308
	INDEX
	Graham	crackers,	61.
	Grapes,	39.
	Green	beans,	69.
	Green	corn,	65.
	Green	peas,	69.
	Green	vegetables,	33.
	chemistry	of,	292.
	influence	of,	on	appetite,	35.
	Greens,	35.
	Growing	child,	food	for,	151.
	Gruels,	274.
	recipe	for,	280.
	Halibut,	salted,	smoked,	and	dried,	55.
	Ham,	55.
	loin	chops	of,	55.
	smoked,	55.
	Health,	diet	in,	139	et	seq.
	Healthy,	food	for,	151.
	Heart,	diet	in	diseases	of,	268.
	Heat,	body,	125.
	in	cooking,	92.
	regulation	of,	125,	128.
	Heat	test	for	albumin	and	globulin,
	285.
	Hemoglobin,	120.
	Hen's	eggs,	56.
	Hickory	nuts,	71.
	Hives,	diet	in,	269.
	Holsteins,	milk	of,	74.
	Hominy.	See	Corn,	Hulled.
	Horlick's	malted	milk,	184.
	Horseradish,	81.
	Hot	breads,	64.
	Human	milk,	167.
	comparison	of,	with	cow's,	176.
	composition	of,	168,	176.
	ferments	in,	169.
	immunizing	bodies	in,	169.
	Hydrochloric	acid	in	stomach,	103.
	Hydrolytic	cleavage,	119.
	Hygiene,	drinking	of	water	in,	20.
	laws	of,	110.
	of	maternal	nursing,	169.
	of	nursing	mother,	172.
	Hygienic	treatment	of	constipation,
	163.
	Hyperchlorhydria,	diet	in,	243.
	Hypochlorhydria,	diet	in,	243.
	Ice	cream,	274.
	Ileo-colitis,	209.
	Ileum,	112,	114.
	Immunizing	bodies	in	human	milk,
	169.
	Imperial	granum,	184.
	Indigestion	in	infants,	200.
	Infant	dysentery,	209.
	treatment	of,	210.
	Infant	mortality,	165.
	Infantile	scurvy,	208.
	treatment	of,	208.
	Infants,	adaptation	of	cow's	milk	to,
	178.
	alimentary	intoxication	in,	198.
	alimentary	tract	of,	165.
	artificial	feeding	of,	176.
	breast	feeding	of,	nutritional	dis-
	turbances	in,	191.
	caloric	value	of	food	of,	180.
	care	of	mouth	of,	172.
	decomposition	of	food	in,	201.
	digestive	ferments	of,	166.
	disturbance	of	food	balance	in,	199.
	dyspepsia	in,	200.
	energy	quotient	for,	169,	180.
	feces	of,	174.
	on	artificial	food,	183.
	feeding	of,	during	acute	illness,
	211.
	during	second	year,	183.
	importance	of	salts	in,	198.
	in	abnormal	conditions,	189.
	food	disorders	of,	pathogenesis	of,
	199.
	treatment	of,	203.
	food	intoxication	in,	198,	201.
	relapse	in,	207.
	treatment	of,	205.
	food	requirements	of,	179.
	growth	of,	on	artificial	food,	183.
	indigestion	in,	200.
	intestine	of,	166.
	liver	of,	166.
	mixed	feeding	of,	175.
	natural	food	of,	165.
	normal,	food	for,	165.
	relation	of,	to	food,	199.
	normal	development	of,	174.
	nutritional	disturbances	in,	189.
	caused	by	carbohydrates,	196.
	by	fats,	194.
	by	proteins,	197.
	by	salts,	198.
	due	to	food,	191.
	overfeeding	of,	191.
	with	carbohydrates,	196.
	with	fats,	194.
	with	proteins,	197.
	"physiological	fecal	flora"	of,	167.
	supplementary	feeding	of,	173.
	underfeeding	of,	193.
	with	proteins,	198.
	water	needed	by,	172.


INDEX
	309
	Infants,	weaning	of,	173.
	Infectious	diseases,	227.
	dietetics	in,	224.
	Influence	of	green	vegetables	on	ap-
	petite,	35.
	Influenza,	diet	in,	227.
	Inorganic	foods,	18.
	iron,	22.
	salts,	20.
	water,	18.	See	also	Water.
	Inorganic	foodstuffs,	10.
	Inorganic	salts,	20.
	Insoluble	soaps,	290.
	Inspection	of	milk,	73,	75.
	Intestinal	digestion,	105.
	chemistry	of,	297.
	Intestinal	obstruction,	diet	in,	248.
	Intestinal	ulcer,	diet	in,	248.
	Intestine,	cellulose	in,	134.
	large,	114.
	of	infants,	166.
	small,	113.
	Intestines,	excretion	by,	134.
	Intoxicants,	82.
	Intoxication,	alimentary,	in	infants,
	198.
	definition	of,	121.
	food,	in	infancy,	198,	201.
	relapse	in,	207.
	treatment	of,	205.
	Invalids,	fruits	for,	276.
	meats	for,	275.
	vegetables	for,	276.
	Invertase,	109.
	lodin	test	for	starch,	283.
	Iron,	source	of,	22.
	eggs	as,	58.
	Jams,	88.
	Jejunum,	112,	114.
	Jellies,	88,	274.
	recipes	for,	278.
	Jerseys,	milk	of,	74.
	Johnston's	Fluid	Beef,	53.
	Junket,	78,	274.
	recipe	for,	279.
	Junket	tablets,	78.
	Kefir,	273.
	Kidneys,	diet	in	diseases	of,	266.
	excretion	from,	131.
	glomerular	excretion	in,	132.
	relation	of	skin	to,	133.
	tubular	excretion	in,	132.
	Kitchen,	sanitation	of,	84,	85.
	Koumiss,	273.
	Laborers,	food	for,	157.
	Lactalbumin,	289.
	Lactase,	109.
	Lacteals,	115.
	Lactic	acid,	in	milk,	75.
	Lactose,	diffusion	of,	284.
	test	for,	284.
	Lamb,	55.
	Large	intestine,	114.
	Laryngitis,	diet	in,	227.
	Lean	meats,	50.
	Leg	cutlets	of	veal,	55.
	Leg	of	mutton,	55.
	Legumes,	67.
	chemistry	of,	293.
	cooking	of,	67.
	dried,	68.
	fresh,	68.
	Legumin,	67.
	Lemonade,	79,	81.
	action	of,	81.
	egg,	58,	273.
	Lemons,	39.
	Lentils,	68,	69.
	Lettuce,	34.
	Liebig's	Extract	of	Beef,	53.
	Lima	beans,	68.
	canned,	68.
	Limewater	with	milk,	78.
	Lipase,	105,	107.
	Liquid	foods,	273.
	in	fevers,	225.
	in	typhoid	fever,	229.
	recipes	for,	277.
	Liver,	change	in	proteins	in,	120.
	change	in	starch	in,	119.
	diet	in	diseases	of,	249.
	lobules	of,	119.
	of	infants,	166.
	sheep,	55.
	work	of,	119.
	Lobster,	54.
	in	shell,	55.
	Lobules	of	liver,	119.
	Loin	chops,	ham,	55.
	mutton,	55.
	Lungs,	excretion	from,	130.
	Macaroni,	61.
	Mace,	81.
	Maize.	See	Corn,	Indian.
	Malaria,	diet	in,	227.
	Maltase,	109.
	Malted	milk,	Horlick's,	184.
	Maltose,	102,	106.
	diffusion	of,	284.
	test	for,	284.


310
	INDEX
	Mammals,	young,	natural	foods	of,	13.
	Maple	sugar,	25.
	adulteration	of,	25.
	Mastication,	48,	102.
	of	eggs,	57,	58.
	of	nitrogenous	foods,	41).
	Maternal	nursing,	hygiene	of,	169.
	Meal,	barley,	67.
	bean,	67,	68.
	Measles,	diet	in,	227.
	Measurement	of	fuel	values,	140.
	Meat,	basting	of,	52.
	choice,	51.
	cooking	of,	52.
	lean,	50.
	tender,	51.
	tough,	51.
	Meat	broths,	274.
	recipe	for,	277.
	Meat	extract,	274.
	Meat	fat,	41.
	Meat	jellies,	274.
	preparation	of,	53.
	recipes	for,	278.
	Meat	juice,	53,	274.
	recipe	for,	277.
	Meat	preparations,	53.
	Meat	souffle",	recipe	for,	281.
	Meat	tea,	274.
	recipe	for,	277.
	Meats	for	invalids,	275.
	Mellin's	Food,	184.
	Menstruation,	effect	of,	on	mother's
	milk,	173.
	Menus,	146.
	football-players',	149.
	students',	148.
	typical,	148.
	Metabolism,	118.
	muscle,	122.
	nerve,	123.
	of	nitrogenous	foods,	50.
	Methods	of	cooking,	93.
	Microorganisms,	84.
	"Middlings,"	60.
	Milk,	72,	73,	273.
	as	food	and	drink	for	young,	72.
	as	food	for	adults,	72.
	ashes	of,	288.
	bacteria	in,	75.
	boiling	of,	77,	78.
	care	of,	181.
	chemistry	of,	287.
	comparison	between	human	and
	cow's,	176.
	condensed,	78,	184.
	contamination	of,	75.
	Milk,	cow's,	adaptation	of,	to	in-
	fants,	178.
	intervals	of	feeding	with,	179.
	modified,	178.
	quantity	of,	in	feeding	of	infants,
	179.
	diffusion	of,	291.
	human,	167.
	composition	of,	168,	176.
	ferments	in,	169.
	immunizing	bodies	in,	169.
	in	composite	foods,	78.
	in	fevers,	225.
	in	typhoid	fever,	229.
	inspection	of,	73,	75.
	lactic	acid	in,	75.
	limewater	with,	78.
	modifications	of,	77,	273.
	mother's,	affected	by	diet,	173.
	by	menstruation,	173.
	by	nervousness,	172.
	by	pregnancy,	173.
	of	Alderneys,	74.
	of	Durhams,	74.
	of	Holsteins,	74.
	of	Jerseys,	74.
	skimmed,	73.
	sterilization	of,	182.
	tuberculous	contamination	of,	76.
	variation	in,	74.
	water	in,	287.
	Milk	gruel,	274.
	Milk	products,	72.
	Milk	toast,	274.
	recipe	for,	280.
	Mixed	diet,	45.
	in	tuberculosis,	232.
	Mixed	feeding	of	infants,	175.
	Modification	of	milk,	77.
	Modified	cow's	milk,	178.
	Moisture	in	cooking,	92.
	Mollusks,	54,	55.
	Monosaccharids,	109.
	Mortality	among	infants,	165.
	Mother's	milk,	affected	by	diet,	173.
	by	menstruation,	173.
	by	nervousness,	172.
	by	pregnancy,	173.
	Mouth,	care	of,	in	typhoid	fever,	230.
	infant's,	care	of,	172.
	Muffins,	corn,	65.
	Mulberries,	39.
	Mumps,	diet	in,	227.
	Murdoch's	Liquid	Food,	53.
	Muscle	cells,	51.
	Muscle	metabolism,	122.
	Muscle	tissue,	components	of,	51.


INDEX
	311
	Muscles,	work	done	in,	122.
	Mushes,	275.
	Mussels,	55.
	Mustard,	81.
	Mutton,	55.
	Narcosis,	121.
	Natural	food	of	infants,	165.
	Natural	foods,	11-14.	See	also	un-
	der	Foods.
	characteristics	of,	13.
	Navy,	rations	for,	145.
	Navy	beans;	68.
	Nephritis,	acute,	diet	in,	266.
	chronic,	diet	in,	267.
	Nerve	metabolism,	123.
	Nervous	system,	work	done	in,	123.
	Nervousness,	effect	of,	on	mother's
	milk,	172.
	Nestle's	food,	184.
	Nipples,	care	of,	172.
	Nitrogen	equilibrium,	44,	49.
	Nitrogenous	foods,	43.
	absorption	of,	49.
	digestion	of,	49.
	mastication	of,	49.
	metabolism	of,	50.
	Normal	development	of	infant,	174.
	Nursing,	contraindications	to,	173.
	intervals	between,	170.
	length	of	time	of,	171.
	maternal,	hygiene	of,	169.
	wet,	174.
	Nursing	mother,	diet	of,	172.
	hygiene	of,	172.
	Nutmeg,	81.
	Nut	oil,	42,	275.
	Nut	salad,	71.
	Nutrient	enemata,	218.
	sugar	in,	219.
	Nutrition,	definition	of,	4.
	Nutritional	disturbances,	dietetics	in,
	251.
	in	breast	feeding,	191.
	in	infancy,	189.
	caused	by	carbohydrates,	196.
	by	fats,	194.
	by	food	elements,	194.
	by	proteins,	197.
	by	salts,	198.
	due	to	food,	191.
	Nuts,	70.
	chemistry	of,	293.
	in	the	dietary,	71.
	in	the	menu,	71.
	varieties	of,	71.
	21
	Oatmeal,	61,	66.
	caloric	value	of,	142.
	Oatmeal	crackers,	61.
	Oats,	60,	61,	66.
	rolled,	66.
	Obese,	food	for,	158.
	Obesity,	alcohol	prohibited	in,	255.
	Banting	method	in,	252.
	diet	in,	251.
	Ebstein	method	in,	252.
	Oertel	method	in,	252.
	Van	Noorden's	dietary	in,	252.
	Oertel	method	in	obesity,	252.
	Oil,	cod	liver,	42.
	nut,	42.
	olive,	275.
	peanut,	70.
	Oils,	275.
	emulsification	of,	290.
	saponification	of,	290.
	solubility	of,	290.
	Olein,	24.
	Olive	oil,	275.
	Omelets,	275.
	recipes	for,	281.
	Onions,	29,	31.
	Opium	in	enemata,	220.
	Orangeade,	action	of,	81.
	egg,	273.
	Oranges,	39.
	Organic	foods,	22.
	Organic	foodstuffs,	16.
	Osmic-acid	test,	289.
	Overfeeding,	179.
	of	infants,	191.
	symptoms	of,	191.
	treatment	of,	191.
	with	carbohydrates,	196.
	symptoms	of,	196.
	treatment	of,	196.
	with	fats,	194.
	symptoms	of,	194.
	treatment	of,	195.
	with	proteins,	197.
	Ovo-lacto-vegetarian	diet,	45.
	Oxidases,	120.
	Oxidation,	of	alcohol,	120,	121.
	of	toxins,	120.
	protective,	83.
	Oyster	crackers,	61.
	Oysters,	recipe	for,	277.
	solid,	55.
	Palmitin,	24.
	Pancreatic	juice,	105.
	Parched	sweet	corn,	66.
	Parsnips,	29,	33.


