different fac- 
 ulties, but of one and the same faculty — 
 Imagination — acting under different condi- 
 tions. Nor are new terms necessary, as Leigh 
 Hunt declares, for those we have arc most apt.
 
 22 
 
 But to conclude, since even in the most 
 Fanciful Poetry, there is some remnant of 
 thought, we can for the present write, and it 
 has a familiar look : Poetry is the expressing 
 of thought by means of figure, by the substitution 
 of the concrete for the abstract, the conceiving, 
 mental picturing^ or imagining of the unfamiliar 
 in terms of tlic familiar. 
 
 It may be asked. How is this mental 
 picturing of one in terms of the other effected ? 
 In reply, we can only say that in all such 
 instances though the conceptions brought 
 together are essentially different in kind, or are 
 at remove from each other, yet is there some 
 similarity between them ; and as an outcome 
 of our faith in causality, we instinctively merge 
 into each other, or mentally picture as one, con- 
 ceptions that are similar ; not that either is 
 entirely lost in the other, but instead there 
 results a new conception, in which both have 
 part and lot. So when we read in " Winter's 
 Tale " of— 
 
 " Dafifodils 
 " That come before the swallows dare, and take 
 The winds of March with beauty."
 
 23 
 
 we mentally picture the winds of March as a 
 burly Ingomar, and daffodils as a fair Parthe- 
 nia, by whom the burly fellow is enamored 
 and subdued ; or conceptions different in kind, 
 or at remove from each other, are brought 
 together because of a subtile similarity between 
 them. Remembering, then, that the Poet is 
 distinguished from other artists by the material 
 in which he works, namely, language, we 
 mieht write, and this is the final form of our 
 definition : Poetry is the expressing of thought 
 by means of figJire, by the substitution of the 
 £oncrete for the abstract, or by the bringing 
 together or combining of conceptions at remove 
 because of a similarity betzveen them, thus 
 creating a ?iew conception. This the creation 
 of the Poet ? This the transfiguration of 
 Mr. Austin ? 
 
 It will be remembered, that Messrs. 
 Arnold and Austin developed a sort of corol- 
 lary to their fundamental proposition, and for 
 greater convenience in determining the com- 
 parative merits of a poet's genius or work, 
 let us do likewise, expediting the discussion, 
 as before, by comparing examples of unequal
 
 24 
 
 merit, in which the same scene or conception 
 is treated. Take the hnes already quoted : 
 
 " But look the morn in russet mantle clad 
 Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastern hill." 
 
 Hamlet. 
 
 " Full many a glorious morning have I seen 
 Flatter the mountain-top with sovereign eye." 
 
 jjd Sonnet. 
 
 In both of these morn is transfigured, or 
 represented imaginatively, and yet with what 
 differing skill. In the first, the idea of pro- 
 gression, which is associated with our con- 
 ceptions of morn, is readily transposed into 
 walking, an action associated with our con- 
 ceptions of man ; adding to this the brilliant 
 coloring of the dawn, the Poet ushers in the 
 morn as a courtier gay, walking o'er the but 
 now night-kissed hills. But though in this 
 the remove between morn and courtier is con- 
 siderable, yet how much greater is it in the 
 second example. What a charge is brought 
 against the morn ! Its rosy tipping of the hills is 
 ''flattering the nwiintain-topy Even if the 
 poet had stopped at this, the remove and
 
 25 
 
 poetic merit would have been infinitely 
 greater than in the previous example ; but 
 notice, that as each under eye is flattered if 
 the king but deigns to look at them, so morn 
 
 " Flatters the mountain-top with sovereign eye." 
 
 May we not then conclude, that poetic merit 
 or genius must, in part, be measured by the 
 remove between the conceptions brought to- 
 gether in his creations? 
 
 But what of the other variable in our 
 problem, namely, similarity ? For answer let 
 us turn to Shakespeare's 2d Sonnet : 
 
 " When forty winters shall besiege thy brow 
 And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, 
 Thy youth's proud livery so gazed on now 
 Will be a tattered weed of small worth held." 
 
 In this, as the succeeding points of simi- 
 larity between the conceptions, — a face assailed 
 by time, and the siege of a city, — are sug- 
 gested ; time and the assailants — wrinkles ; and 
 the trenches of tlic besieging party; the bril- 
 liant color of youth; and the gay livery of 
 the defending soldiers ; the fusion and trans-
 
 26 
 
 fieuratioii increases, till it seems almost com- 
 plete, or the Poetry varies, not alone with the 
 remove, but with the similarity as well. Hence 
 we may write : TJie greatest Poetry is the result 
 of niaxiinuin remove with maximum similarity, 
 or it is the parabola of thought in whose equa- 
 tion we may substitute for x and y, remove and 
 similarity. 
 
 But whither does this heresy of greater 
 exactness lead us ? It is long since it was 
 written, that unity in variety is the essential 
 condition of all beauty ; and modern phi- 
 losophy, putting this in other terms, has 
 written : " The primitive source of aesthetic 
 pleasure is that character in the combination 
 which makes it such as to exercise the facul- 
 ties affected in the most complete ways, with 
 the fewest drawbacks from excessive exer- 
 cise ;" or, in the terms of the older dictum, the 
 greater the variety the greater the exercise ; 
 this carried too far would fatigue the faculties, 
 aud as a preventative of this we have unity, 
 which enables the mind to grasp the concep- 
 tion of form or aught else with less effort ; or 
 we have as the general condition — maximum
 
 27 
 
 exercise with minimum fatigue. Returning to 
 our corollary, it will hardly be necessary to 
 show that in maximum remove we have maxi- 
 mum variety or exercise, and that in maximum 
 similarity we have maximum unity or minimum 
 fatigue, and hence, that Poetry is one with all 
 beauty. 
 
 What shall we say, then ? That this 
 reduces Poetical creation to a mere mechan- 
 ical operation, capable of being measured in 
 terms of foot — pounds ? Mayhap. Yet would 
 we hold that the position here taken, if true, 
 instead of destroving our belief in the creative 
 genius of the Poet, strengthens its hands 
 by enabling us to think of him as we do of 
 the Philosopher, — as an intellectual develop- 
 ment, and not, as Coleridge has put it, as an 
 " inspired idiot ;" for, as we shall take occasion 
 to show. Poet and Philosopher evidence their 
 genius in intellectual operations that arc iden- 
 tical. 
 
 Let us not fear that in so doing we shall 
 put aside the veil of the " holy of holies," and 
 make bare the fact that it contains naught but 
 the rod of Aaron and the pot of manna.
 
 28 
 
 Naught but these ? And was there no mystery- 
 there ? Yea, verily the mystery of the wor- 
 ship of a God not made with hands, eternal 
 in the heavens. 

 
 Poet versus Philosopher. 
 
 CARLYLE, in his " Heroes and Hero- 
 Worship," has maintained that if a man 
 is great in any one department of life, 
 he would, of necessity, be great in any other 
 to which he might devote himself. 
 
 That there is in this somewhat of truth 
 few will question, though among the admirers 
 of the Poet or Philosopher there are many 
 who would urge, as its " rock of offense," that 
 the greatness of the former is evidenced in 
 operations essentially different from those upon 
 which depend the greatness of the latter; while 
 the devotees of each will cry out in antiphonal 
 response, " Great is our god above all gods ! " 
 
 Now, without committing ourselves to 
 Carlylc's general proposition, we may yet
 
 3° 
 
 question the exactness of the above objec- 
 tion, and would hold, as in the previous 
 article, that the genius of Poet and Philoso- 
 pher are alike intellectual developments. Nor 
 is it meant by this that in some vague and 
 indefinite way the creation of the Poet is an 
 intellectual operation, and that, in some less 
 vague but different way, the work of the 
 Philosopher is intellectual ; but that both evi- 
 dence their genius in mental processes that 
 are identical. 
 
 We have heard so much of late about the 
 wonderful child Induction, that many have 
 been persuaded his elder should do him rev- 
 erence. Indeed, so largely has this notion 
 obtained, that the genius of the Philosopher is 
 evidenced in his induction, that it has com- 
 pelled a protest from one whose " philosophic 
 sagacity " few will question. 
 
 In his "Use and Limits of the Imagination 
 in Science," page 53, Professor Tyndall says: 
 " Thus the vocation of the true experimentalist 
 may be defined as the continued exercise of 
 spiritual insight, and its incessant correction 
 and realization. His experiments constitute a
 
 31 
 
 body of which his petrified intuitions are as it 
 were the soul." Or, according to this, the 
 genius of the Philosopher is displayed, not in 
 the checking of his inferences, not in his In- 
 duction, but in the inferences themselves ; in 
 his "spiritual insight," his "purified intuitions." 
 But writers of this ilk are not apt to content 
 themselves with such vague terms, and so we 
 find him asking on page i6: " How, then, are 
 those hidden things to be revealed ? We are 
 gifted with the power of Imagination, and by 
 this power we can lighten the darkness which 
 surrounds the world of sense. Bounded and 
 conditioned by Co-operant Reason, Imagina- 
 tion becomes the mightiest instrument of the 
 physical discoverer. Newton's passage from 
 a falling apple to a falling moon was at the 
 outset a leap of the Imagination!' 
 
