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largeness of comprehension belonging to the Central Intelligence,

how remote the creativeconception is from all scholastic and



ethical formulae, I am led to think that a healthy mind ought to

change its mood from time to time, and come down from its noblest



condition, - never, of course, to degrade itself by dwelling upon

what is itself debasing, but to let its lower faculties have a



chance to air and exercise themselves. After the first and second

floor have been out in the bright street dressed in all their



splendors, shall not our humble friends in the basement have their

holiday, and the cotton velvet and the thin-skinned jewelry -



simple adornments, but befitting the station of those who wear them

- show themselves to the crowd, who think them beautiful, as they



ought to, though the people up stairs know that they are cheap and

perishable?



- I don't know that I may not bring the Poet here, some day or

other, and let him speak for himself. Still I think I can tell you



what he says quite as well as he could do it. - Oh, - he said to

me, one day, - I am but a hand-organ man, - say rather, a hand-



organ. Life turns the winch, and fancy or accident pulls out the

stops. I come under your windows, some fine spring morning, and



play you one of my ADAGIO movements, and some of you say, - This is

good, - play us so always. But, dear friends, if I did not change



the stop sometimes, the machine would wear out in one part and rust

in another. How easily this or that tune flows! - you say, - there



must be no end of just such melodies in him. - I will open the poor

machine for you one moment, and you shall look. - Ah! Every note



marks where a spur of steel has been driven in. It is easy to

grind out the song, but to plant these bristling points which make



it was the painful task of time.

I don't like to say it, - he continued, - but poets commonly have



no larger stock of tunes than hand-organs; and when you hear them

piping up under your window, you know pretty well what to expect.



The more stops, the better. Do let them all be pulled out in their

turn!



So spoke my friend, the Poet, and read me one of his stateliest

songs, and after it a gay CHANSON, and then a string of epigrams.



All true, - he said, - all flowers of his soul; only one with the

corolla spread, and another with its disk half opened, and the



third with the heart-leaves covered up and only a petal or two

showing its tip through the calyx. The water-lily is the type of



the poet's soul, - he told me.

- What do you think, Sir, - said the divinity-student, - opens the



souls of poets most fully?

Why, there must be the internal force and the external stimulus.



Neither is enough by itself. A rose will not flower in the dark,

and a fern will not flower anywhere.



What do I think is the true sunshine that opens the poet's corolla?

- I don't like to say. They spoil a good many, I am afraid; or at



least they shine on a good many that never come to anything.

Who are THEY? - said the schoolmistress.



Women. Their love first inspires the poet, and their praise is his

best reward.



The schoolmistress reddened a little, but looked pleased. - Did I

really think so? - I do think so; I never feel safe until I have



pleased them; I don't think they are the first to see one's

defects, but they are the first to catch the color and fragrance of



a true poem. Fit the same intellect to a man and it is a bow-

string, - to a woman and it is a harp-string. She is vibratile and



resonant all over, so she stirs with slighter musical tremblings of

the air about her. - Ah, me! - said my friend, the Poet, to me, the



other day, - what color would it not have given to my thoughts, and

what thrice-washed whiteness to my words, had I been fed on women's



praises! I should have grown like Marvell's fawn, -

"Lilies without; roses within!"



But then, - he added, - we all think, IF so and so, we should have

been this or that, as you were saying the other day, in those






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