312
	INDEX
	Pastries,	64.
	Peaches,	39.
	Peanut	butter,	68.
	Peanut	oil,	70.
	Peanuts,	68,	69.
	roasted,	70,	71.
	Pears,	39.
	Peas,	canned,	68.
	dried,	68.
	green,	69.
	shelled,	68.
	Pecans,	71.
	Pepper,	81.
	Pepsin,	102.
	Peptone,	104,	106,	285.
	Peptones,	109.
	Peptonized	proteins	for	enemata,	218.
	Peristalsis,	stimulation	of,	106.
	Peristaltic	movements.,	104.
	Petti	John's	wheat	flakes,	62.
	"	Physiological	fecal	flora	"	of	in-
	fants,	167.
	Pineapples,	39.
	Plants,	young,	natural	foods	of,	11.
	Pleurisy,	diet	in,	227.
	Plums,	39.
	Pneumonia,	diet	in,	227.
	Poisons,	alkaloidal,	82.
	Pork	and	beans,	68.
	Porridges,	275.
	Portal	vein,	115.
	Porterhouse	steak,	55.
	Potatoes,	sweet,	29,	30.
	white,	29.
	Poultry,	55.
	Predigested	foods,	90.
	Pregnancy,	effect	of,	on	mother's
	milk,	173.
	Preservation	of	food,	86.
	Preservative,	salt	as,	87,	88.
	sugar	as,	87,	88.
	vinegar	as,	88.
	Preservatives,	varieties	of,	88.
	Preserves,	88.
	Protective	oxidation,	83.
	Proteins,	16,	49,	124.
	absorption	of,	115.
	caloric	value	of,	141.
	change	in,	in	liver,	120.
	chemistry	of,	285.
	diffusion	of,	287.
	in	gout,	264.
	overfeeding	of	infants	with,	197.
	peptonized,	for	enemata,	218.
	unavailable	energy	of,	142.
	underfeeding	of	infants	with,	198.
	Proteolysis,	120.
	Proteoses,	104,	285.
	Prunes,	39.
	Psoriasis,	diet	in,	269.
	Ptyalin,	100.
	Purges,	274,	278.
	Purpura,	diet	in,	269.
	Pyemia,	diet	in,	227.
	Pylorus,	105.
	Rachitis,	208.
	treatment	of,	209.
	Raisins,	39.
	Rancidity	of	butter,	84.
	Raspberries,	39.
	Rations	for	aged,	145.
	for	Army,	145.
	for	average	cases,	143.
	for	children,	145.
	for	football	teams,	145.
	for	Navy,	145.
	for	women,	145.
	for	workingmen,	145.
	Recipes,	276.
	Rectal	enemata,	217.
	Rectal	feeding,	217.
	Rectum,	preparation	of,	for	enemata,
	217.
	Reducing	sugar,	283.
	Refrigerator,	85.
	Regime	in	tuberculosis,	235.
	Relapsing	fever,	diet	in,	227.
	Renal	calculi,	diet	in,	267.
	Rennet,	78.
	Rennin,	78,	102.
	Retention	of	juices	in	cooking,	93.
	Rheumatic	fever,	diet	in,	228.
	Rheumatism,	acute	articular,	diet	in,
	227,	228.
	Rhubarb,	34.
	Rice,	60,	61,	64.
	preparation	of,	65.
	use	of,	65.
	Rickets,	208.
	treatment	of,	209.
	Ridge's	Food,	184.
	Rigor	caloris,	51.
	Rigor	mortis,	51.
	Roast,	basting	of,	94.
	Roasting,	93.
	Robinson's	patent	barley	flour,	184.
	Rolled	oats,	66.
	Roller	process	milling,	61.
	Root	beer,	carbonized,	81.
	fermented,	81.
	Roots	and	tubers,	28.
	chemistry	of,	292.
	Round	of	beef,	55.


INDEX
	313
	Rump	of	beef,	55.
	Rye,	60,	(51,	tit).
	Rye	bread,	01,	GO.
	Rye	Hour,	00.
	Saccharose,	diffusion	of,	284.
	test	for,	284.
	Sage,	81.
	Sago,	27.
	recipe	for,	279.
	Salad,	nut,	71.
	Salicylic	acid,	88.
	Saliva,	100.
	Salivary	digestion,	100.
	chemistry	of,	295.
	steps	of,	101,	295.
	Salivary	glands,	100.
	Salmon,	canned,	55.
	Salt,	common,	as	a	preservative,	87,
	88.
	table,	81.
	Salts,	absorption	of,	115.
	importance	of,	in	infant	feeding,
	198.
	inorganic,	20.
	Sanitation,	kitchen,	84,	85.
	of	dining	room,	85.
	relation	of	flies	to,	85.
	Saponification	of	fats,	106,	108,	290.
	of	oils,	290.
	Sardines,	canned,	55.
	Sausage,	55.
	Scarlet	fever,	diet	in,	227.
	Scurvy,	diet	in,	265.
	infantile,	208.
	treatment	of,	208.
	Scorbutus,	208.
	Secretin,	110.
	Sedentary,	food	for,	156.
	Semi-solid	foods,	274.
	in	fevers,	226.
	recipes	for,	278.
	Septicemia,	diet	in,	227.
	Serum	albumin,	119.
	Serum	globulin,	119.
	Shad	roe,	55.
	"	Shell-fish,"	50.
	Shiga	bacillus,	209.
	Shrimp,	54.
	canned,	55.
	Sick,	foods	for,	choice	of,	212.
	serving	of,	215.
	amount	of,	216.
	cleanliness	of,	216.
	Sick-room,	alcohol	in,	220.
	Sick-room	dietetics,	principles	of,	212.
	Sirloin	steak,	55.
	Skimmed	milk,	73.
	Skin,	diet	in	diseases	of,	269.
	excretion	by,	133.
	relation	of,	to	kidneys,	133-.
	Small	intestine,	113.
	Small-pox,	diet	in,	227.
	Snow	pudding,	recipe	for,	279.
	Soap,	diffusion	of,	291.
	Soaps,	108,	109.
	insoluble,	290.
	Soda	crackers,	61.
	Sodium	carbonate,	105.
	Soft-boiled	eggs,	recipe	for,	281.
	Solid	foods,	275.
	in	fevers,	226.
	recipes	for,	281.
	Souffles,	275.
	recipes	for,	280,	281.
	plain,	280.
	Soups,	274.
	clear,	274.
	cream,	274.
	recipe	for,	277.
	Sparkling	wines,	222.
	Spinach,	34.
	Spirituous	wines,	221.
	Starch,	change	in,	in	liver,	119.
	iodin	test	for,	283.
	Starch	foods,	chemistry	of,	292.
	Starch	jellies,	274.
	recipes	for,	278.
	Starches,	16,	27.
	digestion	of,	28.
	Steapsin,	105.
	Stearin,	24.
	Sterilization	of	milk,	182.
	Stimulants,	273.
	Stomach,	113.
	cancer	of,	diet	in,	247.
	curds	in,	77.
	dilatation	of,	diet	in,	245.
	round	ulcer	of,	diet	in,	246.
	Strawberries,	39.
	String	beans,	68,	69.
	canned,	68.
	Students,	menu	for,	148.
	Snccus	enterlms,	105.
	Sugar,	reducing,	283.
	use	of,	as	a	preservative,	87,	88.
	in	nutrient	enemata,	219.
	Sugars,	16,	24.
	absorption	of,	115.
	assimilation	of,	26.
	digestion	of,	26.
	fermentation	of,	27.
	Sulphates,	conjugated,	132.
	Sulphur,	88.


314
	INDEX
	Sweetbreads,	55.
	Sweet	corn,	GO.
	parched,	00.
	Sweet	fruits,	38.
	Sweet	potatoes,	29,	30.
	Syntonin,	104.
	Table	salt,	81.
	Tapioca,	27.
	recipe	for,	280.
	Tea,	79.
	classification	of,	79.
	history	of,	79.
	Terrapin,	55.
	Test	of	freshness	of	eggs,	56,	57.
	brine,	57.
	Teeth,	decay	of,	62.
	development	of,	91.
	work	of,	62.
	Temperature,	body,	126.
	Tests	for	cream,	288.
	Them,	79.
	Theobromin,	80.
	Thermogenesis,	128.
	Thermolysis,	128.
	Thyme,	81.
	Toast	water,	recipe	for,	276.
	Toasts,	274,	275.
	recipes	for,	280.
	Tomatoes,	34.
	Tongue,	smoked	and	salted,	55.
	Toxins,	82.
	oxidation	of,	120.
	Trommer's	test,	284.
	Trypsin,	105,	106.
	activation	of,	107.
	Tubular	excretion	in	kidneys,	132.
	Tuberculosis,	cod-liver	oil	in,	235.
	diet	in,	230.
	mixed,	232.
	food	assimilation	in,	231.
	forced	feeding	in,	237.
	regime	in,	235.
	Tuberculous	contamination	of	milk,
	76.	N
	Tubers,	29.
	chemistry	of,	292.
	Turkey,	55.
	Turnips,	29,	32.
	Turtle,	55.
	Typhoid	fever,	care	of	mouth	in,	230.
	convalescence	from,	229.
	diet	in,	228.
	liquid	foods	in,	229.
	milk	in,	229.
	Typhoid	germs	in	milk,	76.
	Typhus	fever,	diet	in,	227.
	Ulcer,	intestinal,	diet	in,	248.
	of	the	stomach,	round,	diet	in,	240.
	Underfeeding	of	infants,	193.
	symptoms	of,	193.
	treatment	of,	193.
	with	proteins,	198.
	Unleavened	bread,	64.
	Urates,	132.
	Urea,	132.
	Uremia,	133.
	Uric	acid,	132.
	Urticaria,	diet	in,	269.
	Valentine's	Meat	Juice,	53.
	Valvulse	conniventes,	112.
	Van	Noorden's	dietary	in	obesity,	252.
	principles	of,	254.
	Van	Noorden's	food	groups	for	dia-
	betes,	262.
	Vanilla,	81.
	Veal,	55.
	forequarter	of,	55.
	leg	cutlets	of,	55.
	Vegetable	fats,	42.
	Vegetable	marrow,	34.
	Vegetable	souffle,	recipe	for,	281.
	Vegetables,	canning	of,	88.
	drying	of,	87.
	for	invalids,	276.
	green,	33.
	chemistry	of,	292.
	influence	of,	on	appetite,	35.
	preparation	of,	34.
	preserving	of,	88.
	Vegetarian	diet,	45.
	Villi,	112.
	Villus,	112.
	Vinegar	as	a	preservative,	88.
	Walnuts,	black,	71.
	English,	71.
	Waste	material,	130.
	Water,	18,	273.
	absorption	of,	114.
	aeration	of,	19.
	boiling	of,	19.
	contamination	of,	19.
	hygiene	of,	20.
	in	fevers,	224.
	in	milk,	287.
	needed	by	infants,	172.
	source	of,	19.
	Water-cress,	34.
	Water	gruel,	274.
	recipe	for,	280.
	Water	toast,	274.
	recipe	for,	280.


462	MODERN	I	lilLOSUI	HYi
	infinite	idea	in	itselt	(Idee	in	sich).	The	second	is	the	idea	in	its
	objective	form,	or	in	its	differentiation	(Idee	in	ihrem	anders-seyn).
	The	third	is	the	idea	in	its	regress.	These	movements,	viewed	in
	connection	with	the	process	of	thinking	in	which	the	absolute	con
	sists,	and	in	which	they	are	perfectly	represented,	give	us,	1st.	bare
	thought	(Denken	an	sich).	xidly,	thought	externalizing	itself	=	na
	ture,	and.	.	S.lly.	thought	returning	to	itself	mind.	Accordingly,
	philosophy	has	three	corresponding	divisions:	lo^ic.	philosophy
	of	nature,	and	philosophy	of	spirit.	The	first	is	the	region	of	bare
	thinking,	the	second	is	the	region	of	thought	in	its	objective	forms,
	and	the	third	is	the	region	of	thought	in	its	reflective	movement	in
	the	soul	of	man.	The	whole	object	of	philosophy,	therefore,	is	to
	develop	existence	from	its	most	empty	and	abstract,	form	up	through
	ionic,	nature,	and	mind,	to	its	highest	and	richest	elevation	as	at-
	t:iined	in	the	human	consciousness.	In	this	we	shall	find	the	same
	process	perpetually	repeating	itself,	and	gaining	something	tresh	at
	(very	pulsation,	until	it	arrives	at	its	highest	perfection.!	We	be-
	j;iii.	then,	with
	LOCK	.
	This	is	the	reirion	of	abstract	thought,	in	which	the	absolute	ap
	pears	in	its	first	and	most	undeveloped	form.	Logic,	as	being	the
	province	of	]&lt;/&lt;&gt;	&lt;ni	sif/t.	is	intended	to	sliow	the	subjective	jrro-
	cesses	of	thought	j	to	point	out	the	method	1	&gt;y	\ylijcjh_JVjm	i	tt^e
	most	emp_Ly_o	all	our	notions,	we	rise	graduajjy	to	the	most	rich
	and	full.}.	To	explain	the	true	process	of	logical	thinking	we	must
	observe,	that	all	knowledge	consist^	n	a__sepa_ration	or_dist.injguish-
	inu	r	of	one	thing_Jrom	aiiother.	In	every	thought	there	are	two
	parts,	which	stand	opposed	:	both	of	which	are	absolutely	neces
	sary	to	i_rive	it	a	clear	and	actual	meaning.	It	is	the	same	whether
	we	view	thought	in	the	form	of	sensation,	or	of	perception,	or	of
	reflection	;	in	every	instance,	there	must	be	something	separated,
	defined,	distinguished,	or	placed	in	opposition	to	something	else.
	^y	e	j	mve	,	)0	notion^,	g".,	of	iL	finite	without	an	infinite	;	no	idea	of
	*	For	a	brief	exhibition	of	the-	idea	and	division	of	philosophy,	tho	student	rmy	con
	sult	the	introduction	ot	Hrifcl	s	"	I,o&lt;_	ic.	N.	I?.	Tlie	lo^ic	as	jrivcn	in	tin;	"	Kncyclo-
	papilio,	7	is	shorter	and	clearer	than	the	original	edition.	Tlie,	references	accordingly
	will	be	invell	to	this.
	t	I	revious	to	"	I,o^ic."	Hegfl	wrote	the	Phinomenologie	dcs	Geiste.s."	This	he
	used	to	term	his	Voyage	of	Discovery.	It	is	considered	the	most	obscure	of	his
	writings.
	\	Die	Lo	jik	ist	die	Wissenschaft	der	reinen	Idee,	das	1st	der	Idee	im	abstrukten	Ele-
	mcnte	des	Denkens.	Logik,	p.	28.