 Here we have a somewhat more definite 
 term than " spiritual insight " or " purified in- 
 tuitions," and we all realize, in a general way, 
 that, in the exercise of this faculty of Imagina- 
 tion, we imagine, or mentally picture, some- 
 thing with which we are not familiar. But 
 let us not anticipate ourselves ; and since it is
 
 32 
 
 our desire out of its own mouth to convict 
 Philosophy, we will again subpoena a not un- 
 willing witness. Mr. Spencer, in his " Princi- 
 ples of Psychology," Vol. II., page 534, in 
 speaking of Imagination, says : " When con- 
 sciousness is habitually occupied with greatly 
 involved aggregates of ideas which cohere 
 with other such aggregates of ideas that are 
 very various and not very strong, there arises 
 a possibility of combining them in zvays not 
 given in experiejice. Gaining greater freedom 
 as it reaches the advanced stages of com- 
 plexity and multiformity, thought acquires an 
 excursiveness such that with the aid of slight 
 suggestions — slight impulses from accidental 
 circumstances — its highly composite states 
 enter into combinations never before formed ; 
 and so there result conceptions luJiich we catl 
 original^ Or Imagination — in the exercise 
 of which, according to Mr. Tyndall, the Phi- 
 losopher displays his genius — is, according to 
 Mr. Spencer, a combining of conceptions, thus 
 creating a so-called original conception, or one 
 not given in experience. 
 
 But how is this combination effected ? It
 
 33 
 
 is hardly a satisfactory answer to say, as above, 
 that it is due to " slight impulses from acci- 
 dental causes," and one cannot but wonder 
 that a writer usually so exact should content 
 himself with this, especially when on page 281 
 of the same volume he has written : " From 
 the most complex and most abstract inferences 
 down to the most rudimentary intuitions, all 
 intelligence proceeds by the establishment of 
 relations of likeness and unlikeness." Accept 
 this, and it follows then, as night the day, that 
 the combination effected in the imagination of 
 the Philosopher is due to his recognition of a 
 similarity between phenomena. 
 
 Newton's leap of imagination was not 
 from an apple to a moon, but from a falling 
 apple to d. falling moon, or, as he himself has 
 said : " There is a certain style " — method 
 or similarity — " in the operations of divine 
 wisdom, in the perception of which philo- 
 sophical sagacity and genius seem chiefly to 
 consist." 
 
 May we not, then, write that the Philoso- 
 pher evidences his genius in the exercise of 
 his Imagination ; in the bringing together or
 
 34 
 
 combining" of conceptions at remove, by means 
 of similarity, thus creating a new conception ? 
 
 That the Poet is of " Imagination all com- 
 pact " is generally recognized; but that the 
 identity of his intellectual process with that of 
 the Philosopher may be beyond question, let 
 us turn to the definition developed in the 
 previous article : Poetry is the expressing of 
 thought by means of figure, by the substitution 
 of the concrete for the abstract, or by the bring- 
 ing together or combining of conceptions at 
 remove, because of a similarity between them, 
 thus creating a new conception ; or both Poet 
 and Philosopher evidence their genius in the 
 combining of conceptions at remove by means 
 of similarity." 
 
 In what, then, do they differ? eventually, it 
 may be, in this : from one we derive pleasure, 
 and from the other profit ; but fundamentally, 
 in the fact, that while the Philosopher seeks 
 after the truth lest haply he might find it, the 
 Poet's only endeavor is to make that truth 
 which he apprehends present to the minds of 
 others. 
 
 'Tis true the former wishing to convey his
 
 35 
 
 subtilties to others is ofttimes compelled to 
 express them in concrete terms, thus poaching 
 upon the fair preserve of the Poet ; but in 
 general, anxious that he shall conx'ey the truth 
 and nothing but the truth, the Philosopher 
 avoids this trespass. Confining himself to the 
 abstract, scientific, or prose method of express- 
 ing thought, he writes as we have seen : " Life 
 is the continuous adjustment of internal rela- 
 tions to external relations." 
 While the Poet writes : 
 
 " Life like a dome of many-colored glass, 
 Stains the white radiance of Eternity." 
 
 But while thus differing in purpose, and 
 in the mode of expressing thought, yet, since 
 both evidence their genius by the same intel- 
 lectual operation, it follows, that any test of 
 the greatness of one is equally applicable to 
 the other. If it be true, as developed in a pre- 
 vious article, that in poetic creation, the great- 
 est is that in which we have maximum remove 
 together with maximum similarity, then must 
 this be likewise true of philosophic insight, 
 sagacity or genius.
 
 36 
 
 But though we estabhsh the same test 
 for both, yet will some find it hard to decide 
 which they would rather have written, the 
 Sonnets of Shakespeare or the Principia of 
 Newton. For if it be granted, as Mr. Spencer 
 has maintained, that intellectual development 
 is measured by the degree of re-presentation, 
 the abstraction, the subtilty of the thoughts 
 entertained, then might it be urged, that though 
 the Philosopher has done marvellous things 
 amid the subtilties of matter and force, with 
 their resultant — motion, — he has hardly as yet 
 dared the greater subtilties of motive and char- 
 acter, with their resultant — action, — the " mis- 
 sing science " of a recent writer. In the mean- 
 time, the never-ceasing prelude of all science, 
 — Art — has for generations past, in the person 
 of the Dramatic Poet, been dealing with these 
 greater subtilties. 
 
 But in questions touching us so nearly, 
 it is difficult to preserve that mental equipoise 
 or elevation, that will enable us to see 
 both sides of a truth with equal clearness. 
 Hence, fearing dogmatism more than error, 
 let us for the present content ourselves with
 
 the assumption, that so far as intellect is con- 
 cerned, he who wrote the Sonnets might have 
 written the Principia, and he who wrote the 
 Principia might have written the Sonnets. 
 
 The reservation — so far as intellect is con- 
 cerned — is, however, a recognition of this 
 important fact, that while the Philosopher and 
 Poet evidence their genius by the same intel- 
 lectual operation, yet their difference in purpose 
 results in a difference in the general nervous 
 condition under which their intellects operate. 
 One is without all shows and forms of emotion, 
 while the other does his best work under the 
 stimulus of emotion or other nervous excite- 
 ment. 
 
 It is related of the actor, McCread)', that 
 before entering upon a scene in which he had 
 to portray intense passion, he raced around 
 behind the flies so that by the energy of his 
 motion, he might stimulate himself up to the 
 portrayal of such passion. Now it seems not 
 improbable, that the Poet ofttimes adopts a 
 similar method ; not necessarily physical ac- 
 tion, but in some way like actor and orator 
 he must, to use a homely phrase, warm up to
 
 38 
 
 his subject, in order to write his more impas- 
 sioned lines. 
 
 On the other hand, the imagination of the 
 Philosopher, cribbed, cabined and confined as 
 it is by his Induction, by the necessity to 
 check his inferences, lacks this stimulus ; but 
 having it, who shall say by what lengths such 
 running leaps of his imagination would dis- 
 tance its present standing jumps. 
 
 In this warming up to his subject, this 
 stimulating of the Poet's mind in order to write 
 his more impassioned lines, we have the soul 
 of truth in the absurd notion that, in order 
 to write great Poetry, we need only to feel 
 deeply. Absurd, because great Poetry neces- 
 sitates not only deep feeling to stimulate the 
 mind, but far more than this, that the intellect 
 so stimulated should be great. 
 
 So confused are the prevailing ideas in 
 this regard, that many have come to think of 
 the Poet, as an " inspired idiot," waiting for the 
 visitation of some wandering muse. It is doubt- 
 less true that the Poet's mind maybe stimulated 
 to such a degree as to be unconscious of the 
 effort put forth in its creation ; nevertheless.
 
 39 
 
 these creations are, as we have seen, the pro- 
 duct of the" same intellectual action as that in 
 which the Philosopher evidences his genius. 
 
 It were hardly well to close this article 
 without noticing statemci ts that have of late 
 appeared with increased frequency ; namely, 
 that the decrease of picture-words, or the in- 
 crease of abstract terms in language, is evi- 
 dence that Poetry has fallen in " the sere and 
 yellow leaf," or that the present unparalleled 
 strides of science are for Poetry " the prelude 
 to the omen coming on." 
 
 Those who have followed the argument 
 thus far will realize howfarthis is from the truth ; 
 for not only is it true that the higher the Poetry 
 the more subtile the ab.stractions dealt with, but 
 the more abstract are the terms employed, or 
 with the growing abstraction in language, 
 Poetry does of necessity keep pace. Take the 
 following lines from Shakespeare's " Lucrece: " 
 
 " Her lily hand, her rosy cheek lies under, 
 Cozening \.\\Q. pillow of a lawful kiss." 
 
 It is manife.st that the first line, with its picture 
 words, lily hand, ro.sy cheek, is, in poetic merit.
 
 4° 
 
 infinitely inferior to the second line, where pil- 
 low begs cheek, his mistress, for a' lover's fee, 
 while hand, pale, cozening rogue, yea, ermine 
 clad, does bar the owner of his rights. 
 
