rythm and melody of poetry. Under its influence the warrior marches to the fierce onset, the mother soothes her weary child, and the Christian passes through the darkness of death to the celestial glory. It softens the passions of the savage, and sublimes the joys of the refined, like music, its sister and interpreter.

Often we give the reins to our thought and follow it resolutely as it courses through the broad fields of history, science and philosophy, and then overleaping their bounds, pressing our way beyond the confines of fact, demonstration, things, we look through faith (the reason's eye) upon all the fair forms, into all the grand promises and unfading realities of an eternally unfolding life, there expatiating amid immortal beauty, perennial love and ever-during growth, till that which is, so often painful and sad, fades like a dream of long ago, and that which ought to be, so glad and vigorous, stands out the only true substantial thing. This joy is nervous and sinewy, it leaves no weak regret behind. Only sadness walks by our side; not that horrid shape which palsies the hand that would labor, and darkens the life, but a meek, majestic presence, that indeed points with one hand to the weakness and wrongs of humanity, but with the other directs our eye to the higher light and better life, whispering the heavenly cheer, "To this you shall come, only strike and believe." Now may the sternness never relax, the pursuit never falter, the eagerness never yield to cold despair. The vision of the man is purified, the weight has fallen from his heart, and he is now the poet; if he never writes a verse, which is grander far, truly living a most beautiful poem.

The poet has the true insight of things. Relations are single to his gaze, and the deepest reality the most apparent; and it is his peculiar glory that he can make us see the same. Hence a line or a verse often reveals a truth with unwonted clearness, tells our experience true to consciousness, unfolds the meaning of a whole life, surrounds some deed or word with a halo of glory, or with magic power sweeps away the dimness of years, and revives in transcendent beauty some old familiar scene of deep sadness or dear delight.

"For in itself a thought,

A slumbering thought, is capable of years,
And curdles a long life into one hour."

Poetry speaks a universal language, has a voice for every human thought and human emotion, and thus is limited to no age, but enjoys perpetual youth; is confined to no race, but has the freedom of the world. And this is the poet's dignity, that he sings for all ages to come, and has a realm broader than ambition's wildest thought.

It may seem that, in this view, one large department of poetry, namely the epic, is excluded; and were it to be regarded merely as versified history, it would rightly be so. But there is another aspect in which it will be seen to fall in naturally, and fill a very important place in a national poetry. While it records the deeds and daring of heroes, and glorifies the past exploits, its aim is not comprehended in the mere record, but, passing beyond, it points to the human spirit which has compassed such achievements, distinguishing its capacities, its dignity, and its glory as common to the race, to be possessed by whatsoever brave soul will aim so high. It is thus an inspiration and a mute prophecy. The epic heroes are what we all may be, the epic gods but what our heroes may become. Its grand significance is to reveal the God-like in man, to unveil the transcendent dignity and beauty of every human action and of all human life. Springing up early in the nation's history, when life is new, and thought fresh and outflowing, it must give a mighty impulse to the establishment of a national character, and to the development of the individual in every direction of the noble and great.

In the view here presented, poetry is seen to have an intimate and perpetual relation to man, and seizing upon the ideal to be thus forever the forerunner of history. It can die out only when men have ceased to be virtuous, loving or aspiring; in a word, when man's spiritual nature is palsied or dead. It becomes base, groveling and corrupting, when the outgoings of men's spirits after low, unworthy ideals; when appearance instead of reality, fame instead of excellence, power instead of goodness, are the objects of urgent desire. It assumes its

loftiest position and most worthy glory, when it lifts up before the eyes of a people the serene, imperial presence of the true, the beautiful and the good; when it celebrates liberty, patriotism, constancy and the most beautiful virtue, and by its potent spell wins to the love and pursuit of whatever is highest, loveliest and best in human achievements. This is the poetry of which we may truly affirm that it is the noblest form of human speech.

ARTICLE IV.-VILLETTE.

HAVING traveled through the long months of a term, over arid deserts of thought, how refreshing to drink from the bubbling spring, and lie under the cool shade of an oasis of fancy. The worthy novel and the foot-ball are almoners of vigor to our jaded minds and bodies. Not only does our blood bound again healthily through the arteries, and our minds regain their wonted elasticity, but the noble impulses of our souls are quickened, and we pass into a higher, holier life, when the noisy trip hammer of the mind's work-shop changes into sweet music of sympathy. Thanks to the good genius, who, remembering us in these our times of need, touches the heart's sensibilities with the hand of a skilled musician. Winter before last Charlotte Bronte performed this kind office for me.. Again, while the burden of College duties is lifted from my shoulders, while the hours of another vacation are leisurely passing, I take her works from the shelf, and fill their places: with Whately and Olmsted; I leap into a boat from the terra firma of fact and reason, that I may be swept down by the tide of an imagined passion.

I open the volume of Villette-my little study room, as quiet and lonely as an empty church, changes by the magic of mind into a spacious apartment, the sacred precints of a home.. The fireplace flashes its ruddy blaze into my face, while a mother's kind tones, and the merry prattle of children, drive away the haughty stoicism of Student life. My knit browsoon becomes smooth, my eyes change their hard, passionless gaze into twinkles of laughter, or become flooded with tears; the monotonous study-tones of my voice mellow to the glad utterances of friendship, tremble to the words of sad farewell.. This is no ambitious word painting. I would not give a fig for a novel that failed to make me forget my identity. I at once become the blue-eyed, saxon-haired playmate of Paulina.. Mine is the noble form, the bounding heart of the boy Graham. I do what none other had the honor of doing; I make a little 20*

VOL. II.

soul forget its sorrow; one, too soon a lady, become a child again; one that treated others with chill indifference, watch my coming with the anxiety of mature love. But I am not long the thoughtless Graham. Ere I am aware, mine is the tender heart of woman, mine are the comfortless sobs at the thought of leaving Graham. Then of a sudden my body enlarges faster than a gourd in the night; my face grows plain, my looks shy and retiring; I am neither a careless school boy, nor do I burn with a master passion. I sit demurely at my work; no one loves me, I love no one; Paulina in her distant way calls me Miss Snowe. Thus I change form and feature. No natures so opposite but I can assume them at pleasure, no places so distant but I can reach them while I am turning a leaf, no oceans so broad nor so boisterous but fancy can ferry me across between the beatings of my eager heart. Mine are the numerous parts of a skilled stage actor in this tragic comedy of life. In the play of an evening I become a hooded monk, a crippled beggar, the haughty king, a soldier of fortune, the assassin and the saint. The story at last closes, the spell of genius is broken, I am myself again. Memory, the kind janitor, leads me back through the strange experiences of the hour, but I am no longer the hero or the heroine. Dr. John, his heart again warm with the love of his boyhood, the politic school ma'am, the fiery professor, Ginevura Fanshawe, a flower as scentless as it is gaudy, and her "dear old Tim," are all fleshless phantoms of the brain. The tears they shed come only from the eyes of the artist, who, bending over her paper, limns these people into life. I soon pass into the cold critic, seeking the cause of such strange delusion. I find an answer satisfactory at least to myself. We know that all the personages in Byron's poems are but one and the same personage, clad in a different dress, and called by a different name. We observe, furthermore, that this one personage is the reflected image of the impulsive, misanthropic Byron. We know too, that human nature in all its multiplied forms finds counterpart in the dramas of Shakspeare; while no where can we detect him painting the lineaments of his own face. While reading the writings of the one, we can never lose sight of ourselves or the author; while reading those of the other, we soon