Revolt	255
	in	North	s	inscrutable	face.	And	that	he	should
	retain	such	a	hold	upon	his	non-committal	reserve
	must	have	furthered	in	Winifred	a	restless	and	un
	happy	desire	to	see	him	wince.
	"Say,"	she	suddenly	blurted	out,	and	laid	a
	brusque	hand	on	the	arm	of	the	man	from	Marvin	s
	ranch,	"maybe,	at	some	time,	you	ve	owned	a	dog.
	Have	you?	Ran	after	you	when	he	wasn	t	wanted.
	A	nuisance,	eh?	Oh,	a	dog	like	that	a	dog!	The
	master	don	t	even	have	to	whistle	for	him,	but	here
	he	comes,	skipping	and	jumping	and	wagging.	He
	nearly	dies	of	happiness	if	only	he	gets	his	head
	patted.	Disgusting,	so	it	is;	it	s	disgusting!"
	The	bewildered	fellow	squinted	and	squinted.
	He	had	the	confused	expression	of	a	person	who
	wanted	to	ask:	"What	in	the	world	could	possess
	abody	to	make	abody	go	on	in	such	a	queer	fash
	ion?"	When	he	had	confessed	an	inability	to	make
	out	what	she	was	"getting	at,"	Harry	North	left	him
	with	the	riddle	by	saying:
	"You	ll	excuse	us,	won	t	you,	if	we	ride	a	little	to
	one	side	for	a	bit	of	talk	?	"	At	which	the	girl	declared,
	with	anger	and	softness	struggling	in	her	voice:
	"No,	Hal	North,	you	can	t	come	that.	You
	can	t	send	me	back.	I	won	t	hear	of	it."
	Even	after	they	had	ridden	some	hundred	paces	to
	the	right	it	seemed	for	a	long	while	as	though
	North	s	hope	of	a	private	word	with	Winnie	was	to	be
	defeated;	for	she	did	nothing	but	ride	beside	him	in
	taciturn	perversity.	Neither	of	the	two	seemed	will
	ing	to	say	anything.	The	girl	held	her	face	turned
	away,	and	pretended	not	to	notice	how	his	gaze
	continuously	rested	upon	her.	Although	she	may


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316	FIRST	SESSION	AND	LAST	VOYAGE
	the	train,	and	as	a	truck	got	derailed	they	were
	detained,	and	we	had	nearly	two	hours	of	their
	company."
	"	May	12th.	(A	circular	letter.)	I	am	sending
	you	a	few	lines	with	some	photos	to	give	you	a
	little	account	of	our	work	here.
	"In	one	sense	it	is	quite	different	to	any	we
	have	been	engaged	in	before,	for	except	on	Sun
	days	all	our	teaching	is	for	Christians	and	Chris
	tian	workers.	They	are	men	and	women	who
	have	a	little	knowledge	in	most	cases	very	little
	but	who	wish	to	learn	more	that	they	may	be
	fitted	to	help	and	teach	their	fellow-country-
	people.	These	students	come	from	different	parts
	of	the	Lower	Congo,	and	have	been	sent	here	by
	the	missionaries	of	the	two	Societies,	our	own
	and	that	of	the	American	Baptists.	They	speak
	in	various	dialects,	but	are	all	able	to	under
	stand	us	and	one	another,	as	the	language	is
	really	one.
	"	In	January	the	men	came	(nineteen	of	them),
	and	soon	a	number	of	little	two-roomed	grass-
	houses	could	be	seen	springing	up	in	the	portion
	of	ground	set	apart	for	them.	They	are	arranged
	in	three	roads,	and	look	quite	a	little	town.	When
	the	houses	were	finished	the	men	went	back	to
	their	towns	and	in	a	fortnight	returned	with	their
	wives	and	children.	We	have	fourteen	women
	here	at	present.	Two	or	three	of	the	men	have
	not	their	wives	with	them	this	term,	but	hope	to
	have	them	next,	and	one	is	a	bachelor.	Then
	there	are	about	twenty-four	children,	some	little
	ones,	belonging	to	students	;	others	the	little
	nurses	who	take	care	of	the	babies	while	the


46	ECCLESIASTICAL	HISTORY	OF	IRELAND.	BOOK	V.
	well	as	in	the	colonies.	1	Owing	to	encouragement	given	by
	persons	in	high	places,	their	numbers	had	greatly	multiplied	;
	and	at	length	there	were	175,000	Orangemen	in	Ireland,	and
	140,000	in	Great	Britain.	In	Ireland	the	great	majority	of
	Orangemen	were	Episcopalians,	but	some	Presbyterians	of
	little	weight	or	intelligence	belonged	[to	them	;	in	England
	the	Society	was	exclusive,	as	Dissenters	were	not	admitted
	to	the	lodges,	and	all	the	chaplains	were	ministers	of	the
	Established	Church.	2	In	1835,	'a	Committee	was	appointed
	by	the	House	of	Commons	to	inquire	into	the	working	of	the
	system	;	and	their	investigations	revealed	the	existence	of	a
	conspiracy	to	exclude	the	Princess	Victoria	from	the	succes-
	sion,	and	place	the	Duke	of	Cumberland	on	the	throne.	At
	the	same	time	the	Institution	was	pronounced	illegal	by	the
	highest	law	authorities.	It	was	proposed	to	commence	a
	criminal	prosecution	against	the	Duke	of	Cumberland,	Lord
	Kenyon,	the	Bishop	of	Salisbury,	Colonel	Fairman,	and	others
	believed	to	be	implicated	in	a	scheme	of	rebellion	;	but,	mean-
	while,	Heywood,	the	chief	witness	against	the	conspirators
	in	an	agony	of	excitement,	created	by	a	sense	of	the	peculiarly
	dangerous	position	in	which	he	stood	burst	a	blood-vessel
	and	died.	Early	in	1836	under	the	influence	of	alarm	all
	1	See	Second	Report	of	Parliamentary	Committee	on	Orange	Lodges,	pp.	5.	6,
	7,	12.	First	Report,	Q.	2,319,	2,322,	2,323,	2,324,	2,327,	2,328,	4,632,	4,633,
	4,634,	4,635.	Lodges	had	also	been	formed	among	the	police.	See	appendix	to
	Third	Report,	p.	81.	The	Irish	police,	established	in	1814,	were	at	first	all
	Protestants.	They	remained	much	in	the	same	state	until	1836,	when	the	Irish
	Under-	Secretary,	Mr.	Thomas	Drummond,	insisted	on	the	introduction	of	a	large
	infusion	of	Roman	Catholics	into	the	force.	Memoir	of	Thomas	Drummond,
	Under-	Secretary	to	the	Lord	Lieutenant	of	Ireland,	by	John	F.	McLennan,	pp.
	266,	274.	Edinburgh,	1867.	About	the	same	time	stipendiary	magistrates	were
	appointed.	Ibid,	pp.	277,	279.
	2	Pictorial	History	of	England,	vol.	vii.	488.	The	English	Orangemen	were
	keenly	opposed	to	the	admission	of	Protestant	Dissenters	to	political	privileges.
	In	the	report	of	the	Grand	Committee	of	a	meeting	held	in	April,	1832,	Brother
	Eedes	states	that	they	had	lately	witnessed	"	a	system	of	political	dislocation,
	tending	to	a	political	dissolution.	The	first	political	Act	of	Dislocation,	sanctioned	by
	the	Legislature,	took	place	about	four	years	ago,	in	the	repeal	of	the	Corporation	and
	the	Test	Act."	This	sentiment	seems	to	have	met	the	concurrence	of	all	present.
	The	Duke	of	Cumberland	was	in	the	chair	on	this	occasion.	See	appendix	to	Report
	of	Select	Committee	on	Orange	Lodges,	iii.	16.	The	English	Test	and	Corporation
	Acts	were	repealed	in	1828.


A	CLOCK.	31
	Compound	brushes	are	now	made	by	machinery.	The	machine,
	which	is	called	the	Woodbury	Machine,	is	so	constructed	that	it	can
	bore	the	holes,	form	the	tufts	of	bristle,	insert	them	in	the	holes	of
	the	stock,	and	fasten	them	with	the	wire.	The	machine	is	not	used
	so	much	in	England	as	it	is	in	America.
	LESSON	12.	A	CLOCK.
	The	clock	is	supposed	to	be	an	ordinary	American	clock	in	an
	oblong	case.
	I.	The	Parts	of	a	Clock.	Tell	the	children	the	subject	of
	the	lesson.	Call	their	attention	to	the	parts	of	the	clock,	and	lead
	them	to	observe	carefully	and	describe	accurately	what	they	see	:
	thus	working	out	the	following	matter.
	The	clock	is	placed	in	a	case,	which	has	a	top,	a	bottom,	a	front,
	a	back,	and	two	sides.	The	front	of	the	case	opens	like	a	door	;	it
	has	a	frame	and	a	pane	of	glass.
	The	clock	has	a	face,	called	the	dial.	On	this	are	painted	two	circles,
	one	inside	the	other,	and	between	these	a	number	of	thin	short	lines,
	sixty	in	all,	placed	at	equal	distances	from	each	other.	Just	below
	the	inner	line	the	figures	one	to	twelve	are	painted	;	between	each
	figure	there	are	five	of	the	short	lines.
	In	the	front	of	the	face	is	a	hole	or	two,	as	the	case	may	be
	through	which	the	key	is	put	when	the	clock	needs	winding	up.	In
	the	middle	of	the	face	there	is	another	hole	through	which	the	pivot
	is	put	on	which	the	hands	turn.	One	hand	is	longer	than	the	other.
	Behind	the	face	are	the	works	of	the	clock	:	these	are	held	together
	in	a	frame,	which	is	fastened	to	the	case.
	II.	The	Use	of	the	Parts.	The	case	holds	the	clock,	and
	keeps	the	dust	from	getting	into	the	works.	The	door	can	be	opened
	when	the	clock	wants	winding	up,	or	the	hands	need	to	be	moved.
	The	twelve	figures	denote	the	twelve	hours	of	the	day,	and	the
	little	lines	between	the	figures	indicate	the	sixty	minutes	of	the	hour.
	The	short	hand	points	out	the	hour	of	the	day,	and	the	long	hand
	tells	the	minutes	of	the	hour.	The	long	hand	moves	once	round	the
	face	in	an	hour,	the	short	one	moves	from	one	figure	to	another	in
	the	same	time,	so	that	it	takes	the	short	hand	twelve	hours	to	go
	once	round	the	face.
	III.	Qualities.	The	case	is	made	of	wood	:	it	is	oblong,	smooth,
	and	bright.	The	face	or	dial	is	made	of	a	metal	;	it	is	square	(or
	round),	white,	smooth,	and	hard.


WINFIELD	SCOTT	HANCOCK
	UP	.A.	IB	T	II.
	THE	SOLDIEB


and	ho&lt;w	^Attained.	169
	World,	yet	alway	full	of	the	Hopes	of	a
	better	:	Serene,	talm,	and	well	affured
	in	theprefent	ftate	of	their	Souls,	and	yet
	thirfting	after	Perfection,	Maturity	,	and	the
	abfolute	Confirmation	of	Righteotifhefs	in.
	the	World,	to	come.	Now	the	Truths	that
	effect	all	this,	are	all	reducible	to	thofe
	which	I	have	mentioned	under	the	former
	Head	:	For	in	thofe	we	find	all	that	is	ne-
	ceffary	to	life	and	godlinefs,	to	virtue	and
	glory	\	in	thofe	we	find	all	that	is	necelfary
	toraifeand	fupport	true	Magnanimity,	to
	enlarge	and	free	the	Mind,	and	to	add
	Strength	and	Courage	to	it.	For	what	can
	more	certainly	promote	all	this,than/;w0r-
	tality	and	Glory	?	What	can	be	a	furer	Foun
	dation	for	the	Hope	of	both	to	reft	on,
	than	the	Favour	of	God	himfelf	?	And	what
	can	more	effectually	reconcile	and	ingra
	tiate	us	with	God,	than	fincere	univerfal
	Right	eoufnefs	,	and	the	Mediation	of	his
	dearly	Beloved	Son	?
	j.	T-\\&	Third	Character	of	Illuminating
	Truths	is,	that	they	are	f	leaf	ant	and	agreea
	ble	to	the	Soul.	Hence	it	is	that	the
	Royal	Pfalmift	pronounces	the	Word	of	God
	fiveeter	than	the	honey	and	the	honey	comb	:
	That	he	afcribes	to	it	Delight	and	Joy	;
	For	he	tells	us,	that	it	rejoices	the	heart,
	that	it	enlightens	the	eyes.	And	according
	ly	we	find	the	true	Servants	of	God,	not
	only