 So, too, it goes for the saying, that the 
 thought or conception expressed is more sub- 
 tile, and the term " cozening," on which the 
 great beauty of the second line depends, is 
 more abstract than any term in the first line ; 
 or, in a general way, the higher the Poetry 
 the more subtile is the thought, and the more 
 abstract the terms employed. Again, turn to 
 Wordsworth's sonnet on "Mutability," in 
 which one can almost fancy an adumbration of 
 the farthest reaches of the modern teaching of 
 evolution, 
 
 " From low to high doth dissolution climb, 
 And sinks from high to low along a scale 
 Of awful notes, whose concord shall not fail, 
 A musical but melancholy chime, 
 Which they can hear who meddle not with crime 
 Nor avarice nor over-anxious care." 
 
 When has the melancholy music of the 
 eternal cycles of evolution and dissolution been
 
 41 
 
 more bravely chanted ? Yea, though chaos is 
 come again, 
 
 " Truth fails not ; though her outward forms that bear 
 The longest date do melt like frosty rime, 
 That in the morning whitened hill and plain 
 And is no more ; drop like the tower sublime 
 Of yesterday, which royally did wear 
 Its crown of weeds, /'/// could not even sustain 
 Some casual shout that broke the silent air. 
 Or the unimaginable touch of time." 
 
 How has the abstract of yesterday become the 
 concrete of to-day ; yea, though science stride 
 never sofar, Poetry can but rejoice in its advance 
 since every discovery of the former must needs 
 become a coigne of vantage, from which the lat- 
 ter will make yet higher flights. " Put a girdle 
 round the world in forty minutes " you may, 
 but the Poet's Ariel sprite will answer make : 
 
 " I drink the air before me 
 And return." 
 
 Yea, though speculation take to itself the 
 wings of the mornmg and fly to the uttermost 
 parts of space, yet must it declare of Poetry — 
 Thou wert there also.
 
 Repose. 
 
 WERE other argument necessary to prove 
 that the character of the scene, or 
 conception which the Poet seeks to 
 make present to our minds, cannot be reHed 
 upon as a measure of his genius, it might be 
 drawn from the preceding article. For if it is 
 not in his observation of facts, but in his recog- 
 nition of the subtile relations between them, in 
 his combination of them, that the Philosopher 
 evidences his genius, how much more must it 
 be true, that the Poet's genius is evidenced, 
 not by the character of the scene, conception, 
 or thought represented, but by his combining 
 of these in ways not given in experience, thus 
 creating new conceptions. 
 
 Perhaps the mind could better content
 
 44 
 
 itself with this if it could understand how it is 
 that men, some of them critics of unquestioned 
 ability, have been betrayed into the belief, that 
 the measure of the Poet's genius is found in the 
 character of the thought. In the first place, 
 familiar as we now are with Poetry in its more 
 evolved forms, we are apt to regard it merely 
 as a source of pleasure, apt to lose sight of its 
 utilitarian origin in the desire to express 
 thought, and so are prone to estimate the 
 poetic merit of any lines, in terms of the pleas- 
 ure afforded, without regard as to how much 
 of this is due to the thought, and how much to 
 the figure. 
 
 Again, and this is a fact calculated to 
 deceive the very elect themselves, the highest 
 Poetry is ever the most thoughtful, or is Im- 
 aginative. We have seen in the first article, 
 that, despite this, the thought cannot be relied 
 upon as a measure of poetic excellence, yet 
 does the question remain, How are these facts 
 to be reconciled? 
 
 Recalling now the fact, that profound 
 emotion or thought may act as a stimulus 
 upon the mind of the Poet, much as the actors'
 
 45 
 
 preliminary run behind the scene, and we can 
 readil)- understand why profound thought ma)' 
 be, and ofttimes is, associated with the highest 
 Poetry. Not only so, but if the conception to 
 be represented be a subtile one, the possible 
 remove between it and its concrete is greater, 
 and hence, greater figure or Poetry is made 
 possible. Nevertheless, as we have seen, the 
 thought cannot be relied upon as a measure 
 of the poet's genius. 
 
 What shall we say then, — that the Poet 
 should ignore all pleasure due to the beauty, 
 pathos, sublimity, etc., of the scene or concep- 
 tion represented ; that it is a matter of indiffer- 
 ence whether these be pleasant or otherwise ? 
 Not at all ! When Macbeth says : 
 
 " Here lay Duncan, 
 His silver skin lac'd with his golden blood, 
 And his gash'd stabs look'd like a breach in nature 
 For ruin's wasteful entrance ; there the murtherers, 
 Stcep'd in the colors of their trade, their daggers 
 Unmannerly breech' d with gore." 
 
 He doubtless gives offense to some, because 
 of the inelegance of the word "breeched," for
 
 46 
 
 much profound criticism has been called in to 
 exorcise this spirit of evil. " It is breached," 
 says one, " retched or rusted," says another ; 
 and, all the while, a most notable creation 
 stares them in the face, for as a man's leg was 
 covered for part of its length with knee- 
 breeches, so the daggers were covered or 
 breeched with gore, and unmannerly so, be- 
 cause it was the upper part of the dagger from 
 knee to waist that was uncovered or exposed. 
 Now for the moral of this tale: — while the 
 elegance or inelegance, the pleasantness or 
 unpleasantness, of the conception "breeched," 
 is in no sense a measure of the Poet's genius, 
 yet by so much as it offends, it must diminish 
 the total pleasure to be derived from the lines. 
 And as Poetry has now the twofold mission 
 to teach and to give pleasure, the Poet in gen- 
 eral avoids such offenses, and avails himself of 
 the beauty, pathos, sublimity, etc., of the scene 
 or conception represented, as additional sources 
 of pleasure. Nevertheless, he needs to have a 
 care, in so doing, that the place of his own great 
 art is not usurped by things of less repute. Not 
 only so, but, as we hope to show, in the highest
 
 47 
 
 reaches of that art he is prone to ignore the 
 pleasure from these latter sources. 
 
 To that end note, that it has been urged, and 
 as a fault in him, that Shakespeare avoids the 
 erand, the sublime in nature. It is even said 
 that, when he does attempt these things, he is 
 not successful in his treatment of them, offer- 
 ing as an instance his description of the cliffs 
 of Dover, lines which Johnson maintains are 
 not as fine as certain others, which he quotes 
 from Congreve. 
 
 Let us possess our souls in patience, how- 
 ever, for, much as we may dislike to own it, 
 Johnson is undoubtedly nearer the truth, in 
 his estimate of this particular example, than 
 the critic who indulijed in the bit of extrava- 
 gance, " he who can read this description with- 
 out becoming dizzy, has either a very steady 
 head or a very hard one." Nevertheless, the 
 general conclusion, that Shakespeare is un- 
 equal to the grand, the sublime, etc., is not only 
 without sufficient warrant, but is a positive 
 misapprehension of the facts, resulting, as we 
 think, from the very transcendency of his skill 
 in the handling of these things.
 
 48 
 
 Let us, however, here take note of 
 another opinion in regard to Shakespeare's 
 Poetry, which has obtained even more largely 
 than the above, namely, that there is in it a 
 marvellous simplicity, a restfulness, or, better 
 still, a repose seldom found elsewhere. So 
 characteristic is this of his work, that when 
 found in the lines of others, men speak of 
 them as Shakespearean, as when Milton says : 
 
 " Such sweet compulsion doth in music lie," 
 
 or Shelley tells of clouds that wander in thick 
 flocks along the mountains. 
 
 " Shepherded by the slow, unwilling wind." 
 
 Again, when Wordsworth, in one of his most 
 exquisite lines, speaks of a spray of autumn 
 leaves as 
 
 " October's workmanship to rival May," 
 
 or Keats, in his last sonnet sees, 
 
 " The moving waters at their priest-like task 
 Of pure ablutions, around earth's human shores." 
 
 That there is in all of these somewhat of 
 that repose which men regard as characteristic
 
 49 
 
 of Shakespeare's Poetry will doubtless be 
 granted ; but, to what is this repose due ? 
 Possibl}' it will help us in this inquiry, if, in- 
 stead of the above lines, in which different 
 subjects are treated, we consider others in 
 which the theme remains the same, while the 
 degree of repose varies. This is true of the 
 following, in which Shelley, Milton and Shake- 
 speare severally celebrate the beauties of a 
 moonlit night : 
 
 " How beautiful this night ! the balmiest sigh, 
 Which vernal zephyrs breathe in evening's ear 
 Were discord to the speaking quietude 
 That wraps this moveless scene. Heaven's ebon 
 
 vault 
 Studded with stars unutterably bright, 
 Through which the moon's unclouded grandeur 
 
 rolls. 
 
 Seems like a canopy which love has spread 
 
 To curtain her sleeping world." 
 
 Queen Mab, IV. 
 
 " Now came still evening on, and twilight grey 
 Had in her sober livery all things clad ; 
 Silence accompanied ; for beast and bird, 
 They to their grassy couch, these to their nest 
 Were slunk ; all but the wakeful nightingale, 
 She all night long her amorous descant sung.
 
 so 
 
 .Silence was pleased ; now glowed the firmament 
 With living sapphires ; Hesperus, that led 
 The starry host, rode brightest till the moon 
 Rising in clouded majesty at length. 
 Apparent queen, unveiled her peerless light, 
 And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw " ^ 
 
 Paradise Lost, Book IV. 
 
 " How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank. 
 Here will we sit and let the sound of music 
 Creep in our ears. Soft stillness and the night 
 Become the touches of sweet harmony. 
 Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven 
 Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold. 
 There's not the smallest orb which thou beholdest 
 But in its motion like an angel sings. 
 Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubim." 
 
 MercJtant of Venice. 
 
 That of these the first shall be last, and 
 the last shall be first, all criticism will agree; 
 Mr. Hallam going so far as to say of the last, 
 that it is perhaps the most sublime passage 
 in Shakespeare. However that may be, the 
 question of immediate interest for us is : What 
 difference is there in the structure of the above 
 corresponding to the acknowledged difference 
 in Repose and poetic merit ?
 
 51 
 
 Did we but compare the treatment of the 
 moon in the Hne, 
 
 " How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank," 
 with that in the line, 
 
 " Through which the moon's unclouded grandeur 
 rolls," 
 
 we might conclude with Emerson, and many 
 others, that " good poetry is always personifi- 
 cation," or, as Matthew Arnold has somewhere 
 written, " in Shakespeare's poetry all things 
 live," and so be led to infer that in this we have 
 the ultimate fact of its characteristic repose. 
 
 But when we compare the picturing of 
 stars as patincs of bright gold, and as living 
 sapphires, though the greater Repose and 
 poetic merit of the former be unquestioned in 
 ' our mind, )'et are we not so clear as to the 
 presence of more or greater life, certainly not 
 in the form of a personification, or while the 
 above test is unquestionably big with trutli ; 
 yet is there some more general truth by which 
 this is included. 
 
 Notice, then, that the sky, which to Shelley
 
 52 
 
 is an " ebon vault " of cathedral grand, is to 
 Shakespeare but the "floor of heaven ; " and 
 the stars, that Milton sees as living sapphires, 
 are in greater hands but " patines of bright 
 gold " with which the young-eyed cherubim 
 might play ; while the moon neither rises in 
 clouded majesty nor in unclouded grandeur 
 rolls, but, instead, the moonlight sleeps, and 
 that, too, as sweetly as a new-born babe. Is it 
 not, then, manifest, that while they picture 
 these things as full grown, majestic, grand, or 
 imposing, depending in part upon this grandeur 
 for their effect upon us, he presents them in 
 the swaddling clothes of a child-like simplicity, 
 depending upon his combination of conceptions 
 at great remove for his effect. 
 
 We have already learned in our corollary, 
 that, other things being equal, the greater the 
 remove between the conceptions, the greater « 
 the poetic merit ; and it needs but a glance at 
 the above figures to reveal the fact that while 
 between sky and ebon vault, stars and living 
 sapphires, moon and queen, the remove is 
 considerable, yet is the remove, and with it 
 the poetic merit, infinitely increased by substi-
 
 tuting in the above the conceptions, floor, 
 patines, and sleeping child. Nor is it, as 
 might at first sight appear, necessary to this 
 great remove, or to the highest Poetry, that 
 one of the two conceptions brought together 
 should be of something grand, etc. We do 
 not in general so regard the conception, even- 
 ing ; yet is it in the hands of Milton moulded 
 into a shape marvellous in its Repose and 
 poetic beauty : 
 
 " Now comes still evening on, and twilight grey 
 Hath in her sober livery all things clad." 
 
 How the chaste beauty of this Puritan 
 
 maid does turn to a glory the conventional 
 
 garments of her sect, — the twilight's sober 
 
 livery that all things clad. And so, while 
 
 there is undoubtedly the breath of inspiration 
 
 in 
 
 " The balmiest sigh 
 
 Which vernal zephyrs breathe in evening's ear," 
 
 yet, as compared with Milton's evening, we 
 have in this but the perturbed beauty of a 
 Phryne whose scant robes do more reveal 
 than is well-seeming.
 
 54 
 
 Again, the conception of quiet, silence, 
 or stillness is hardly such as we would call 
 grand or majestic, and yet it enters into com- 
 binations of all degrees of remove : 
 
 " The speaking quietude that wraps this moveless 
 scene ; " 
 
 or, better still, when the nightingale her amo- 
 rous descant sung by silence accompanied ; or, 
 greater than all these, when Lorenzo says : 
 
 " Here will we sit and let the sound of music 
 Creep in our ears ; soft stillness and the night 
 Become the touches of sweet harmony ; " 
 
 as the twilight's sober livery, the Puritan 
 maid of Milton ; surely the grand or majestic 
 hath neither part nor lot in the marvellous 
 Repose and remove of this creation. Or we 
 find that any intangible " airy nothing " which 
 the poet's pen would turn to shapes will make 
 possible the general condition of great remove. 
 So while the Poet may avail himself of 
 whatever pleasure he can draw from the beauty, 
 pathos, sublimity, etc., of the scene or concep- 
 tion represented, yet in the highest reaches of
 
 55 
 
 his art, where striving gives place to Repose, 
 he seems almost to ignore the pleasure from 
 this source, sacrificing it to the pleasure due 
 to his own great creations. Conscious of his 
 power to compel all things to his will, he toys 
 with the universe, makes light of all material 
 things, and leaves upon his work an impress 
 of that Repose ivJiicJi is manifested, when, in 
 representing scenes or conceptions of great 
 beanty, pathos, sublimity, etc., the Poet depends 
 for his effect, not upon these things, but upon 
 the remove and similarity of the conceptions 
 brought together, or upon the greatness of Ids 
 own art, creations or figures. 
 
 It will hardly be necessary, now, to show 
 how erroneous is the assumption that Shake- 
 speare is unequal to the grand, etc. Take the 
 lines from Henry \Y., which Mr. Arnold, I 
 think, quotes to show that in Shakespeare's 
 poetry' all things live : — 
 
 " O sleep ! O gentle sleep ; 
 Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee. 
 Wilt thou, upon the high and giddy mast, 
 Seal up the sea-boy's eyes and rock his brains 
 In the cradle of tiie rude imperious surge.
 
 56 
 
 And in the visitation of the winds, 
 Who take the ruffian billows by the top, 
 Curling their monstrous heads and hanging them 
 With deafening clamor in the slippery clouds, 
 That with the hurly death itself awakes." 
 
 Truly may it be said, that in this Poet's 
 hands all things do live and have their being ; 
 breathing into them the breath of life, he 
 brings together conceptions at such remove, 
 that the imposing character of wind and wave 
 is lost in the o'er-topping grandeur of the 
 Poet's creations ; and yet " he whose imperial 
 muse tosses creation like a bauble," he who, 
 by his most potent art, the strong-based pro- 
 montory made shake ; bedimmed the noon- 
 tide sun ; called forth the mutinous winds, and 
 twixt the green sea and azure vault set roaring 
 water, is, they tell us, unequal to such things. 
 Nay, rather is it true that he has realized, as 
 no other Poet has, that neither mountain nor 
 meadow ; height nor depth ; things past nor 
 things to come, are necessary to the highest 
 poetry ; but that the genius of the Poet, like 
 that of the Philosopher, depends upon his 
 insight into the subtile relations between the
 
 57 
 
 phenomena of life and nature, and hence may 
 find full play amid the homeliest and least 
 romantic things of this work-a-day world. To 
 one so gifted, the barest room is crowded with 
 possible suggestions of the greatest Poetry ; a 
 key, the chest it unlocks, a coat, or a closet 
 in which it hangs, all things whatsoever, may 
 by a sweet compulsion be made to serve his 
 will, and become the local habitation of some 
 airy nothing. 
 
 " So am I as the rich whose blessed key 
 Can bring him to his up-locked treasure, 
 The which he will not every hour survey, 
 
 For blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure." 
 
 " So is the time that keeps you as my chest. 
 
 Or as the wardrobe which the robe doth hide. 
 To make some special instant special blest 
 By new unfolding his imprisoned pride." 
 
 ^2d Sonnet. 
 
 Here we are enabled to lay hands on the 
 soul of truth in the cry, that has gone up of 
 late that American Poetry should be Ameri- 
 can, for while it is undoubtedly true that men 
 may write great Poetry about scenes and
 
 58 
 
 incidents from the days of chivalry or an- 
 tiquity, yet is it equally true of these, as of 
 the beautiful, the sublime, etc., that in the 
 highest reaches of his art the Poet ignores 
 them all. Let us close with the following i 
 
 lines from Emerson, whom we cannot quote \ 
 
 too often: I 
 
 " 'Tis easy to repaint the mythology of 
 the Greeks, or of the Catholic Church, the 
 feudal castle, the crusade, the martyrdom of j 
 
 Mediaeval Europe ; but to point out where j 
 
 the same creative force is now working in our 
 own houses and public assemblies to convert 
 the vivid energies acting at this hour in New 
 York and Chicago and San Francisco, into 
 universal symbols, requires a subtile and com- 
 manding thought."
 
 Healthfulness. 
 
 DOES it seem a work of supererogation to 
 seek for a definition of healthfulness ? 
 Note, then, what Mr. Matthew Arnold 
 has written : " As compared with Leopardi, 
 Wordsworth, though at many points less lucid, 
 though tar less a master of style, far less an 
 artist, gains so much by his criticism of life 
 being, in certain matters of profound impor- 
 tance, healthful and true, whereas Leopardi 's 
 pessimism is not that the value of Wordsworth's 
 poetry, on the whole, stands higher for us than 
 that of Leopardi." 
 