I	N	D
	For	statistics	of	the	denomination	and	the	reasons	which
	have	induced	it	to	assume	the	name	Congregationalist,
	see	CONGREGATIONALISM.
	Authorities.	Fletcher,	History	of	Independency,	4	vols.	1847-9;
	Heywood	and	Wright,	Cambridge	University	Transactions,	2	vols.,
	1854	;	Vaughan,	Memorials	oftho	Stuart	Dtjnasty,	2	vols.	,	1831	;	Roger
	Williams,	The	Bloudy	Tenent	of	Persecution,	ed.	Underbill,	1848;
	Hanbury,	Historical	Memorials	relating	to	the	Independents,	3	vols.,
	1839-44;	Carlyle,	Cromwell	s	Letters	and	Speeches,	1845;	Under
	bill,	Tracts	on	Liberty	of	Conscience	and	Persecution,	1846	;	Masson,
	Life	of	Milton,	6	vols.,	1859-80;	Vaughan,	T/ie	Protectorate	of
	Cromwell,	2	vols,	1839;	Stoughton,	Church	and	State	Two	Hun
	dred	Years	Ago,	1862;	Underbill,	Broadmead	Records,	1847;
	Gould,	Documents	relating	to	Act	of	Uniformity,	1862;	Calamy,
	Nonconformists	Memorial,	3	vols.,	1802;	Toulmin,	Protestant
	Dissenters	in	England,	1814	;	Stoughton,	Religion	in	England	under
	Quee.n	Anne	and	the	Georges,	2	vols.,	1878;	Bennet,	History	of
	Dissenters	during	the	last	Thirty	Years,	1839;	Barclay,	Inner	Life
	of	the	Religious	Societies	of	the	Commonwealth,	1877	;	Vaughan,
	English	Nonconformity,	1862	;	Price,	History	of	Protestant	Noncon
	formity	in	Englmd,	2	vols.,	1836-38;	Bogue	and	Bennet,	History
	of	Dissenters,	4	vols.,	1808-12;	Wilson,	History	and	Antiquities	of
	Dissenting	Churches,	kc.,	4	vols.,	1808-14;	Stoughton,	Ecclesias
	tical	History	of	England,	5	vols.,	1867-74;	Dexter,	The	Congrega
	tionalism	of	the	Last	Three,	Hundred	Years,	1880;	Neal,	History
	of	the	Puritans,	5	vols.	;	Waddington,	Congregational	History,	5
	vols.,	1869-80.	(A.	M.	F.)
	INDEX	is	a	word	that	may	be	understood	either
	specially	as	a	table	of	references	to	a	book	or,	more	gene
	rally,	as	an	indicator	of	the	position	of	required	information
	on	any	given	subject.	According	to	classical	usage,	the
	Latin	word	index	denoted	a	discoverer,	discloser,	or
	informer	;	a	catalogue	or	list	;	an	inscription	;	the	title
	of	a	book	;	and	the	fore	or	index-finger.	Cicero	also
	used	the	word	to	express	the	table	of	contents	to	a	book,
	and	explained	his	meaning	by	the	Greek	form	syllabus.
	Shakespeare	uses	the	word	with	the	general	meaning	of	a
	table	of	contents	or	preface	thus	Nestor	says	(Troilus
	and	Cressida,	i.	3)
	"	And	in	such	indexes,	although	small	pricks
	To	their	subsequent	volumes,	there	is	seen
	The	baby	figure	of	the	giant	mass."
	Table	was	the	usual	English	word,	and	index	was	not
	thoroughly	naturalized	until	the	beginning	of	the	17th
	century,	and	even	then	it	was	usual	to	explain	it	as	"	index
	or	table."	By	the	present	English	usage,	according	to
	which	the	word	table	is	reserved	for	the	summary	of	the
	contents	as	they	occur	in	a	book,	and	the	word	index	for
	the	arranged	analysis	of	the	contents,	we	obtain	an	advan
	tage	not	enjoyed	in	other	languages	,	for	the	French	table
	is	used	for	both	kinds,	as	is	indice	in	Italian	and	Spanish.
	There	is	a	group	of	words	each	of	which	has	its	distinct
	meaning	but	finds	its	respective	place	under	the	general
	heading	of	index	work;	these	are	calendar,	catalogue,	digest,
	inventory,	register,	summary,	syllabus,	and	table.	1	The
	value	of	indexes	was	recognized	in	the	earliest	times,	and
	many	old	books	have	full	and	admirably	constructed	ones.
	A	good	index	has	sometimes	kept	a	dull	book	alive	by
	reason	of	the	"ralue	or	amusing	character	of	its	contents.
	Mr	Carlyle	refers	to	Prynne	s	Histrio-Mastix	as	"a	book
	still	extant,	but	never	more	to	be	read	by	mortal;"	but	the
	index	must	have	given	amusement	to	many	from	the
	curious	character	of	its	entries,	and	Attorney-	General	Noy
	particularly	alluded	to	it	in	his	speech	at	Prynne	s	trial.
	Indexes	have	sometimes	been	used	as	vehicles	of	satire,
	and	the	witty	Dr	William	King	was	the	first	to	use	them
	as	a	weapon	of	attack.	His	earliest	essay	in	this	field	was
	the	index	added	to	the	second	edition	of	the	Hon.	Charles
	Boyle	s	attack	upon	Bentley	s	Dissertation	on	the	Epistles
	of	Phalaris,	1698.
	1	Another	old	word	occasionally	used	in	the	sense	of	an	index	is	"pye."
	The	late	Sir	T.	Duffus	Hardy,	in	some	observations	on	the	derivation
	of	the	word	"	Pye-Book	"	(which	most	probably	conies	from	the	Latin
	pica),	remarks	that	the	earliest	use	he	had	noted	of	pye	in	this
	sense	is	dated	1547	"	a	Pye	of	all	the	names	of	such	Balives	as	been
	to	accompte	pro	anno	regni	regis	Edwardi	Sexti	primo.	"
	D
	729
	To	serve	its	purpose	well,	an	index	must	be	compiled
	with	care,	the	references	being	placed	under	the	heading
	that	the	reader	is	most	likely	to	seek.	An	index	should	be
	one	and	indivisible,	and	not	broken	up	into	several	alpha
	bets	;	thus	every	work,	whether	in	one	or	more	volumes,
	ought	to	have	its	complete	index.	This	important	rule
	has	been	often	neglected	in	English	books,	and	is	almost
	universally	rejected	in	foreign	ones,	to	the	great	incon
	venience	of	readers.	The	mode	of	arrangement	calls	for
	special	attention	;	this	may	be	either	chronological,	alpha
	betical,	or	according	to	classes,	but	great	confusion	will	be
	caused	by	uniting	the	three	systems.	The	alphabetical
	arrangement	is	so	simple,	convenient,	and	easily	under
	stood	that	it	has	naturally	superseded	the	other	forms,
	save	in	some	exceptional	cases.	Much	of	the	value	of	an
	index	depends	upon	the	mode	in	which	it	is	printed,	and
	every	endeavour	should	be	made	to	set	it	out	with	clear
	ness.	In	old	indexes	the	indexed	word	was	not	brought	to
	the	front,	but	was	left	in	its	place	in	the	sentence,	so	that
	the	alphabetical	order	was	not	made	perceptible	to	the	eye.
	There	are	few	points	in	which	the	printer	is	more	likely	to
	go	wrong	than	in	the	use	of	marks	of	repetition,	and	many
	otherwise	good	indexes	are	full	of	the	most	perplexing	cases
	of	misapplication	in	this	respect.	The	oft-quoted	instance
	Mill	on	Liberty
	on	the	Floss
	actually	occurred	in	a	catalogue.	There	appears	now	to
	be	a	revived	interest	in	indexes,	and	as	books	daily	increase
	the	need	of	some	satisfactory	digest	of	information	becomes
	more	keenly	felt.	In	1877	the	Index	Society	was	formed
	with	the	object	of	making	and	printing	indexes	of	books
	unprovided	with	them,	of	compiling	and	printing	indexes
	of	particular	subjects,	and	of	gradually	preparing	a
	universal	index	for	reference.	In	order	to	obtain	uni
	formity	in	the	compilation	of	indexes	a	series	of	rules	for
	indexing	have	been	drawn	up	by	the	society.	Several
	publications	have	already	been	issued	to	the	subscribers.
	The	following	is	a	list	of	some	of	the	most	important	indexes,	both
	of	words	and	of	subjects.	The	chief	indexes	of	words	are	dictionaries,
	but	these	are	a	special	class	by	themselves.	Next	come	concord
	ances	:	the	first	one	to	the	Bible	was	compiled	by	Hugo	of	St	(.	her
	in	1247,	the	first	English	concordance	to	the	New	Testament	was
	published	in	1536,	and	to	the	whole	Bible	in	1550,	compiled	by	John
	Marbeck.	Other	Biblical	concordances	are	those	of	R.	F.	Hervey,
	1579	;	C.	Cotton,	1622	(frequently	reprinted)	;	J.	Downame,	1632	;
	R.	Wickens,	1655;	S.	Newman,	1650,	3d	ed.	1682;	A.	Cruden,
	1737	(this	superseded	all	works	of	the	same	character)	;	and	R,
	Young,	1880.	The	following	concordances	may	also	be	mentioned	:
	to	the	Psalter,	1834	;	to	the	Prayer	Book,	1851	;	to	the	Ilid,
	by	G.	L.	Prendergast,	1875	,	to	Shakespeare,	by	S.	Ayscough
	(1790),	by	F.	Twiss	(1805),	by	Mrs	Cowden	Clarke	(1845),	by	J.
	0.	Halliwell	(Handbook	Index,	1866),	and	by	A.	Schmidt	(1874),
	and	to	Shakespeare	s	Poems,	by	Mrs	H.	H.	Furness,	1874	;	to
	Milton	s	Paradise	Lost	(1741),	and	to	his	Poetical	Works,	by	H.	J.
	Todd	(1809),	byG.	L.	Prendergast	(1857),	and	by	C.	D.	Cleveland
	(1867);	to	Pope	s	Works,	by	PI	Abbott,	1875	;	to	Tennyson	s	Works,
	by	D.	B.	Brightwell,	1869,	and	another	published	by	Strahan,	1870	;
	to	In	Memoriam	(1862);	to	Kcble	s	Christian	Year,	1871;	and	to
	Watts	s	Psalms,	by	D.	Guy,	1774.	A	large	number	of	historical
	works	have	been	supplied	with	indexes	in	separate	volumes.	Among
	the	more	important	indexes	of	prose	writers	are	those	of	the	works	of
	Samuel	Richardson	(1755),	Joanna	Southcott	(n.	d.,	and	1815),	John
	Strype	(1828),	and	T.	Carlyle	(1874);	The	Wellington	Despatches
	(1839)	;	Wesley	s	Journals	(1872).	A	large	number	of	series	of
	publications	of	societies	and	of	periodicals	have	been	supplied	with
	general	indexes.
	The	Indexes	to	the	Statutes	and	to	the	Journals	of	the	Houses
	of	Parliament	are	perhaps	the	most	elaborate	works	of	the	kind
	ever	published.	In	1778	a	sum	of	12,900	was	voted	for	indexes
	to	the	Journals	of	the	House	of	Commons.	Few	parliamentary
	papers	are	issued	without	a	satisfactory	index	being	added.	M.st
	of	the	indexes	mentioned	above	refer	to	particular	books,	but
	in	1848	Mr	W.	F.	Poole	published	in	New	York	an	index	to	sub
	jects	treated	in	reviews	and	other	periodicals	;	a	second	edition	was
	published	in	1853	as	An	Index	to	Periodical	Literature.	A	greatly
	enlarged	edition	is	now	in	preparation	with	the	co-operation	of
	English	and	American	librarians.	A	larger	work	of	a	similar	char
	acter	for	scientific	literature,	but	arranged	under	authors	names
	XII.	92


VIIL]	THE	BEAN-PLANT.	85
	a.	Pollen-grains:	small	oval	bodies,	with	pro-
	jections	on	them	in	the	equatorial	region.
	d.	The	anther	of	a	bean	is	so	small	that	sections
	cannot	be	made	of	it	without	considerable	skill	:
	the	structure	of	an	anther	can	however	be	easily
	made	out	by	imbedding	one	from	a	tiger-lily	in
	paraffin	or	holding	it	between	two	bits	of	carrot,
	cutting	transverse	sections,	mounting	in	water
	and	examining	with	i	inch	obj.
	a.	It	contains	four	chambers,	two	on	each	side
	of	the	continuation	of	the	filament,	and	in
	each	chamber	lie	numerous	pollen-grains.
	5.	The	pistil.
	a.	It	is	found	by	tearing	open	the	stamen-tube	:	it
	is	a	long	green	tapering	body,	somewhat	flat-
	tened	laterally	and	ending	in	a	point	(the	style)
	which	bears	a	tuft	of	strong	hairs.
	b.	Slit	it	open	carefully	:	in	it	lies	a	central	cavity,
	containing	a	number	of	small	oval	bodies,	the
	ovules,	attached	along	its	ventral	side	by	short
	pedicles.
	c.	It	is	difficult	to	get	a	section	of	a	bean-ovule,
	but	its	essential	structure	may	be	readily	made
	out	by	making	thin	transverse	sections	of	the
	ovary	of	a	large	lily	(where	the	ovules	are
	closely	imbedded	in	a	large	quantity	of	paren-
	chyma)	and	examining	with	i	inch	obj.
	a.	The	central	cellular	portion	of	the	ovule
	(nucleus)	made	up	of	a	large	number	of	cells.
	/3.	Its	two	coats,	an	inner	(primine)	and	outer
	(secundine).


QUEST.	XL]	Increase	of	Dan,	Manasseh,	Ephraim,	Levl.	81
	(113.)	If	the	growth	of	the	Tribes	in	Egypt	had	been	left
	from	the	first	to	the	ordinary	laws,	which	appear	to	regulate
	the	increase	of	the	human	species	at	present	;	one	of	the	most
	natural	and	obvious	of	the	anticipations,	which	could	have	been
	formed	of	the	result,	would	have	been	this,	that	those	Tribes
	which	had	the	fewest	founders	would	be	seen	to	have	increased
	least,	and	those	which	had	most	to	have	increased	most.	On
	this	principle	the	Tribe	of	Benjamin,	which	had	ten	founders,
	ought	to	have	been	the	most	numerous	;	and	the	Tribes	of	Dan,
	Manasseh,	and	Ephraim,	each	of	which	had	only	one	founder,
	(108),	ought	to	have	been	the	least	numerous:	yet,	though
	Benjamin	was	certainly	somewhat	more	numerous	at	the
	Exodus	than	Manasseh,	he	was	much	less	so	than	Ephraim	;
	and	Dan,	who	had	only	one	son,	Hushim,	at	the	Descent,	B.C.
	1778,	had	62,700	sprung	from	his	loins,	B.C.	1559	almost
	as	many	as	Judah,	through	his	five	sons	or	grandsons,	74,600.
	No	doubt,	to	one	who	should	look	at	the	whole	of	this	eco-
	nomy	from	a	merely	human	point	of	view,	this	must	appear
	very	unaccountable	;	but	to	an	enlightened	and	believing	mind,
	which	has	learnt	to	see	and	to	recognize	the	finger	of	God	in
	every	thing,	these	seeming	anomalies	will	look	merely	as	if
	they	were	designed	on	purpose	to	teach	us,	that	it	was	as	easy
	for	God	to	fulfil	his	own	promises,	and	to	work	out	his	own
	ends,	with	the	smallest	amount	of	means,	to	all	human	appre-
	hension,	as	with	the	greatest.
	(114.)	But	whatsoever	may	have	been	the	reasons	of	those
	distinctions	which	the	comparative	numbers	of	the	different
	Tribes	de	facto	exhibited	at	last,	(reasons	known	in	their	ful-
	ness	only	to	God,)	all	we	have	to	do	in	these	three	instances
	also	of	Dan,	Manasseh,	and	Ephraim,	is	to	account	for	the
	results,	on	the	same	principles	on	which	we	have	endeavoured
	to	explain	and	account	for	them	in	the	case	of	the	other	nine
	Tribes	;	and	this	has	been	done	in	the	preceding	Table	C	(112),
	but	with	some	modification	of	the	general	principle	of	the
	other	Table,	which	I	have	considered	myself	justified	in
	making	in	this,	in	order	to	adapt	it	to	the	exceptional	charac-
	ter	of	these	particular	cases	:	that	viz.	of	assuming	that,	while
	the	number	of	generations,	and	the	average	length	of	each,
	should	be	the	same	in	these	cases	as	in	all	the	rest,	the	rate
	of	the	increase	in	successive	generations,	in	these	particular
	G


THE	MONROE	DOCTRINE	341
	powers,	and	when	the	treaty	came	to	the	United	States	Senate,
	it	was	found	to	be	of	no	use,	and	was	rejected	on	resolution	of
	February	25,	1862.
	Again,	in	1880,	Secretary	Evarts,	and	in	the	next	year	Sec
	retary	Elaine,	suggested	that	the	United	States	would	guaran
	tee	to	the	powers	seeking	money	compensation	from	Venezuela,
	monthly	payments	to	satisfy	the	claims	of	the	creditor	nations.
	In	case	of	default	in	the	installments,	"the	agent	placed	there
	by	the	United	States	and	acting	as	trustee	for	the	creditor
	nations,	shall	be	authorized	to	take	charge	of	the	custom-houses
	of	Laguayra	and	Puerto	Cabello,	and	receive	from	the	monthly
	receipts	a	sufficient	sum	to	pay	the	stipulated	amounts."
	The	protocol	signed	by	President	Roosevelt,	which	amounted
	to	a	voluntary	assignment	by	San	Domingo	to	the	United	States
	for	the	benefit	of	creditors,	was	not	at	first	accepted	by	the	Senate.
	President	Roosevelt	as	a	modus	vivendi	appointed	agents	under	an
	agreement	with	the	government	of	San	Domingo,	and	to	the	satis
	faction	of	the	creditors,	by	which	these	agents	should	collect
	the	revenues	under	the	general	scheme	as	proposed	in	the	pro
	tocol.	After	two	years'	delay,	the	United	States	Senate	ratified
	the	protocol	and	the	treaty	was	duly	signed	February	8,	1907.	1
	FORCIBLE	COLLECTION	OF	DEBTS	REGULATED	AT	THE
	HAGUE	PEACE	CONFERENCE
	A	convention	respecting	the	limitation	of	the	employment
	of	force	for	the	recovery	of	contract	debts	was	adopted	at	the
	Hague	Peace	Conference,	October	18,	1907.	This	provided	in
	general	that	"recourse	to	armed	force	for	the	recovery	of	con
	tract	debts	claimed	from	the	government	of	one	country	by	the
	government	of	another	country	as	being	due	to	its	naturals"
	should	not	be	had	unless	"the	debtor	state	refuses	or	neglects
	to	reply	to	an	offer	of	arbitration,	or	after	accepting	the	offer
	prevents	any	compromise	from	being	agreed	on,	or	after	arbi
	tration	fails	to	submit	to	the	award."	This,	it	is	believed,	is	a
	1	Treaty	accepted	and	secrecy	removed	Feb.	25,	1907.	Senate	Journal.
	59th	Cong.,	2d	Sess.,	p.	353.


POETRY
	257
	withstanding	all	his	unquestionable	inspiration)	is	mostly
	taken	as	a	type	of	the	poets	of	art.	In	French	literature
	Hugo,	notwithstanding	all	his	mastery	over	poetic	methods,
	represents	the	poets	of	energy.
	In	some	writers,	and	these	the	very	greatest	in	Homer,
	/Eschylus,	Sophocles,	Dante,	Shakespeare,	Milton,	and
	perhaps	Goethe	poetic	energy	and	poetic	art	are	seen	in
	something	like	equipoise.	It	is	of	poetry	as	an	art,	how
	ever,	that	we	have	mainly	to	speak	here	;	and	all	we	have
	to	say	upon	poetry	as	an	energy	is	that	the	critic	who,	like
	Aristotle,	takes	this	wide	view	of	poetry	the	critic	who,
	like	him,	recognizes	the	importance	of	poetry	in	its	rela
	tions	to	man	s	other	expressions	of	spiritual	force,	claims
	a	place	in	point	of	true	critical	sagacity	above	that	of	a
	critic	who,	like	Plato,	fails	to	recognize	that	importance.
	And	assuredly	no	philosophy	of	history	can	be	other	than
	inadequate	should	it	ignore	the	fact	that	poetry	has	had
	as	much	effect	upon	human	destiny	as	that	other	great
	human	energy	by	aid	of	which,	from	the	discovery	of	the
	use	of	fire	to	that	of	the	electric	light,	the	useful	arts	have
	been	developed.
	With	regard	to	poetry	as	an	art,	in	the	present	work
	most	of	the	great	poems	of	the	world	have	been	or	will	be
	examined	either	in	connexion	with	the	names	of	the
	writers	or	with	the	various	literatures	to	which	they
	belong	;	consequently	these	remarks	must	be	confined	to
	general	principles.	To	treat	historically	so	vast	a	subject
	as	poetry	would	be	obviously	impossible	here.
	v.ons	All	that	can	be	attempted	is	to	inquire	briefly	(1)	What
	t;	is	poetry	1	?	(2)	What	is	the	position	it	takes	up	in	relation
	"	to	the	other	arts	1	(3)	What	is	its	value	and	degree	of
	expressional	power	in	relation	to	these?	and,	finally,	(4)
	What	varieties	of	poetic	art	are	the	outcome	of	the	two
	great	kinds	of	poetic	impulse,	dramatic	imagination	and
	lyric	or	egoistic	imagination	?
	h	is	1.	What	is	Poetry?	Definitions	are	for	the	most	part
	alike	unsatisfactory	and	treacherous	;	but	definitions	of
	poetry	are	proverbially	so.	Is	it	possible	to	lay	down
	invariable	principles	of	poetry,	such	as	those	famous
	"	invariable	principles	"	of	the	Rev.	Mr	Bowles,	which	in
	the	earlier	part	of	the	century	awoke	the	admiration	of
	Southey	and	the	wrath	of	Byron	1	Is	it	possible	for	a
	critic	to	say	of	any	metrical	phrase,	stanza,	or	verse,
	"This	is	poetry,"	or	"This	is	not	poetry"?	Can	he,
	with	anything	like	the	authority	with	which	the	man	of
	science	pronounces	upon	the	natural	objects	brought
	before	him,	pronounce	upon	the	qualities	of	a	poem	?
	These	are	questions	that	have	engaged	the	attention	of
	critics	ever	since	the	time	of	Aristotle.
	Byron,	in	his	rough	and	ready	way,	has	answered	them
	in	one	of	those	letters	to	the	late	John	Murray,	which,
	rich	as	they	are	in	nonsense,	are	almost	as	rich	in	sense.
	"So	far	are	principles	of	poetry	from	being	invariable,"
	says	he,	"	that	they	never	were	nor	ever	will	be	settled.
	These	principles	mean	nothing	more	than	the	predilec
	tions	of	a	particular	age,	and	every	age	has	its	own	and	a
	different	from	its	predecessor.	It	is	now	Homer	and	now
	Virgil	;	once	Dryden	and	since	Sir	Walter	Scott	;	now
	Corneille	and	now	Racine	;	now	Crebillon	and	now
	Voltaire."	This	is	putting	the	case	very	strongly	perhaps
	too	strongly.	But	if	we	remember	that	Sophocles	lost	the
	first	prize	for	the	(Edipus	Tyrannus	;	if	we	remember	what
	in	Dante	s	time	(owing	partly,	no	doubt,	to	the	universal
	ignorance	of	Greek)	were	the	relative	positions	of	Homer
	and	Virgil,	what	in	the	time	of	Milton	were	the	relative
	positions	of	Milton	himself,	of	Shakespeare,	and	of	Beau
	mont	and	Fletcher	;	again,	if	we	remember	Jeffrey	s
	famous	classification	of	the	poets	of	his	day,	we	shall	be
	driven	to	pause	over	Byron	s	words	before	dismissing
	them.	Yet	some	definition,	for	the	purpose	of	this	essay,
	must	be	here	attempted	;	and,	using	the	phrase	"	absolute
	poetry	"	as	the	musical	critics	use	the	phrase	"	absolute
	music,"	we	may,	perhaps,	without	too	great	presumption
	submit	the	following	:
	Absolute	poetry	is	the	concrete	and	artistic	expression	of	Absolute
	the	human	mind	in	emotional	and	rhythmical	language.	poetry
	This	at	least	will	be	granted,	that	no	literary	expression	define(i	-
	can	properly	speaking	be	called	poetry	that	is	not	in	a
	certain	deep	sense	emotional,	whatever	may	be	its	subject
	matter,	concrete	in	its	method	and	its	diction,	rhythmical
	in	movement,	and	artistic	in	form.
	That	the	expression	of	all	real	poetry	must	be	concrete	It	is	con-
	in	method	and	diction	is	obvious,	and	yet	this	dictum	crete	in
	would	exclude	from	the	definition	much	of	what	is	called
	didactic	poetry.	With	abstractions	the	poet	has	nothing
	to	do,	save	to	take	them	and	turn	them	into	concretions	;
	for,	as	artist,	he	is	simply	the	man	who	by	instinct
	embodies	in	concrete	forms	that	"	universal	idea	"	which
	Gravina	speaks	of	that	which	is	essential	and	elemental
	in	nature	and	in	man	;	as	poetic	artist	he	is	simply	the
	man	who	by	instinct	chooses	for	his	concrete	forms
	metrical	language.	And	the	questions	to	be	asked	con
	cerning	any	work	of	art	are	simply	these
	Is	that	which	is	here	embodied	really	permanent,	uni
	versal,	and	elemental	?	and	Is	the	concrete	form	em
	bodying	it	really	beautiful	acknowledged	as	beautiful	by
	the	soul	of	man	in	its	highest	moods	?	Any	other	ques
	tion	is	an	impertinence.
	Examples	are	always	useful	in	discussions	such	as	this.
	As	an	example	of	the	absence	of	concrete	form	in
	verse	take	the	following	lines	from	George	Eliot	s	Spanish
	Gypsy	:
	"	Speech	is	but	broken	light	upon	the	depth
	Of	the	unspoken	;	even	your	loved	words
	Float	in	the	larger	meaning	of	your	voice
	As	something	dimmer."
	Without	discussing	the	question	of	blank	verse	cadence	and
	the	weakness	of	a	line	where	the	main	accent	falls	upon	a
	positive	hiatus,	"	of	the	unspoken,"	we	would	point	out
	that	this	powerful	passage	shows	the	spirit	of	poetry	without
	its	concrete	form.	The	abstract	method	is	substituted
	for	the	concrete.	Such	an	abstract	phrase	as	"	the	un
	spoken	"	belongs	entirely	to	prose.
	As	to	what	is	called	ratiocinative	poetry,	it	might	per
	haps	be	shown	that	it	does	not	exist	at	all.	Not	by
	syllogism,	but	per	saltum,	must	the	poet	reach	in	every
	case	his	conclusions.	We	listen	to	the	poet	we	allow	him
	to	address	us	in	rhythm	or	in	rhyme	we	allow	him	to
	sing	to	us	while	other	men	are	only	allowed	to	talk,	not
	because	he	argues	more	logically	than	they,	but	because
	he	feels	more	deeply	and	perhaps	more	truly.	It	is	for	his
	listeners	to	be	knowing	and	ratiocinative	;	it	is	for	him	to
	be	gnomic	and	divinely	wise.
	That	poetry	must	be	metrical	or	even	rhythmical	in	It	is
	movement,	however,	is	what	some	have	denied.	Here	fnpnmi
	we	touch	at	once	the	very	root	of	the	subject.	The	raent
	difference	between	all	literature	and	mere	"	word-knead
	ing	"	is	that,	while	literature	is	alive,	\vord-kneading	is
	without	life.	This	literary	life,	while	it	is	only	bipartite
	in	prose,	seems	to	be	tripartite	in	poetry	;	that	is	to	say,
	while	prose	requires	intellectual	life	and	emotional	life,
	poetry	seems	to	require	not	only	intellectual	life	and
	emotional	life	but	rhythmic	life,	this	last	being	the	most
	important	of	all	according	to	many	critics,	though	Aristotle
	is	not	among	these.	Here	indeed	is	the	"	fork	"	between
	the	old	critics	and	the	new.	Unless	the	rhythm	of	any
	metrical	passage	is	so	vigorous,	so	natural,	and	so	free
	that	it	seems	as	though	it	could	live,	if	need	were,	by	its
	rhythm	alone,	has	that	passage	any	right	to	exist	?	and
	should	it	not,	if	the	substance	is	good,	be	forthwith
	XIX.	-	33