 Note, too, that to this Mr. Alfred Austin, 
 a critic of no mean ability, takes exception, 
 declaring that " there is no consensus either 
 among poets or their readers as to what is
 
 6o 
 
 true and healthful criticism of life," Grant 
 this, and it is manifest that a definition of 
 healthfulness, is impossible, since all definition 
 must find its ultimate basis in the substantial 
 agreement of men. That there are differences 
 of opinion none will question, but if, as Mr. 
 Austin has written, criticism of life is passing 
 judgment upon life, or, better still, is philoso- 
 phy of life, does it not appear a strange state- 
 ment that no consensus should exist in regard 
 to the healthfulness of this philosophy of life ? 
 Take his own definition that " Poetry is a 
 transfiguration of life," and is it not manifest 
 that the transfiguration will be more or less 
 modified by the Poet's estimate, criticism, or 
 philosophy of life ; will be healthful or other- 
 wise, according as his views of life are health- 
 ful or the reverse ? This, mind you, is far from 
 saying that the healthfulness of the philosophy 
 contained in any lines is the measure of their 
 poetic merit, our position on this being already 
 clearly defined ; but that there is some sub- 
 stantial agreement as to what is a true and 
 healthful criticism or philosophy of life there 
 can be no question.
 
 6i 
 
 Nay, more ; for though men may be at odds 
 as to the comparative healthfuhiess of Byron, 
 Shelley and Wordsworth ; yet are they just as 
 certainly agreed that in this regard Shakespeare 
 stands head and shoulders over all. 
 
 What then is the basis of this agreement? 
 What sins of omission or commission are 
 chargeable to Byron, Shelley and Wordsworth, 
 of which Shakespeare is innocent ? 
 
 Answer might be made, that many hold 
 Byron to be unhealthful because pessimistic, im- 
 moral, sensational, unrefined, etc. The ills of life, 
 and the failure of established institutions, mar- 
 riage, religion, etc., are shown, not as they are, 
 but in exaggerated dimensions, while the good 
 of these things is belittled. Again, courage, ad- 
 dress, etc., are shown, not merelyas admirablein 
 their way, but are blazoned forth in such strong 
 light as to blur your impression of the less sensa- 
 tional virtues, faithfulness to marriage vows, 
 content, etc. Violence is done our instinctive 
 refinement, not by the mention of things usually 
 considered unmentionable, but by the placing 
 of them in abnormal and unseemly juxtaposi- 
 tion with the fairest, sweetest things in life.
 
 62 
 
 So, too, in regard to Shelley's Poetry, 
 while it is seldom or never unrefined, yet, like 
 Byron, it at times belittles or subverts the best in 
 life, or is pessimistic, immoral, sensational, etc. 
 
 Such a list of offenses, however, is hardly 
 satisfactory as criterion of healthfulness, im- 
 plying, as it does, a certain flagrance, while 
 as a matter of fact a Poet may be innocent on 
 each and all of the above counts, and yet, to 
 the minds of many, fail somewhat of perfect 
 healthfulness. In dealing with the relations 
 between the sexes he may tend to ignore or 
 to expurgate all passion, that which God hath 
 joined together, passion and affection, he would 
 put asunder in beggarly divorcement. View- 
 ing life like Wordsworth from his secluded 
 retreat in the lake country, he may lack sym- 
 pathy with its foibles and temptations ; for, 
 as Mr. Arnold has written, without in anyway 
 contradicting his previous statement : 
 
 "Wordsworth averts his ken 
 From half of human fate." 
 
 That which Byron and Shelley unduly 
 exaggerate, he as unduly belittles, showing
 
 63 
 
 that on the lenijtli of the spoon which they 
 have reflected from its width ; or though he 
 offend no law of the decalogue, yet, like them, 
 he represents partial or distorted views of life. 
 Here, then, we have the basis of a criterion 
 of healthfulness, which, though not startling 
 in its novelty, has yet some present interest 
 for us, since it is of such generality as to in- 
 clude all of the above specific charges. Nor 
 does its value depend upon the sustaining of 
 these charges against the above-mentioned 
 Poets ; for, in any event, this remains true, that 
 any Poetry that does distort life is unhealthful. 
 
 'Tis true, an exaggeration of a particular 
 phase of life seems sometimes necessary to 
 the well-being of the mind diseased, much as 
 poisons do medicine the body ; yet would we 
 not speak of one or the other as being in any 
 ordinary sense of the term healthful. 
 
 But let us now bring the above to the test of 
 that substantial agreement, which we found to 
 exist, namely : That Shakespeare is more health- 
 ful than cither of the above Poets. If in the above 
 we have the true basis for our definition, then 
 must it follow, that' in his Poetry wc shall find
 
 64 
 
 less belittling of one interest and exaggeration 
 of another, less distortion, than in theirs. 
 
 Remembering, as Wordsworth has said, 
 that the sonnet is the key with which Shake- 
 speare unlocked his heart, let us turn to these, 
 and we shall find that though, like Byron, a 
 sometime companion of harlots, yet does he 
 never attempt to o'er-green vice with the forms 
 and shows of virtue. Tempted in all points like 
 as we are, yet does he never part the cable of 
 his virtuous instincts. 
 
 " Alas ! 'tis true, I have gone here and there, 
 And made myself a motley to the view. 
 Gored mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most 
 
 dear. 
 Made old offences of affections new ! 
 Most true it is, that I have looked on Truth 
 Askance and strangely ; but, by all above, 
 These blenches gave my heart another youth, 
 And worse essays proved thee my best of love. 
 Now all is done save what shall have no end. 
 Mine appetite, I never more will grind 
 On newer proof, to try an older friend, 
 O God in love, to whom I am confined I 
 Then give me welcome, next my heaven the best, 
 Even to thy pure and most, most loving breast." 
 
 Sonnet no.
 
 65 
 
 Even in the hour of sensual gratification, 
 the tinsel of vice is to him tinsel still. 
 
 " When my love swears she's made of truth, 
 I do believe her, though I know she hes." 
 
 Familiar with the brave and courtly, he 
 neither belittles them nor shows them in such 
 high and sensational light as to blind you 
 to the excellence of the humbler parts of the 
 picture. Again, though taking cognizance of 
 things more questionable than those with 
 which Byron has offended, yet is he seldom 
 unhealthful in this regard ; for such things are 
 rarely forced into violent juxtaposition with 
 the most delicate flavors of life, but are shown 
 in their true relation to all else. It is Stephano 
 and Trunculo that are betrayed into the mishap 
 of the pool, not Ferdinand and Miranda. Sel- 
 dom moralizing, he yet finds a soul of truth in 
 the most absurd superstitions. 
 
 Marcelhis : 
 
 " It faded on the crowing of the cock. 
 Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes 
 Wherein our Saviour's birtli is celebrated, 
 The bird of dawning singcth all night long;
 
 66 
 
 And then, they say, no spirit can walk abroad. 
 The nights are wholesome, then no planets strike. 
 No fairy takes, nor witch has power to charm. 
 So hallowed and so gracious is the time. 
 
 Horatio : 
 
 So have I heard, and do in part believe it. 
 
 Hamlet, Act I., Scene i. 
 
 Protestant or Catholic, who shall say? 
 for Puritan and priest are painted with like 
 impartial hand. Pessimistic? We trow not. 
 Nay, rather is it in this that his healthfulness 
 is most marked. 
 
 Mr. Ruskin, I think it is, enters complaint 
 that Shakespeare never had any great object 
 in life ; doubtless meaning some such Utopian 
 scheme as that upon which he himself has so 
 generously expended his inheritance. Now, 
 while this may be true as to the fact, yet is the 
 implied exception, that therein Shakespeare 
 lacks somewhat of perfect healthfulness, not 
 well taken. 
 
 For, though differing most widely, yet 
 have Byron's scheme of Greek independence 
 and Ruskin's ideal community this in common :
 
 6; 
 
 both exaggerate the failures of established 
 institutions, and belittle their eood ; both 
 fall short of that healthful philosophy of life 
 which realizes that all thinfjs work too-ether 
 for good ; that the social institutions of any 
 time are, on the whole, the best for the needs 
 of the time. Exaggerating our own impor- 
 tance in the eternal economy, we fancy that 
 with imperfect men we can construct an ideal 
 or perfect social structure, and so engage in 
 schemes which, like those of Mr. Ruskin, 
 though laudable in their promptings, are yet 
 the outcome of a limited knowledg-e of life. In 
 the provincialism of our wealth or culture, we 
 overestimate the value of these as factors in the 
 problem of life's happiness. Forgetting that 
 the best things in life — virtue, content, etc. — 
 are possible to the least of fortune's favorites, 
 we cry out, " Is not culture more than virtue, 
 and wealth more than content?" But mark 
 the difference: 
 
 " Sir, I am a true laborer. I earn that I 
 eat, get that I wear ; owe no man hate, envy 
 no man's happiness ; glad of other men's good, 
 content with my harm ; and the greatest of my
 
 68 
 
 pride is to see my ewes graze and my lambs 
 suck." So saith Corin in "As You Like It." 
 