258
	POETRY
	demetricized	and	turned	into	prose	!	Tboreau	has	affirmed
	that	prose,	at	its	best,	has	high	qualities	of	its	own	beyond
	the	ken	of	poetry	;	to	compensate	for	the	sacrifice	of	these,
	should	not	the	metrical	gains	of	any	passage	be	beyond
	all	cavil	?
	But	this	argument	might	be	pressed	further	still.	It
	might	seem	bold	to	assert	that,	in	many	cases,	the	mental
	value	of	poetry	may	actually	depend	upon	form	and
	colour,	but	would	it	not	be	true	?	The	mental	value	of
	poetry	must	be	judged	by	a	standard	not	applicable	to
	prose	;	but,	even	with	regard	to	the	different	kinds	of
	poetry,	we	must	not	compare	poetry	whose	mental	value
	consists	in	a	distinct	and	logical	enunciation	of	ideas,	such
	as	that	of	Lucretius	and	Wordsworth,	and	poetry	whose
	mental	value	consists	partly	in	the	suggestive	richness	of
	passion	or	symbol	latent	in	rhythm	(such	as	that	of	Sappho
	sometimes,	Pindar	often,	Shelley	always),	or	latent	in
	Import-	colour,	such	as	that	of	some	of	the	Persian	poets.	To
	ance	of	discuss	the	question,	Which	of	these	two	kinds	of	poetry
	ncal	is	the	more	precious	t	would	be	idle,	but	are	we	not	driven
	Uous	to	a	dmit	that	certain	poems	whose	strength	is	rhythm,
	and	certain	other	poems	whose	strength	is	colour,	while
	devoid	of	any	logical	statement	of	thought,	may	be	as
	fruitful	of	thoughts	and	emotions	too	deep	for	words	as	a
	shaken	prism	is	fruitful	of	tinted	lights	?	The	mental
	forces	at	work	in	the	production	of	a	poem	like	the
	Excursion	are	of	a	very	different	kind	from	the	mental
	forces	at	work	in	the	production	of	a	poem	like	Shelley	s
	"Ode	to	the	West	Wind."	In	the	one	case	the	poet	s
	artistic	methods,	like	those	of	the	Greek	architect,	show,
	and	are	intended	to	show,	the	solid	strength	of	the	struc
	ture.	In	the	other,	the	poet	s	artistic	methods,	like	those
	of	the	Arabian	architect,	contradict	the	idea	of	solid
	strength	make	the	structure	appear	to	hang	over	our
	heads	like	the	cloud	pageantry	of	heaven.	But,	in	both
	cases,	the	solid	strength	is,	and	must	be,	there,	at	the	base.
	Before	the	poet	begins	to	write	he	should	ask	himself
	which	of	these	artistic	methods	is	natural	to	him	;	he
	should	ask	himself	whether	his	natural	impulse	is	towards
	the	weighty	iambic	movement	whose	primary	function	is
	to	state,	or	towards	those	lighter	movements	which	we
	still	call,	for	want	of	more	convenient	words,	anapaestic	and
	dactylic,	whose	primary	function	is	to	suggest.	Whenever
	Wordsworth	and	Keats	pass	from	the	former	to	the	latter
	they	pass	at	once	into	doggerel.	Nor	is	it	difficult	to	see
	why	English	anapaestic	and	dactylic	verse	must	suggest
	and	not	state,	as	even	so	comparatively	successful	a	tour
	de	force	as	Shelley	s	"	Sensitive	Plant	"	shows.	Concise
	ness	is	a	primary	virtue	of	all	statement.	The	moment
	the	English	poet	tries	to	"	pack	"	his	anapaestic	or	dactylic
	line,	as	he	can	pack	his	iambic	line,	his	versification
	becomes	rugged,	harsh,	pebbly	becomes	so	of	necessity.
	Nor	is	this	all	:	anapaestic	and	dactylic	verse	must	in
	English	be	obtrusively	alliterative,	or	the	same	pebbly
	effect	begins	to	be	felt.	The	anapaestic	line	is	so	full	of
	syllables	that	in	a	language	where	the	consonants	dominate
	the	vowels	(as	in	English),	these	syllables	grate	against
	each	other,	unless	their	corners	are	artfully	bevelled	by
	one	of	the	only	two	smoothing	processes	at	the	command
	of	an	English	versifier	obtrusive	alliteration,	or	an	ob
	trusive	use	of	liquids.	Now	these	demands	of	form	may
	be	turned	by	the	perfect	artist	to	good	account	if	his
	appeal	to	the	listener	s	soul	is	primarily	that	of	suggestion
	by	sound	or	symbol,	but	if	his	appeal	is	that	of	direct
	and	logical	statement	the	diffuseness	inseparable	from
	good	anapaestic	and	dactylic	verse	is	a	source	of	weakness
	such	as	the	true	artist	should	find	intolerable.
	But	enough	has	been	said	to	show	that	in	discussing
	poetry	questions	of	versification	touch,	as	we	have	said,
	the	very	root	of	the	subject.
	Using	the	word	"	form	"	in	a	wider	sense	still,	a	sense	I*	is
	that	includes	"	composition,"	it	can	be	shown	that	poetry	artist	ic
	to	be	entitled	to	the	name	must	be	artistic	in	form.	m	fom&lt;
	Whether	a	poem	be	a	Welsh	triban	or	a	stamello	impro
	vised	by	an	Italian	peasant	girl,	whether	it	be	an	ode	by
	Keats	or	a	tragedy	by	Sophocles,	it	is	equally	a	work	of
	art.	The	artist	s	command	over	form	may	be	shown	in	the
	peasant	girl	s	power	of	spontaneously	rendering	in	simple
	verse,	in	her	stornello	or	rispetto,	her	emotions	through
	nature	s	symbols	;	it	may	be	shown	by	Keats	in	that	per
	fect	fusion	of	all	poetic	elements	of	which	he	was	such	a
	master,	in	the	manipulation	of	language	so	beautiful	both
	for	form	and	colour	that	thought	and	words	seem	but	one
	blended	loveliness	;	or	it	may	be	shown	by	Sophocles	in	a
	mastery	over	what	in	painting	is	called	composition,	in	the
	exercise	of	that	wise	vision	of	the	artist	which,	looking
	before	and	after,	sees	the	thing	of	beauty	as	a	whole,	and
	enables	him	to	grasp	the	eternal	laws	of	cause	and	effect	in
	art	and	bend	them	to	his	own	wizard	will.	In	every	case,
	indeed,	form	is	an	essential	part	of	poetry	;	and,	although
	George	Sand	s	saying	that	"	L	art	est	une	forme	"	applies
	perhaps	more	strictly	to	the	plastic	arts	(where	the	soul	is
	reached	partly	through	mechanical	means),	its	application
	to	poetry	can	hardly	be	exaggerated.
	Owing,	however,	to	the	fact	that	the	word	TTOI??T^S	(first
	used	to	designate	the	poetic	artist	by	Herodotus)	means
	maker,	Aristotle	seems	to	have	assumed	that	the	indis
	pensable	basis	of	poetry	is	invention.	He	appears	to	have
	thought	that	a	poet	is	a	poet	more	on	account	of	the	com
	position	of	the	action	than	on	account	of	the	composition
	of	his	verses.	Indeed	he	said	as	much	as	this.	Of	epic
	poetry	he	declared	emphatically	that	it	produces	its	imita
	tions	either	by	mere	articulate	words	or	by	metre	super-
	added.	This	is	to	widen	the	definition	of	poetry	so	as	to
	include	all	imaginative	literature,	and	Plato	seems	to	have
	given	an	equally	wide	meaning	to	the	word	TTOI^O-IS.	Only,
	while	Aristotle	considered	TroiT/cris	to	be	an	imitation	of	the
	facts	of	nature,	Plato	considered	it	to	be	an	imitation	of
	the	dreams	of	man.	Aristotle	ignored,	and	Plato	slighted,	the
	importance	of	versification	(though	Plato	on	one	occasion
	admitted	that	he	who	did	not	know	rhythm	could	be	called
	neither	musician	nor	poet).	It	is	impossible	to	discuss	here
	the	question	whether	an	imaginative	work	in	which	the
	method	is	entirely	concrete	and	the	expression	entirely
	emotional,	while	the	form	is	unmetrical,	is	or	is	not	entitled
	to	be	called	a	poem.	That	there	may	be	a	kind	of	un
	metrical	narrative	so	poetic	in	motive,	so	concrete	in	dic
	tion,	so	emotional	in	treatment,	as	to	escape	altogether
	from	those	critical	canons	usually	applied	to	prose,	we
	shall	see	when,	in	discussing	the	epic,	we	come	to	touch
	upon	the	Northern	sagas.
	Perhaps	the	first	critic	who	tacitly	revolted	against	the
	dictum	that	substance,	and	not	form,	is	the	indispensable
	basis	of	poetry	was	Dionysius	of	Halicarnassus,	whose
	treatise	upon	the	arrangement	of	words	is	really	a	very	fine
	piece	of	literary	criticism.	In	his	acute	remarks	upon	the
	arrangement	of	the	words	in	the	sixteenth	book	of	the
	Odyssey,	as	compared	with	that	in	the	story	of	Gyges	by
	Herodotus,	was	perhaps	first	enunciated	clearly	the	doctrine
	that	poetry	is	fundamentally	a	matter	of	style.	The	Aristo
	telian	theory	as	to	invention,	however,	dominated	all	criti
	cism	after	as	well	as	before	Dionysius.	When	Bacon	came
	to	discuss	the	subject	(and	afterwards)	the	only	division
	between	the	poetical	critics	was	perhaps	between	the	fol
	lowers	of	Aristotle	and	those	of	Plato	as	to	what	poetry
	should,	and	what	it	should	not,	imitate.	It	is	curious	to
	speculate	as	to	what	would	have	been	the	result	had	the
	poets	followed	the	critics	in	this	matter.	Had	not	the
	instinct	of	the	poet	been	too	strong	for	the	schools,	would
	poetry	as	an	art	have	been	lost	and	merged	in	such	imagina-


POETRY
	259
	tive	prose	as	Plato	s	1	Or	is	not	the	instinct	for	form	too
	strong	to	be	stifled	1	By	the	poets	themselves	metre	was
	always	considered	to	be	the	one	indispensable	requisite	of
	a	poem,	though,	as	regards	criticism,	so	recently	as	the	time
	of	the	appearance	of	the	Waverley	Novels,	the	Quarterly
	Review	would	sometimes	speak	of	them	as	"	poems	";	and
	perhaps	even	now	there	are	critics	of	a	very	high	rank	who
	would	do	the	same	with	regard	to	romances	so	concrete
	in	method	and	diction,	and	so	full	of	poetic	energy,	as
	Wutheriny	Heights	and	Jane	Eyre,	where	we	get	absolutely
	all	that	Aristotle	requires	for	a	poem.	On	the	whole,
	however,	the	theory	that	versification	is	not	an	indispens
	able	requisite	of	a	poem	seems	to	have	become	nearly
	obsolete	in	our	time.	Perhaps,	indeed,	many	critics	would
	now	go	so	far	in	the	contrary	direction	as	to	say	with
	Hegel	(Aesthetik,	iii.	p.	289)	that	"metre	is	the	first	and
	only	condition	absolutely	demanded	by	poetry,	yea	even
	more	necessary	than	a	figurative	picturesque	diction."	At
	all	events	this	at	least	may	be	said	that	in	our	own	time
	the	division	between	poetical	critics	is	not	between	Aristo
	telians	and	Baconians	;	it	is	now	of	a	different	kind	alto
	gether.	While	one	group	of	critics	may	still	perhaps	say
	with	Dryden	that	"	a	poet	is	a	maker,	as	the	name	signi
	fies,"	and	that	"	he	who	cannot	make,	that	is,	invent,	has
	his	name	for	nothing,"	another	group	contends	that	it	is
	not	the	invention	but	the	artistic	treatment,	the	form,
	which	determines	whether	an	imaginative	writer	is	a	poet
	or	a	writer	of	prose,	contends,	in	short,	that	emotion	is
	the	basis	of	all	true	poetic	expression,	whatever	be	the
	subject	matter,	that	thoughts	must	be	expressed	in	an
	emotional	manner	before	they	can	be	brought	into	poetry,
	and	that	this	emotive	expression	demands	even	yet	some
	thing	else,	viz.,	style	and	form.
	T	But,	although	many	critics	are	now	agreed	that	"	L	art
	P	tic	est	une	forme,"	that	without	metre	and	without	form
	there	can	be	no	poetry,	there	are	few	who	would	contend
	;i	QJV
	that	poetry	can	exist	by	virtue	of	any	one	of	these	alone,
	or	even	by	virtue	of	all	these	combined.	Quite	inde
	pendent	of	verbal	melody,	though	mostly	accompanying
	it,	and	quite	independent	of	"	composition,"	there	is	an
	atmosphere	floating	around	the	poet	through	which	he
	sees	everything,	an	atmosphere	which	stamps	his	utterances
	as	poetry	;	for	instance,	among	all	the	versifiers	contem
	porary	with	Donne	there	was	none	so	rugged	as	he	occa
	sionally	was,	and	yet	such	songs	as	"	Sweetest	love,	I	do
	not	go	for	weariness	of	thee	"	prove	how	true	a	poet	he
	was	whenever	he	could	master	those	technicalities	which
	far	inferior	poets	find	comparatively	easy.	While	rhythm
	may	to	a	very	considerable	degree	be	acquired	(though,	of
	course,	the	highest	rhythmical	effects	never	can),	the
	power	of	looking	at	the	world	through	the	atmosphere
	that	floats	before	the	poet	s	eyes	is	not	to	be	learned	and
	not	to	be	taught.	This	atmosphere	is	what	we	call	poetic
	imagination,	a	subject	which	will	have	to	be	fully	discussed
	further	on.	But	first	it	seems	necessary	to	say	a	word	or
	two	upon	that	high	temper	of	the	soul	which	in	truly	great
	poetry	gives	birth	to	this	poetic	imagination.
	The	"	message	"	of	poetry	must	be	more	unequivocal,
	more	thoroughly	accentuated,	than	that	of	any	of	the
	other	fine	arts.	With	regard	to	modern	poetry,	indeed,
	it	may	almost	be	said	that	if	any	writer	s	verse	embodies
	a	message,	true,	direct,	and	pathetic,	we	in	modern	Europe
	cannot	stay	to	inquire	too	curiously	about	the	degree	of
	artistic	perfection	with	which	it	is	delivered,	for	Words
	worth	s	saying	"	That	which	comes	from	the	heart	goes	to
	the	heart	"	applies	very	closely	indeed	to	modern	poetry.
	The	most	truly	passionate	poet	in	Greece	was	no	doubt	in
	a	deep	sense	the	most	artistic	poet	;	but	in	her	case	art
	and	passion	were	one,	and	that	is	why	she	has	been	so
	cruelly	misunderstood.	The	most	truly	passionate	nature,
	and	perhaps	the	greatest	soul,	that	in	our	time	has	ex
	pressed	itself	in	English	verse	is	Elizabeth	Barrett	Brown
	ing	;	at	least	it	is	certain	that,	with	the	single	exception
	of	Hood	in	the	"Song	of	the	Shirt,"	no	writer	of	the
	century	has	really	touched	our	hearts	with	a	hand	so
	powerful	as	hers,	and	this	notwithstanding	violations
	of	poetic	form,	notwithstanding	defective	rhymes,	such
	as	would	appal	some	of	the	contemporary	versifiers	of
	England	and	France	"	who	lisp	in	numbers	for	the	numbers
	[and	nothing	else]	come."	The	truth	is	that	in	order	to
	produce	poetry	the	soul	must	for	the	time	being	have
	reached	that	state	of	exaltation,	that	state	of	freedom
	from	self-consciousness,	depicted	in	the	lines
	"	I	started	once,	or	seemed	to	start,	in	pain,
	Resolved	on	noble	things,	and	strove	to	speak,
	As	when	a	great	thought	strikes	along	the	brain,
	And	flushes	all	the	cheek.	"
	Whatsoever	may	be	the	poet	s	"	knowledge	of	his	art,"
	into	this	mood	he	must	always	pass	before	he	can	write	a
	truly	poetic	line.	For,	notwithstanding	all	that	we	have
	said	and	are	going	to	say	upon	poetry	as	a	fine	art,	it	is
	in	the	deepest	sense	of	the	word	an	"inspiration"	indeed.
	No	man	can	write	a	line	of	genuine	poetry	without	having
	been	"born	again	"	(or,	as	the	true	rendering	of	the	text
	says,	"born	from	above");	and	then	the	mastery	over
	those	highest	reaches	of	form	which	are	beyond	the	ken
	of	the	mere	versifier	comes	to	him	as	a	result	of	the	change.
	Hence,	with	all	Mrs	Browning	s	metrical	blemishes,	the
	splendour	of	her	metrical	triumphs	at	her	best.
	For	what	is	the	deep	distinction	between	poet	and	prose-
	man	1	A	writer	may	be	many	things	besides	a	poet	;	he
	may	be	a	warrior	like	^Eschylus,	a	man	of	business	like
	Shakespeare,	a	courtier	like	Chaucer,	or	a	cosmopolitan
	philosopher	like	Goethe	;	but	the	moment	the	poetic
	mood	is	upon	him	all	the	trappings	of	the	world	with
	which	for	years	he	may	perhaps	have	been	clothing	his
	soul	the	world	s	knowingness,	its	cynicism,	its	self-seek
	ing,	its	ambition	fall	away,	and	the	man	becomes	an
	inspired	child	again,	with	ears	attuned	to	nothing	but
	the	whispers	of	those	spirits	from	the	Golden	Age,	who,
	according	to	Hesiod,	haunt	and	bless	the	degenerate	earth.
	What	such	a	man	produces	may	greatly	delight	and	astonish
	his	readers,	yet	not	so	greatly	as	it	delights	and	astonishes
	himself.	His	passages	of	pathos	draw	no	tears	so	deep	or
	so	sweet	as	those	that	fall	from	his	own	eyes	while	he
	writes	;	his	sublime	passages	overawe	no	soul	so	imperi
	ously	as	his	own	;	his	humour	draws	no	laughter	so	rich
	or	so	deep	as	that	stirred	within	his	own	breast.
	It	might	almost	be	said,	indeed,	that	Sincerity	and	Con-	Sincerity
	science,	the	two	angels	that	bring	to	the	poet	the	wonders	an	.	(1	con	"
	of	the	poetic	dream,	bring	him	also	the	deepest,	truest
	delight	of	form.	It	might	almost	be	said	that	by	aid	of
	sincerity	and	conscience	the	poet	is	enabled	to	see	more
	clearly	than	other	men	the	eternal	limits	of	his	own	art
	to	see	with	Sophocles	that	nothing,	not	even	poetry	itself,
	is	of	any	worth	to	man,	invested	as	he	is	by	the	whole
	army	of	evil,	unless	it	is	in	the	deepest	and	highest	sense
	good,	unless	it	comes	linking	us	all	together	by	closer
	bonds	of	sympathy	and	pity,	strengthening	us	to	fight	the
	foes	with	whom	fate	and	even	nature,	the	mother	who
	bore	us,	sometimes	seem	in	league	to	see	with	Milton
	that	the	high	quality	of	man	s	soul	which	in	English	is
	expressed	by	the	word	virtue	is	greater	than	even	the
	great	poem	he	prized,	greater	than	all	the	rhythms	of	all
	the	tongues	that	have	been	spoken	since	Babel	and	to
	see	with	Shakespeare	and	with	Shelley	that	the	high
	passion	which	in	English	is	called	love	is	lovelier	than
	all	art,	lovelier	than	all	the	marble	Mercuries	that	"	await
	the	chisel	of	the	sculptor"	in	all	the	marble	hills.	So
	much	for	our	first	inquiry	"	What	is	poetry	?	"