 Again, he who was familiar with court and 
 courtesans, the most wise fool, Touchstone, 
 saith of his Audrey: "A poor humor of mine, 
 sir, to take that that no man will." Not that 
 he blinds himself to the value of culture ; for, 
 "Truly I would the gods had made thee 
 poetic." Still, "A poor humor of mine, sir; 
 an ill-favored thing, but mine owiiy Is not 
 the healthfulness of this in keeping with the 
 fact that Shakespeare, having gained a com- 
 petence, and returning to his native town, 
 indulges in no Utopian scheme for the benefit 
 of its poor, gives rise to no excrescence upon 
 the body politic, but, instead, he appears on 
 record as member of a committee to secure 
 from Parliament a subsidy for the town of 
 Stratford, then fallen in decay ? 
 
 Again : he who had written in the assur- 
 ance of his genius, — 
 
 " So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, 
 So long lives this, and this gives life to thee ; "• 
 
 he who had been flattered by, and had charmed.
 
 69 
 
 a circle in which the genius of a Jonson stood 
 not alone, returns to his native town, and takes 
 upon himself the least regarded public duties 
 as road overseer. Aye, he who had been one 
 with the simple folk of this work! in llicir 
 struggle for existence, knew too well their 
 needs and possibilities to indulge in any maud- 
 lin sentiment in their behalf, offering them 
 instead a profound respect. 
 
 On the other hand, Byron and Shelley, 
 and to a less degree Ruskin, all born to an 
 inheritance, all bemoan the ills of this work- 
 a-day world or all lack somewhat of perfect 
 healthfulness. Truh' has it been written how 
 hardly shall a rich man enter into that king- 
 dom in which the unregarded of this world 
 are looked upon, not as objects of pity, but of 
 respect. For this thing cometh not but by 
 the fasting and prayer of the struggle for exis- 
 tence. 
 
 Marvelous as was Shakespeare's insight 
 into the motives of action, wondrous as was his 
 poetic genius, }'et was he greater than all these 
 in this universality of his sympathy. Having 
 proved all things, he had regard to all things,
 
 ^o 
 
 and would neither add to nor subtract one jot 
 or tittle from the greatest or least respected 
 things of life. 
 
 But to bring this to a conclusion, while 
 the Poet may avail himself of this healthful- 
 ness, as he does of the beauty, pathos, sub- 
 limity, etc., of the scene or conception repre- 
 sented, or as an additional source of pleasure, 
 still may his lines be never so unhealthy and 
 yet evidence great poetic genius. 
 
 Holding this in regard may we not write: 
 Healthfidness in Poetry, as in all literature 
 and all art, is the representing of life without 
 distortiott. 
 
 I
 
 Humor. 
 
 THAT Poetry and Humor have much in 
 common, may not at first sight appear, 
 so different are they in their effect 
 upon us. And yet when we find critics of 
 undoubted ability declaring of the same lines : 
 one, that they are poetic ; and the other, that 
 they are humorous, we begin to doubt whether 
 the difference is as clearly marked as we had 
 fancied. And yet that there is an essential 
 and abiding difference, and hence, that any 
 definition cither of Poetry or of Humor, to 
 be complete must take cognizance of this dif- 
 ference, cannot be gainsaid, while the question, 
 Does the definition of Poetry developed in a 
 previous article satisfy this condition ? becomes 
 a most pertinent one.
 
 72 
 
 We can best answer this question by first 
 determining the ultimate and essential con- 
 ditions of Humor, and in so doing will, as 
 heretofore, avail ourselves of all previous 
 efforts in this direction. We saw that all 
 attempts to define Poetry could for practi- 
 cal purposes, be included under one or the 
 other of two definitions. So too we find that 
 many and various as have been the attempts to 
 determine the cause of humorous amusement, 
 they all array themselves under one or the 
 other of the following : 
 
 Mr. Bain writes: "The occasion of the lu- 
 dicrous is the degradation of some person or 
 interest possessing dignity in circumstances 
 that excite no other strong emotion." 
 
 On the other hand Dr. Johnson says : 
 
 " Wit is a ' discordia concors,' a combina- 
 tion of dissimilar images." 
 
 Though different terms are here employed, 
 — wit and the ludicrous, — yet may these defi- 
 nitions be accepted as typical of all attempts to 
 define that generic Humor which includes any 
 and all sources of humorous amusement. Not 
 only so, but as in Poetry, so here, we hope to
 
 73 
 
 show, that, despite their seeming contradiction, 
 these are but the complements of each other, 
 so that any satisfactory definition must take 
 note of the truth contained in each of them. 
 
 That degradation is present in many 
 phases of generic Humor may not be denied, 
 and yet it might be urged against the first of the 
 above definitions, that degradation may, and oft- 
 times does, give rise to pity or other strong 
 emotions. To meet this objection, Mr. Bain 
 adds the quahfying clause that the degradation 
 shall be " in circumstances that excite no other 
 strong emotion ; " yet is this far from satisfac- 
 tory, for since the amusement and the other 
 strong emotion are both due to degradation, 
 there must needs be some difference in the 
 character of the degradation, corresponding to 
 this difference in effect, or it is in some pecu- 
 Har phase of degradation that we must look 
 for the basis of a definition of generic Humor. 
 
 When a dignified divine follows, in fruit- 
 less chase, his erring hat, which, in gamesome 
 mood, seems to await his near approach, only 
 to be again caught up on the wings of frolic, 
 we are amused, and as certainly have a person
 
 74 
 
 in some sense degraded. But notice this, that 
 while in his pursuit of not very noble game, 
 the divine is like a boy at an age when he is 
 the contradiction of all dignity ; yet the divine 
 does not forfeit our respect, or it is not an 
 absolute degradation. 
 
 Cervantes represents his redoubtable 
 knight as awaiting the approach of the mer- 
 chants of Toledo: — 
 
 " When they were come so near as to be 
 seen and heard, Don Quixote raised his voice 
 and with an arrogant air cried out : ' Let the 
 whole world stand, if the whole world does not 
 confess that there is not in the whole world a 
 damsel more beautiful, etc., etc' " So imbued 
 is his mind with this knight errantry that his 
 faith in it naught can shake. She whom he 
 has elevated to the sublime place in his mind, 
 of Dulcinea del Toboso, was in reality an 
 unseemly, ignorant, country wench, with 
 naught of the ideal about her, save an almost 
 forgotten affair between them ; and yet out of 
 this slight element of actuality all her ideal 
 charms are created, holding existence in his 
 mind beyond a peradventure, " And it's no
 
 75 
 
 great matter if it is another hand, for b\' what 
 I can remember Dulcinca can neither write 
 nor read." And yet is it not true that, despite 
 his high-gravel bHndness in this regard, we 
 continue to think of the Don as sensible upon 
 other subjects. 
 
 Even Sir Andrew Aguecheek, whom, at 
 best, we do not regard as over-wise, becomes 
 most amusing when he appears as more of a 
 fool than he is in realit)'. When IMaria invites 
 Sir Toby and him to witness the success of 
 her trick upon the high and lofty Malvolio, 
 the former indicates his willingness to accom- 
 pany her and his appreciation of the trick by 
 saying : " To the gates of Tartar, thou most 
 excellent devil of wit! " At this Sir Andrew, 
 who, mind you, is utterly incapable of even the 
 semblance of a joke, says : " I'll make one 
 too." What excellent foolery ! 
 
 He himself well knows the impossibility 
 of this, and yet, through his desire to have or 
 retain Sir Toby's favor, which Maria had 
 recently monopolized, he is betrayed into this 
 foolishness, thus seeming more of a fool 
 than he is in reality. In neither of these in-
 
 76 
 
 stances is the degradation absolute. Assume, 
 for the sake of argument, that the divine, Don 
 Quixote and Sir Andrew are without " miti- 
 gation or remorse" the fools they seem, and 
 what results? Can you laugh at an, idiot? 
 instead, are you not compelled to pity him ? 
 Or, if the degradation becomes absolute, the 
 amusement ceases, " giving place to other 
 strong emotions." 
 
 But why, or how, does this change in the 
 character of the degradation result in such 
 change in its effect upon us ? For an answer 
 to this turn to the divine, and is it not mani- 
 fest, that in his incomplete degradation he 
 makes present to the mind, at one and the 
 same time, two pictures or conceptions of 
 himself, one as dignified and the other as de- 
 graded, or that this incompleteness of his degra- 
 dation results in what Johnson has called a 
 combination of dissimilar images. Make the 
 degradation absolute, and you destroy one of 
 these images, that of the divine as dignified, 
 and a " combination," a " discordia concors," 
 is rendered impossible, since there is now but 
 one image or conception present in the mind.
 
 11 
 
 The amusement ceasing not as Mr. Bain would 
 have us infer, because there is present in the 
 mind the conditions both of amusement and of 
 other strong emotions, only the latter is the 
 more powerful of the two, but because the 
 conditions of amusement ha\'e disappeared, 
 giving place to conditions of other strong 
 emotions, as pity, or the degradation is now 
 such as cannot give rise to a discordia 
 concors, but must awaken other strong emo- 
 tions. 
 
 Turning to Puns, Parodies and Witticisms 
 in general, little difficulty is experienced in 
 recognizing in them the presence of" discordia 
 concors," while, on the other hand, the degra- 
 dation is not always so obvious as in the pre- 
 vious examples, Mr. Herbert Spencer going 
 so far as to say that Puns might be produced 
 in which no degradation can be found. For 
 the present, however, let us note that between 
 Don Quixote's challenge and a Pun there is a 
 difference, which men have sought to indicate 
 by calling one Humor (specific), and the other 
 Wit. And while the attemjjts to define these 
 terms have not met with any signal success,
 
 78 
 
 yet is the difference, though somewhat vaguely- 
 recognized, a real and substantial one. 
 
 If, as Coleridge has suggested, there is in 
 some way the same relation between these as 
 between Imaginative and Fanciful Poetry, we 
 may obtain some help in our present inquiry, 
 from a previous article. For while in all 
 Poetry, we have both the thought and the fig- 
 ure, in which the thought finds utterance, yet 
 in Imaginative Poetry the thought, the utility, 
 and in Fanciful Poetry the figure or combina- 
 tion, is the more important factor ; or, here as 
 elsewhere, "what nature creates for use, she 
 afterward turns to beauty." 
 
 So too, it seems probable, that in all 
 Humor (generic) we have both the degrada- 
 tion or utility, and the combination by which 
 this is effected, yet in Humor (specific) as in 
 Imaginative Poetry, the degradation or utility 
 is of greater moment than in Wit ; while 
 in the latter, as in Fanciful Poetry, the com- 
 bination has existence more because of its own 
 delightfulness, than because it subserves the 
 purpose of any degradation. 
 
 This, too, is coherent with the claim, that
 
 79 
 
 the earliest manifestations of Humor (generic) 
 are in the form of practical jokes, Samson 
 loosing the foxes in the standing corn of the 
 Philistines, or slaying their thousands with 
 the jaw-bone of an ass, displaying a grim 
 sort of Humor in the insignificance of the 
 weapons employed. Or, in this actual in- 
 jur)^ of enemies, in such a manner as made 
 them appear less than they were in reality, we 
 have it may be, the utility from which has 
 been evolved all forms of generic Humor. And 
 as in all Poetry, even the most Fanciful, there 
 is still some warp of thought; so it seems 
 probable, that in all Humor (generic), in the 
 quickest and most brilliant witticism, there is 
 still some flavor of degradation. 
 
 But while it has appeared in w^hat Poetry 
 and Humor (generic) are alike, the combining 
 or bringing together of conceptions at remove, 
 etc., it has not as yet been shown in what they 
 differ. 
 
 Notice, then, that examples may be pro- 
 duced, one poetic and the other humorous, in 
 which the conceptions brought together are 
 practically the same. P^or instance, we may
 
 8o 
 
 personify a bell, and speak of it as telling the 
 sad news, while Hood writes: 
 
 " The parson told the sexton, 
 And the sexton tolled the bell." 
 
 That in both of these the conceptions 
 brought together are a bell tolling and a per- 
 son telling something is manifest ; hence the 
 difference cannot be in the character of the 
 conceptions brought together, nor yet in the 
 remove between them. 
 
 In our extremity we turn to the bond 
 between these conceptions, to inquire if there 
 be not some difference there. With what 
 result ? This, that while in the first example 
 the conceptions are merely similar in one or 
 more elements, in the second they are brought 
 together because the words told and tolled 
 are in sound the same. 
 
 So in Witticisms in general, as when 
 Porson, hearing some one remark, of certain 
 modern poets, that they would be remembered 
 long after Homer and Virgil were forgotten, 
 replied, "And not till then." 
 
 The point of this manifestly depends
 
 8i 
 
 upon the fact that he adopts entire the language 
 of the first speaker, and so seeming at first to 
 convey the same idea, he yet by a sHght addi- 
 tion conveys the directly opposite idea. Or, 
 conceptions at remove are brought together, 
 because the language employed, is in a large 
 measure the same. 
 
 In Parodies it is the satne metrical struc- 
 ture, while in the divine's unseemly caper, 
 Don Quixote's challenge, or Sir Andrew's 
 aside, the same person is conceived as more or 
 less wise and as foolish ; or, if a like relation 
 existed between all the elements of the con- 
 ceptions brought together, we might say of 
 them, not merely as in Poetry, that they are 
 similar, but that they are identical or coincide 
 throughout. Hence the definition — in Hnmor 
 [generic] we have thai degradation which re- 
 sults in a " discordia concors," in a combining 
 or bringing together conceptions at remove by 
 means of coincidence, thus creating a nezv co7t- 
 ception, zuhich, as we shall see hereafter, is of no 
 long continuance. 
 
 Turning again to the divine's pursuit of 
 not very noble game, we see that the more
 
 82 
 
 dignified he is in general, and the more he is 
 Hke a boy, in this one instance of the lapse 
 of his dignity, the more we are amused ; or, as 
 the greatest Poetry is the result of maximum 
 remove with the maximum similarity, so the 
 greatest Hinnor {generic) is the result of maxi- 
 mum remove and maximum coincidence. 
 
 Again, in applying this, we find, that just 
 as the greatest Poetry is in general Imagina- 
 tive, as distinguished from the F'anciful, so the 
 greatest Humor (generic) is in general to be 
 found in specific Humor, as distinguished from 
 Wit, in a Don Quixote, or a " Twelfth Night," 
 and not in the reply of a Porson, or the couplet 
 of Hood. 
 
 It has not yet appeared, however, that the 
 above distinction between similarity and coin- 
 cidence will account for the well-known differ- 
 ence between Poetry and Humor (generic) in 
 their effect upon us. 
 
 F'or a better understanding of this, let us 
 turn to an article of Mr. Spencer's, on " The 
 Physiology of Laughter." Ignoring some of 
 the more refined distinctions, one can quote 
 him in a general way, as saying: That any
 
 83 
 
 disturbance of the nervous system, or forcd 
 set in motion, must expend itself either in 
 mental or muscular activities, or in both of these. 
 If, from any cause, the discharge through one 
 of these channels as mental activities is inter- 
 rupted, this force must find vent in some way, 
 and, hence, more must be taken up in muscu- 
 lar action ; and if the force is without special 
 direction, it will naturally set in motion those 
 muscles most readily moved, those most fre- 
 quently in use, or the muscles of the throat 
 and chest, used in talking, respiration, and 
 likewise in laughter. When the acrobat has 
 made an astonishing leap over a number of 
 horses, and the clown comes running after with 
 great energy, as though he would far surpass 
 the acrobat, and then stops suddenly at the 
 first horse, and pretends to brush off a fly, the 
 audience screams. By the energy of his pre- 
 liminary run, he has led them to expect a 
 wonderful jump; a large amount of nervous 
 force was set in motion, but his " most lame 
 and impotent conclusion" interrujjts the dis- 
 charge of this force through mental channels, 
 so compelling it to find vent in muscular
 
 84 
 
 activities, and the half-convulsive action we 
 call laughter ensues. 
 
 That this is big with truth we must per- 
 force grant ; yet is the statement made farther 
 on, that "laughter naturally results only when 
 consciousness is unawares transferred from 
 great things to small, misleading in the ex- 
 treme, for examples may be produced, as in- 
 stance Porson's reply, in which there is no dif- 
 ference in greatness between the conceptions 
 with which the mind is employed. 
 
 We have seen, however, that, in Humor 
 (generic), the combination is due to coinci- 
 dence ; and so the mind recognizing that the 
 conceptions coincide in one or more elements, 
 is prone to assume that the same relation exists 
 between all their elements, or that they coincide 
 throughout ; but since the conceptions are in 
 reality at great remove, or in their more impor- 
 tant elements essentially different, we no sooner 
 impose one upon the other than their non-co- 
 incidence in these elements is revealed; the new 
 conception resulting from the attempted combi- 
 nation is hardly created, before its impossibility 
 is flashed upon the mind, or its birth is its death.
 
 85 
 
 Here, by the b\', is Whately's fallacy ; 
 Shoepenhauer's triumph of intuition over 
 reflection ; or Dumont's " that of which the 
 mind is forced to affirm and deny the same 
 thing at the same time." But what must be 
 the result of this self-destructive character of 
 the new conception ? 
 
 Manifestly this, that the mind is left with- 
 out anything with which to occupy itself, not 
 because the mind is " unawares transferred 
 from great things to small,'" in any ordinary 
 sense in which we employ the terms, but 
 because the conception resulting from the 
 combination, though extremely novel, and so 
 setting in motion a large body of nervous force, 
 is yet self-destructive, and hence the force set 
 in motion must find \'ent in muscular action, 
 and laughter results. 
 
 In Poetry, on the other hand, in which 
 the combination is due to similarity, you are 
 never, even for a moment, betrayed into the 
 notion, that the conceptions coincide through- 
 out or are identical, but instead, you are al all 
 times conscious that they are but similar. 
 