260
	P	O	E	T	R	Y
	2.	What	Position	dots	Poetry	take	tip	in	Relation	to	the
	other	Arts	1	Notwithstanding	the	labours	of	Lessing	and
	his	followers,	the	position	accorded	by	criticism	to	poetry
	in	relation	to	the	other	arts	was	never	so	uncertain	and
	anomalous	as	at	the	present	moment.	On	the	one	hand
	there	is	a	class	of	critics	who,	judging	from	their	perpetual
	comparison	of	poems	to	pictures,	claim	her	as	a	sort	of
	handmaid	of	painting	and	sculpture.	On	the	other	hand
	the	disciples	of	Wagner,	while	professing	to	do	homage	to
	poetry,	claim	her	as	the	handmaid	of	music.	To	find	her
	proper	place	is	therefore	the	most	important	task	the	critic
	can	undertake	at	this	time,	though	it	is	one	far	beyond
	the	scope	of	a	paper	so	brief	as	this.	With	regard	to	the
	relations	of	poetry	to	painting	and	sculpture,	however,	it
	seems	necessary	to	glance	for	a	moment	at	the	saying
	of	Simonides,	as	recorded	by	Plutarch,	that	poetry	is	a
	speaking	picture	and	that	painting	is	a	mute	poetry.	It
	appears	to	have	had	upon	modern	criticism	as	much	in
	fluence	since	the	publication	of	Lessing	s	Laocoon	as	it	had
	before.	Perhaps	it	is	in	some	measure	answerable	for	the
	modern	vice	of	excessive	word-painting.	Beyond	this	one
	saying,	there	is	little	or	nothing	in	Greek	literature	to	show
	that	the	Greeks	recognized	between	poetry	and	the	plastic
	and	pictorial	arts	an	affinity	closer	than	that	which	exists
	between	poetry	and	music	and	dancing.	Understanding
	artistic	methods	more	profoundly	than	the	moderns,	and	far
	too	profoundly	to	suppose	that	there	is	any	special	and
	peculiar	affinity	between	an	art	whose	medium	of	expres
	sion	is	marble	and	an	art	whose	medium	of	expression	is	a
	growth	of	oral	symbols,	the	Greeks	seem	to	have	studied
	poetry	not	so	much	in	its	relation	to	painting	and	sculp
	ture	as	in	its	relation	to	music	and	dancing.	It	is	matter
	of	familiar	knowledge,	for	instance,	that	at	the	Dionysian
	festival	it	was	to	the	poet	as	"teacher	of	the	chorus"
	(xopoSiSao-KoAos)	that	the	prize	was	awarded,	even	though
	the	"	teacher	of	the	chorus	"	were	/Eschylus	himself	or
	Sophocles.	And	this	recognition	of	the	relation	of	poetry
	to	music	is	perhaps	one	of	the	many	causes	of	the	superi
	ority	of	Greek	to	all	other	poetry	in	adapting	artistic
	means	to	artistic	ends.	In	Greek	poetry,	even	in	Homer	s
	description	of	the	shield	of	Achilles,	even	in	the	famous
	description	by	Sophocles	of	his	native	woods	in	the	(Edipus
	Coloneus,	such	word-painting	as	occurs	seems,	if	not	inevit
	able	and	unconscious,	so	alive	with	imaginative	feeling	as
	to	become	part	and	parcel	of	the	dramatic	or	lyric	move
	ment	itself.	And	whenever	description	is	so	introduced
	the	reader	of	Greek	poetry	need	not	be	told	that	the
	scenery	itself	rises	before	the	listener	s	imagination	with	a
	clearness	of	outline	and	a	vigour	of	colour	such	as	no
	amount	of	detailed	word-painting	in	the	modern	fashion
	can	achieve.	The	picture	even	in	the	glorious	verses	at
	the	end	of	the	eighth	book	of	the	Iliad	rises	before	our
	eyes	seems	actually	to	act	upon	our	bodily	senses
	simply	because	the	poet	s	eagerness	to	use	the	picture	for
	merely	illustrating	the	solemnity	and	importance	of	his
	story	lends	to	the	picture	that	very	authenticity	which
	the	work	of	the	modern	word-painter	lacks.
	That	the	true	place	of	poetry	lies	between	music	on	the
	one	hand	and	prose,	or	loosened	speech,	on	the	other,	was,
	we	say,	taken	for	granted	by	the	one	people	in	whom	the
	artistic	instinct	was	fully	developed.
	No	doubt	they	used	the	word	music	in	a	very	wide
	sense,	in	a	sense	that	might	include	several	arts.	But	it
	is	a	suggestive	fact	that,	in	the	Greek	language,	long
	before	poetic	art	was	called	"	making	"	it	was	called
	"	singing."	The	poet	was	not	Troths	but	uotSo?.	And
	as	regards	the	Romans	it	is	curious	to	see	how	every	now
	and	then	the	old	idea	that	poetry	is	singing	rather	than
	making	will	disclose	itself.	It	will	be	remembered	for
	instance	how	Terence,	in	the	prologue	of	Phormio,	alludes
	to	poets	as	musicians.	That	the	ancients	were	right	in
	this	we	should	be	able	to	show	did	our	scheme	permit	an
	historical	treatment	of	poetry	:	we	should	be	able	to	show
	that	music	and	the	lyrical	function	of	the	poet	began
	together,	but	that	here,	as	in	other	things,	the	progress
	of	art	from	the	implicit	to	the	explicit	has	separated	the
	two.	Every	art	has	its	special	function,	has	a	certain	work
	which	it	can	do	better	than	any	one	of	its	sister	arts.
	Hence	its	right	of	existence.	For	instance,	before	the
	"	sea	of	emotion	"	within	the	soul	has	become	"	curdled
	into	thoughts,"	it	can	be	expressed	in	inarticulate	tone.
	Hence,	among	the	fine	arts,	music	is	specially	adapted	for
	rendering	it.	It	was	perhaps	a	perception	of	this	fact
	which	made	the	Syrian	Gnostics	define	life	to	be	"	moving
	music."	When	this	sea	of	emotion	has	"	curdled	into
	thoughts,"	articulate	language	rhythmically	arranged
	words	steeped	in	music	and	colour,	but	at	the	same	time
	embodying	ideas	can	do	what	no	mere	wordless	music	is
	able	to	achieve	in	giving	it	expression,	just	as	unrhyth
	mical	language,	language	mortised	in	a	foundation	of	logic,
	that	is	to	say	prose,	can	best	express	these	ideas	as	soon
	as	they	have	cooled	and	settled	and	cleared	themselves	of
	emotion	altogether.	Yet	every	art	can	in	some	degree
	invade	the	domain	of	her	sisters,	and	the	nearer	these
	sisters	stand	to	each	other	the	more	easily	and	completely
	can	this	invasion	be	accomplished.	Prose,	for	instance,
	can	sometimes,	as	in	the	case	of	Plato,	do	some	of	the
	work	of	poetry	(however	imperfectly,	and	however	tram
	melled	by	heavy	conditions)	;	and	sometimes	poetry,	as	in
	Pindar	s	odes	and	the	waves	of	the	Greek	chorus,	can
	I	do,	though	in	the	same	imperfect	way,	the	work	of	music.
	i	The	poems	of	Sappho,	however,	are	perhaps	the	best	case
	in	point.	Here	the	poet	s	passion	is	expressed	so	com
	pletely	by	the	mere	sound	of	her	verses	that	a	good	recita
	tion	of	them	to	a	person	ignorant	of	Greek	would	convey
	something	of	that	passion	to	the	listener	;	and	similar
	examples	almost	as	felicitous	might	be	culled	from	Homer,
	from	^Eschylus,	and	from	Sophocles.	Nor	is	this	power
	confined	to	the	Greek	poets.	The	students	of	Virgil	have
	often	and	with	justice	commented	on	such	lines	as	jEn.	v.
	481	(where	the	sudden	sinking	of	a	stricken	ox	is	rendered
	by	means	of	rhythm),	and	such	lines	as	Georg.	ii.	441,
	where,	by	means	of	verbal	sounds,	the	gusts	of	wind	about
	a	tree	are	rendered	as	completely	as	though	the	voice	were
	that	of	the	wind	itself.	In	the	case	of	Sappho	the	effect
	is	produced	by	the	intensity	of	her	passion,	in	the	case	of
	Homer	by	the	intensity	of	the	dramatic	vision,	in	the	case
	of	Virgil	by	a	supreme	poetic	art.	But	it	can	also	be	pro
	duced	by	the	mere	ingenuity	of	the	artist,	as	in	Edgar
	Poe	s	"Ulalume."	The	poet	s	object	in	that	remarkable
	tour	de	force	was	to	express	dull	and	hopeless	gloom	in	the
	same	way	that	the	mere	musician	would	have	expressed
	it,	that	is	to	say,	by	monotonous	reiterations,	by	hollow
	and	dreadful	reverberations	of	gloomy	sounds	though	as
	:	an	artist	whose	vehicle	was	articulate	speech	he	was	obliged
	1	to	add	gloomy	ideas,	in	order	to	give	to	his	work	the
	intellectual	coherence	necessary	for	its	existence	as	a	poem.
	I	He	evidently	set	out	to	do	this,	and	he	did	it,	and
	I	"	Ulalume	"	properly	intoned	would	produce	something
	like	the	same	effect	upon	a	listener	knowing	no	word	of
	English	that	it	produces	upon	us.
	On	the	other	hand,	music	can	trench	very	far	upon	the
	domain	of	articulate	speech,	as	we	perceive	in	the	wonder-
	|	ful	instrumentation	of	Wagner.	Yet,	while	it	can	be
	shown	that	the	.place	of	poetry	is	scarcely	so	close	to
	sculpture	and	painting	as	to	music	on	the	one	side	and
	loosened	speech	on	the	other,	the	affinity	of	poetry	to
	music	must	not	be	exaggerated.	We	must	be	cautious
	how	we	follow	the	canons	of	Wagner	and	the	more	enthusi-
	j	astic	of	his	disciples,	who	almost	seem	to	think	that


P	E	T	R	Y
	261
	inarticulate	tone	can	not	only	suggest	ideas	but	express
	them	can	give	voice	to	the	Verstand,	in	short,	as	well	as
	to	the	Vernunft	of	man.	Even	the	Greeks	drew	a	funda
	mental	distinction	between	melic	poetry	(poetry	written	to
	be	sung)	and	poetry	that	was	written	to	be	recited.	It	is	a
	pity	that,	while	modern	critics	of	poetry	have	understood	or
	at	least	have	given	attention	to	painting	and	sculpture,	so
	few	have	possessed	any	knowledge	of	music	a	fact	which
	makes	Dante	s	treatise	Dt	Vulgari	Eloguio	so	important.
	Dante	was	a	musician,	and	seems	to	have	had	a	con
	siderable	knowledge	of	the	relations	between	musical	and
	metrical	laws.	But	he	did	not,	we	think,	assume	that
	these	laws	are	identical.
	If	it	is	indeed	possible	to	establish	the	identity	of
	musical	and	metrical	laws,	it	can	only	be	done	by	a
	purely	scientific	investigation;	it	can	only	be	done	by	a
	most	searching	inquiry	into	the	subtle	relations	that	we
	know	must	exist	throughout	the	universe	between	all	the
	laws	of	undulation.	And	it	is	curious	to	remember	that
	some	of	the	greatest	masters	of	verbal	melody	have	had
	no	knowledge	of	music,	while	some	have	not	even	shown
	any	love	of	it.	All	Greek	boys	were	taught	music,	but
	whether	Pindar	s	unusual	musical	skill	was	born	of	natural
	instinct	and	inevitable	passion,	or	came	from	the	accidental
	circumstance	that	his	father	was,	as	has	been	alleged,	a
	musician,	and	that	he	was	as	a	boy	elaborately	taught
	musical	science	by	Lasus	of	Hermione,	we	have	no	means
	of	knowing.	Nor	can	we	now	learn	how	much	of	Milton	s
	musical	knowledge	resulted	from	a	like	exceptional	"	en
	vironment,"	or	from	the	fact	that	his	father	was	a	musician.
	But	when	we	find	that	Shelley	seems	to	have	been	with
	out	the	real	passion	for	music,	that	Rossetti	disliked	it,	and
	that	Coleridge	s	apprehension	of	musical	effects	was	of	the
	ordinary	nebulous	kind,	we	must	hesitate	before	accepting
	the	theory	of	Wagner.
	The	question	cannot	be	pursued	here	;	but	if	it	should
	on	inquiry	be	found	that,	although	poetry	is	more	closely
	related	to	music	than	to	any	of	the	other	arts,	yet	the
	power	over	verbal	melody	at	its	very	highest	is	so	all-
	sufficing	to	its	possessor	as	in	the	case	of	Shelley	and
	Coleridge	that	absolute	music	becomes	a	superfluity,	this
	would	only	be	another	illustration	of	that	intense	egoism
	and	concentration	of	force	the	impulse	of	all	high	artistic
	energy	which	is	required	in	order	to	achieve	the	rarest
	miracles	of	art.
	fUtion	With	regard	to	the	relation	of	poetry	to	prose,	Coleridge
	Kaetry	once	ass	erted	in	conversation	that	the	real	antithesis	of
	poetry	was	not	prose	but	science.	And	if	he	was	right	the
	difference	in	kind	lies,	not	between	the	poet	and	the	prose
	writer,	but	between	the	literary	artist	(the	man	whose
	instinct	is	to	manipulate	language)	and	the	man	of	facts
	and	of	action	whose	instinct	impels	him	to	act,	or,	if	not
	to	act,	to	inquire.
	One	thing	is	at	least	certain,	that	prose,	however	fervid
	and	emotional	it	may	become,	must	always	be	directed,	or
	seem	to	be	directed,	by	the	reins	of	logic.	Or,	to	vary	the
	metaphor,	like	a	captive	balloon	it	can	never	really	leave
	the	earth.
	Indeed,	with	the	literature	of	knowledge	as	opposed	to
	the	literature	of	power	poetry	has	nothing	to	do.	Facts
	have	no	place	in	poetry	until	they	are	brought	into	relation
	with	the	human	soul.	But	a	mere	catalogue	of	ships	may
	become	poetical	if	it	tends	to	show	the	strength	and	pride
	and	glory	of	the	warriors	who	invested	Troy	;	a	detailed
	description	of	the	designs	upon	a	shield,	however	beautiful
	and	poetical	in	itself,	becomes	still	more	so	if	it	tends	to
	show	the	skill	of	the	divine	artificer	and	the	invincible
	splendour	of	a	hero	like	Achilles.	But	mere	dry	exacti
	tude	of	imitation	is	not	for	poetry	but	for	loosened	speech.
	Hence,	most	of	the	so-called	poetry	of	Hesiod	is	not	poetry
	at	all.	The	Muses	who	spoke	to	him	about	"	truth	"	on
	Mount	Helicon	made	the	common	mistake	of	confounding
	fact	with	truth.	And	here	we	touch	upon	a	very	import
	ant	matter.	The	reason	why	in	prose	speech	is	loosened
	is	that,	untrammelled	by	the	laws	of	metre,	language	is
	able	with	more	exactitude	to	imitate	nature,	though	of
	course	speech,	even	when	"loosened,"	cannot,	when	actual
	sensible	objects	are	to	be	depicted,	compete	in	any	real
	degree	with	the	plastic	arts	in	accuracy	of	imitation,	for
	the	simple	reason	that	its	media	are	not	colours	nor	solids
	but	symbols	arbitrary	symbols	which	can	be	made	to
	indicate,	but	never	to	reproduce,	colours	and	solids.
	Accuracy	of	imitation	is	the	first	requisite	of	prose.	But
	the	moment	language	has	to	be	governed	by	the	laws	of
	metre	the	moment	the	conflict	begins	between	the	claims
	of	verbal	music	and	the	claims	of	colour	and	form	then
	prosaic	accuracy	has	to	yield	;	sharpness	of	outline,	mere
	fidelity	of	imitation,	such	as	is	within	the	compass	of
	prose,	have	in	some	degree	to	be	sacrificed.	But,	just	as
	with	regard	to	the	relations	between	poetry	and	music	the
	greatest	master	is	he	who	borrows	the	most	that	can	be
	borrowed	from	music,	and	loses	the	least	that	can	be	lost
	from	metre,	so	with	regard	to	the	relations	between	poetry
	and	prose	the	greatest	master	is	he	who	borrows	the	most
	that	can	be	borrowed	from	prose	and	loses	the	least	that
	can	be	lost	from	verse.	No	doubt	this	is	v.l.at	every	poet
	tries	to	do	by	instinct	;	but	some	sacrifice	on	either	side
	there	must	be,	and,	with	regard	to	poetry	and	prose,
	modern	poets	at	least	might	be	divided	into	those	who
	make	picturesqueness	yield	to	verbal	melody,	and	those
	who	make	verbal	melody	yield	to	picturesqueness.
	With	one	class	of	poets,	fine	as	is	perhaps	the	melody,
	it	is	made	subservient	to	outline	or	to	colour	;	with	the
	other	class	colour	and	outline	both	yield	to	metre.	The
	chief	aim	of	the	first	class	is	to	paint	a	picture	;	the	chief
	aim	of	the	second	is	to	sing	a	song.	Weber,	in	driving
	through	a	beautiful	country,	could	only	enjoy	its	beauty
	by	translating	it	into	music.	The	same	may	be	said	of
	some	poets	with	regard	to	verbal	melody.	The	supreme
	artist,	however,	is	he	whose	pictorial	and	musical	power
	are	so	interfused	that	each	seems	born	of	the	other,	as	is
	the	case	with	Sappho,	Homer,	^Eschylus,	Sophocles,	and
	indeed	most	of	the	great	Greek	poets.	Among	our	own
	poets	(leaving	the	two	supreme	masters	undiscussed)	Keats
	and	Coleridge	have	certainly	done	this.	The	colour	seems
	born	of	the	music	and	the	music	born	of	the	colour.	In
	French	poetry	the	same	triumph	has	been	achieved	in
	Victor	Hugo	s	magnificent	poem	"	En	Marchant	la	Nuit
	dans	un	Bois,"	which,	as	a	rendering	through	verbal	music
	of	the	witchery	of	nature,	stands	alone	in	the	poetry	of
	France.	For	there	the	poet	conquers	that	crowning	diffi
	culty	we	have	been	alluding	to,	the	difficulty	of	stealing
	from	prose	as	much	distinctness	of	colour	and	clearness
	of	outline	as	can	be	imported	into	verse	with	as	little
	sacrifice	as	possible	of	melody.
	But	to	return	to	the	general	relations	of	poetry	to
	prose.	If	poetry	can	in	some	degree	invade	the	domain
	of	prose,	so	on	the	other	hand	prose	can	at	times	invade
	the	domain	of	poetry,	and	no	doubt	the	prose	of	Plato
	what	is	called	poetical	prose	is	a	legitimate	form	of	art.
	Poetry,	the	earliest	form	of	literature,	is	also	the	final	and
	ideal	form	of	all	pure	literature	;	and,	when	Landor	insists
	that	poetry	and	poetical	prose	are	antagonistic,	we	must
	remember	that	Lander	s	judgments	are	mostly	based	on
	feeling,	and	that	his	hatred	of	Plato	would	be	quite
	sufficient	basis	with	him	for	an	entire	system	of	criticism
	upon	poetical	prose.	As	with	Carlyle,	there	was	a	time	in
	his	life	when	Plato	(who	of	course	is	the	great	figure
	standing	between	the	two	arts	of	metre	and	loosened
	speech)	had	serious	thoughts	of	becoming	a	poet.	And


262
	POETRY
	Import
	ance	of
	poetry
	in	rela
	tion	to
	other
	arts.
	Where
	poetry	is
	inferior
	and
	where
	superior
	to	music;
	to	prose
	perhaps,	like	Carlyle,	having	the	good	sense	to	see	his	true
	function,	he	himself	desisted	from	writing,	and	strictly
	forbade	other	men	to	write,	in	verse.	If	we	consider	this,
	and	if	we	consider	that	certain	of	the	great	English	masters
	of	poetic	prose	in	the	17th	century	were	as	incapable	of
	writing	in	metre	as	their	followers	Richter	and	Carlyle,
	we	shall	hardly	escape	the	conclusion	on	the	one	hand	that
	the	faculty	of	writing	poetry	is	quite	another	faculty	than
	that	of	producing	work	in	the	arts	most	closely	allied	to
	it,	music	and	prose,	but	that	on	the	other	hand	there	is
	nothing	antagonistic	between	these	faculties.	So	much	for
	poetry	s	mere	place	among	the	other	arts.
	Importance	of	Poetry	in	Relation	to	other	Arts.	As	to
	the	comparative	importance	and	value	of	poetry	among	the
	other	arts,	this	is	a	subject	upon	which	much	discussion,
	of	a	more	or	less	idle	kind,	has	been	wasted.	We	do	not
	feel	called	to	dwell	at	any	length	upon	it	here.	Yet	a
	word	or	two	upon	the	question	is	necessary	in	order	that
	we	may	understand	what	is	the	scope	and	what	are	the
	limits	of	poetry	with	regard	to	the	other	arts,	especially
	with	regard	to	music	and	to	prose.
	There	is	one	great	point	of	superiority	that	musical	art
	exhibits	over	metrical	art.	This	consists,	not	in	the
	capacity	for	melody,	but	in	the	capacity	for	harmony	in
	the	musician	?	sense.	The	finest	music	of	^Eschylus,	of
	Pindar,	of	Sh	;espeare,	of	Milton,	is	after	all	only	a	succes
	sion	of	melodi	jus	notes,	and,	in	endeavouring	to	catch	the
	harmonic	intent	of	strophe,	antistrophe,	and	epode	in	the
	Greek	chorus	and	in	the	true	ode	(that	of	Pindar),	we	can
	only	succeed	by	pressing	memory	into	our	service.	We
	have	to	recall	by	memory	the	waves	that	have	gone	before,
	and	then	to	imagine	their	harmonic	power	in	relation	to
	the	waves	at	present	occupying	the	ear.	Counterpoint,
	therefore,	is	not	to	be	achieved	by	the	metricist,	even
	though	he	be	Pindar	himself	;	but	in	music	this	perfect
	ideal	harmony	was	foreshadowed	perhaps	in	the	earliest
	writing.	We	know	at	least	that	as	early	as	the	12th
	century	counterpoint	began	to	show	a	vigorous	life,	and
	the	study	of	it	is	now	a	familiar	branch	of	musical
	science.	Now,	inasmuch	as	"Nature	s	own	hymn"	is	and
	must	be	the	harmonic	blending	of	apparently	independent
	and	apparently	discordant	notes,	among	the	arts	whose
	appeal	is	through	the	ear	that	which	can	achieve	counter
	point	must	perhaps	rank	as	a	pure	art	above	one	which
	cannot	achieve	it.	We	are	of	course	speaking	here	of
	metre	only.	We	have	not	time	to	inquire	whether	the
	counterpoint	of	absolute	poetry	is	the	harmony	underlying
	apparently	discordant	emotions	the	emotion	produced	by
	a	word	being	more	persistent	than	the	emotion	produced
	by	an	inarticulate	sound.
	But	if	poetry	falls	behind	music	in	rhythmic	scope,	it	is
	capable	of	rendering	emotion	after	emotion	has	become
	disintegrated	into	thoughts,	and	here,	as	we	have	seen,
	it	enters	into	direct	competition	with	the	art	of	prose.	It
	can	use	the	emphasis	of	sound,	not	for	its	own	sake
	merely,	but	to	strengthen	the	emphasis	of	sense,	and	can
	thus	give	a	fuller	and	more	adequate	expression	to	the
	soul	of	man	than	music	at	its	highest	can	give.	With
	regard	to	prose,	no	doubt	such	writing	as	Plato	s	descrip
	tion	of	the	chariot	of	the	soul,	his	description	of	the	island
	of	Atlantis,	or	of	Er	s	visit	to	the	place	of	departed	souls,
	comes	but	a	short	way	behind	poetry	in	imaginative	and
	even	in	rhythmic	appeal.	It	is	impossible,	however,	here
	to	do	more	than	touch	upon	the	subject	of	the	rhythm	of
	prose	in	its	relation	to	the	rhythm	of	poetry	;	for	in	this
	matter	the	genius	of	each	individual	language	has	to	be
	taken	into	account.
	Perhaps	it	may	be	said	that	deeper	than	all	the	rhythms
	of	art	is	that	rhythm	which	art	would	fain	catch,	the
	rhythm	of	nature	;	for	the	rhythm	of	nature	is	the	rhythm
	of	life	itself.	This	rhythm	can	be	caught	by	prose	as	well
	as	by	poetry,	such	prose,	for	instance,	as	that	of	the
	English	Bible.	Certainly	the	rhythm	of	verse	at	its
	highest,	such,	for	instance,	as	that	of	Shakespeare	s
	greatest	writings,	is	nothing	more	and	nothing	less	than
	the	metre	of	that	energy	of	the	spirit	which	surges	within
	the	bosom	of	him	who	speaks,	whether	he	speak	in	verse
	or	in	impassioned	prose.	Being	rhythm,	it	is	of	course
	governed	by	law,	but	it	is	a	law	which	transcends	in
	subtlety	the	conscious	art	of	the	metricist,	and	is	only
	caught	by	the	poet	in	his	most	inspired	moods,	a	law
	which,	being	part	of	nature	s	own	sanctions,	can	of	course
	never	be	formulated	but	only	expressed,	as	it	is	expressed
	in	the	melody	of	the	bird,	in	the	inscrutable	harmony	of
	the	entire	bird-chorus	of	a	thicket,	in	the	whisper	of	the
	leaves	of	the	tree,	and	in	the	song	or	wail	of	wind	and	sea.
	Now	is	not	this	rhythm	of	nature	represented	by	that
	"	sense	rhythm	"	which	prose	can	catch	as	well	as	poetry,
	that	sense	rhythm	whose	finest	expressions	are	to	be	found
	in	the	Bible,	Hebrew	and	English,	and	in	the	Biblical
	movements	of	the	English	Prayer	Book,	and	in	the	dramatic
	prose	of	Shakespeare	at	its	best	1	?	Whether	it	is	caught
	by	prose	or	by	verse,	one	of	the	virtues	of	the	rhythm	of
	nature	is	that	it	is	translatable.	Hamlet	s	peroration	about
	man	and	Raleigh	s	apostrophe	to	death	are	as	translatable
	into	other	languages	as	are	the	Hebrew	psalms,	or	as	is
	Manu	s	magnificent	passage	about	the	singleness	of	man
	(we	quote	from	memory)	:
	"	Single	is	each	man	born	into	the	world	;	single	he	dies	;	single
	lie	receives	the	reward	of	his	good	deeds,	and	single	the	punishment
	of	his	evil	deeds.	When	lie	dies	bis	body	lies	like	afnllen	tree	upon
	the	earth,	but	his	virtue	accompanies	his	soul.	Wherefore	let	man
	harvest	and	garner	virtue,	so	that	he	may	have	an	inseparable	com
	panion	in	traversing	that	gloom	which	is	so	hard	to	be	traversed."
	Here	the	rhythm,	being	the	inevitable	movement	of
	emotion	and	"	sense,"	can	be	caught	and	translated	by
	every	literature	under	the	sun.	While,	however,	the	great
	goal	before	the	poet	is	to	compel	the	listener	to	expect	his
	caesuric	effects,	the	great	goal	before	the	writer	of	poetic
	prose	is	in	the	very	opposite	direction	;	it	is	to	make	use
	of	the	concrete	figures	and	impassioned	diction	of	the	poet,
	but	at	the	same	time	to	avoid	the	recognized	and	expected
	metrical	bars	upon	which	the	poet	depends.	The	moment
	the	prose	poet	passes	from	the	rhythm	of	prose	to	the
	rhythm	of	metre	the	apparent	sincerity	of	his	writing	is
	destroyed.
	And	now	how	stands	poetry	with	regard	to	the	plastic	to	plasti&lt;
	arts	1	This	is	in	truth	a	vast	subject,	and	has	given	birth	art.
	to	an	infinitude	of	eloquent	criticism	in	the	present	century.
	It	cannot	be	expected	that	we	should	be	able	to	discuss	it
	adequately	here.	Yet	this,	too,	must	be	glanced	at.	On
	the	one	side	poetry	is	inferior	to	the	plastic	arts	;	on
	another	side	it	is	superior	to	them.
	As	compared	with	sculpture	and	painting	the	great
	infirmity	of	poetry,	as	an	"imitation	"	of	nature,	is	of	course
	that	the	medium	is	always	and	of	necessity	words	even
	when	no	words	could,	in	the	dramatic	situation,	have	been
	spoken.	It	is	not	only	Homer	who	is	obliged	sometimes	to
	forget	that	passion	when	at	white	heat	is	never	voluble,	is
	scarcely	even	articulate	;	the	dramatists	also	are	obliged
	to	forget	that	in	love	and	in	hate,	at	their	tensest,	words
	seem	weak	and	foolish	when	compared	with	the	silent	and
	satisfying	triumph	and	glory	of	deeds,	such	as	the	plastic
	arts	can	render.	This	becomes	manifest	enough	when	we
	compare	the	Niobe	group	or	the	Laocoon	group,	or	the
	great	dramatic	paintings	of	the	modern	world,	with	even
	the	finest	efforts	of	dramatic	poetry,	such	as	the	speech	of
	Andromache	to	Hector,	or	the	speech	of	Priam	to	Achilles,
	nay	such	as	even	the	cries	of	Cassandra	in	the	Af/amemnon,
	or	the	wailings	of	Lear	over	the	dead	Cordelia.	Even	when
	writing	the	words	uttered	by	QEdipus,	as	the	terrible	truth