 The new conception, therefore, is not self-
 
 86 
 
 destructive, but remains for the mind to brood 
 over, or the force set in motion, finding vent 
 in mental channels, laughter does not ensue. 
 This suggests a solution for a problem that 
 has troubled all attempts to analyze Humor, 
 namely : In what does the Humor which 
 gives rise to a laugh differ from that which 
 only provokes a smile ? 
 
 We have already seen that Wit differs 
 from specific Humor, in the greater domi- 
 nance of the combination ; but not contented 
 with this, we ofttimes impose upon it the fur- 
 ther limitation, that it shall be quick, apropos, 
 and so are apt to call witty all quick, apropos 
 combinations, whether they are in method, 
 humorous or poetic. If the former, then, as 
 we have seen, it will give rise to a laugh ; but 
 if the latter, it can, at the most, but provoke a 
 smile ; or as the combination passes from the 
 humorous to the poetic, coincidence giving 
 place to similarity, the laugh gives place to 
 the smile, and this to what a German called 
 "a smile in the depths of his consciousness."
 
 Resume. 
 
 ^"pH ROUGH all the wanderings of our 
 J^ argument thus far, we hav^e striven to 
 k'eep before the minds of our readers 
 as the fundamental proposition, that : — Poetry 
 is the expressing of thought by means of figure; 
 by the substitution of the concrete for the ab- 
 stract ; or by the bringing t^'gether or com- 
 bining of conceptions at remove, because of a 
 similarity between them, thus creating a new 
 conception. 
 
 Let us now pass in brief review the 
 arguments that led to this conclusion. In 
 the first place, we found a substantial agree- 
 ment among men to the effect that the 
 measure of poetic merit must be found either 
 in the character of the thought expressed, or
 
 88 
 
 in the character of the figures employed. In 
 deciding between these, we saw that while 
 thought is in some sense essential, figure 
 being impossible, save as it expresses some 
 thought, yet it is not peculiar to Poetry. 
 
 Again, while the beauty, pathos, sub- 
 limity, healthfulness, etc., of the scene, con- 
 ception or thought represented is important as 
 an additional source of pleasure ; nay, more, 
 while the character of the thought may some- 
 times be a fair measure of poetic excellence, 
 the greatness of the thought reacting upon the 
 mind of the poet, stimulating it to the creation 
 of figures otherwise impossible, etc., yet did we 
 find that the character of the thought could 
 not be relied upon as a measure of poetic 
 values, since examples may be produced differ- 
 ing most widely in poetic merit, in which, 
 nevertheless, the scene, conception or thought 
 is the same in both, and hence we concluded 
 that Poetry is the expressing of thought by 
 means of figure. But a definition, to be satis- 
 factory, must be exclusive as well as inclusive ; 
 and bringing the above to this test, we found 
 that it served to distinguish Poetry from Prose,
 
 89 
 
 or the scientific mode of expressing thought, 
 in this that while the latter tends to substitute 
 the abstract for the concrete, the former sub- 
 stitutes the concrete for the abstract. 
 
 So, too, while we found tlie genius of 
 Poet and Philosopher are evidenced in opera- 
 tions that are identical — the bringing together 
 of conceptions at remove by means of similarity 
 — yet do they differ in the purpose for which 
 this combination is effected, and in the general 
 nervous condition under which their intellect 
 operates; one seeking to express a truth, and 
 the other to develop a further truth. 
 
 From painting, sculpture, etc., Poetr)' is, 
 of course, distinguished by the material in 
 which it works, — language; while from Hu- 
 mor (generic), in which we have a like bringing 
 together of conceptions at remove, it differs in 
 the character of the bond b}' which these 
 conceptions are combined, — similarity in one, 
 coincidence in the other, etc. In thus showing 
 that our definition was sufficiently exclusive, 
 we have been led to define, with more or less 
 precision, those things in regard to which con- 
 fusion might arise. The definition of Humor
 
 90 
 
 (generic) we were at some pains to formulate, 
 and found that it not only reconciled differ- 
 ences, but was, also, in keeping with the 
 theory of Laughter developed by Mr. Herbert 
 Spencer. 
 
 Then, again, as a definition of Poetry must 
 needs lack completeness if it fails to contain a 
 possible explanation of the difference between 
 Imaginative and Fanciful Poetry, so a defini- 
 tion of Humor (generic) should contain a 
 possible explanation of the difference between 
 Humor (specific) and Wit. In accordance 
 with this, we saw that while in all Poetry we 
 have both the thought and the combination 
 by which it is expressed, yet in Imaginative 
 the thought, and in Fanciful the combination, 
 is the more dominant factor. So, too, while 
 in all Humor (generic) you have both the 
 degradation and the combination, yet in 
 Humor (specific) the degradation, and in Wit 
 the combination, is the more conspicuous 
 figure. Thereby justifying the surmise of 
 Coleridge, that in some way the same relation 
 exists between Humor (specific) and Wit as 
 between Imaginative and Fanciful Poetry.
 
 9» 
 
 This sugi^ested a solution for the problem 
 that has troubled all attempts to define Humor 
 (generic), namely: In what does the Humor 
 which gives rise to a laugh differ from that 
 which only provokes a smile ? To this, an- 
 swer was made : As coincidence is changed 
 to similarity, the laugh must needs give place 
 to a smile, etc. 
 
 Among the few formulated beliefs, about 
 which there is a substantial agreement among 
 critics is this : — That there is in the highest 
 Poetry, a certain characteristic simplicity or 
 repose. This, we found, was in entire keeping 
 with our definition of Poetry, and so were 
 led to define this repose. We saw, also, that 
 under the impulse of any deep feeling or pas- 
 sion, the mind found the Scientific or Prose 
 mode of expressing thought all too slow for 
 the press of jostling thoughts, and so was com- 
 pelled to find vent for these in figure, or as is 
 frequently said, Poetry is the natural language 
 of passion. Kvcn the essentially absurd notion 
 that all we have to do, to write great Poetry, 
 is to feel deeply, found, in tlic above truth, some 
 justification. So, too, the somewhat incoherent
 
 cry that American Poetry should be American, 
 was found to be big with truth ; while in the 
 progress of science, we found not a foreboding, 
 but a promise, of the future possibilities of 
 Poetry; or, our definition conforms itself to this 
 great test of truth — that it lives not unto itself 
 alone, but that with it must stand or fall a large 
 body of collateral truth. 
 
 Some one has said we should doubt our 
 conclusions about Poetry when they differ 
 from the Poets; let us bring our definition to 
 this further test, confident that it will not fail 
 us here. 
 
 We have already seen, as Sir Philip Sidney 
 has written, that : " It is not rhyming or 
 versing that maketh a poet, but it is the feign- 
 ing of notable images, of virtues, vices, or 
 what else, with that delightful teaching which 
 must be the right describing note to know a 
 
 poet by he coupleth the general 
 
 notion with the particular example." 
 
 To this Shakespeare has given more 
 poetic expression in his " Midsummer Night's 
 Dream."
 
 93 
 
 "The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, 
 Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to 
 
 heaven, 
 And as imagination bodies forth 
 The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen 
 Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing 
 A local habitation and a name. 
 Such tricks hath strong imagination. 
 That if it would but apprehend some joy. 
 It comprehends some bringcr of that joy." 
 
 "Poctiy," says Shelley, "lifts the veil from 
 the hidden beauty of the world, and makes 
 familiar objects be as if they were not familiar." 
 Elsewhere he writes: " It creates, but it creates 
 by combination and representation." 
 
 " Poetical abstractions are beautiful and 
 new, not because the proportions of which 
 they are composed had no previous existence 
 in the mind of man or in nature, but because 
 the whole produced by their combination, has 
 some intelligible and beautiful analogy with 
 the sources of emotion and thought." 
 
 Leigh Hunt writes: "Poetry begins 
 where matters of fact or of science ceases to be 
 merely such, and to exiiibit a further truth ;" 
 again he says : " Poetry is imaginative passion,"
 
 94 
 
 or as Milton has written : " Poetry in compari- 
 son with science is simple, sensuous and pas- 
 sionate." 
 
 Again, our own Emerson has written : 
 " Poetry is the perpetual endeavor to express 
 the spirit of things. Its essential mark is, that 
 it betrays in every word instant activity of 
 mind, shown in new uses of every fact and 
 image, in preternatural quickness of percep- 
 tion of relations ; all its words are poems." 
 
 Yea, even so long ago as the Chaldean 
 Zoroaster, it was written : " Poets are standing 
 transporters, whose employment consists in 
 speaking to the father and to matter ; in pro- 
 ducing apparent imitations of unapparent 
 nature, and inscribing things unapparent to 
 the apparent fabrication of the world." 
 
 As definitions, most of these are far from 
 satisfactory, sometimes vague, and ofttimes 
 contradicting themselves and each other ; and 
 yet finding in our definition a solvent for 
 all their contradictions, we can say of one 
 " That's true " and of another " That's true 
 too." 
 
 Summing up the evidence, then, we find.
 
 95 
 
 that besides the a priori and a posteriori con- 
 siderations developed in the earher pa^jes of 
 the discussion, our definition has the fur- 
 ther warrant of the two great tests of truth — 
 "it hves not unto itself alone," and "comes 
 not to destroy, but to fulfill." 
 
 Tlnk.-! Prlatinit llouic, 
 Philadelphia, Pa.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
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