possessed. And as the Corybantian dances are not quite 'rational,' so
the lyric poets are, so to speak, not quite '_all there_.' ... They tell
us," he goes on condescendingly, "that they bring songs from honeyed
fountains, culling them from the gardens and dells of the Muses; that,
like the bees, they wing from one flower to another. Yes of a truth: the
Poet is a light and a winged and a holy thing, without invention in him
until he is inspired and out of his senses, and out of his own wit;
until he has attained to this he is but a feeble thing, unable to utter
his oracles." I can imagine all this reported to Homer in the Shades and
Homer answering with a smile: "Well, and who in the world is denying it?
I certainly did not, while I lived and sang upon earth. Nay, I never
even sang, but invited the Muse to sing to me and through me. _Μη̂νιν
ἄειδε θεά ... Ἄνδρα μοι ἔννεπε, Μου̂σα_.--Surely the dear fellow might
remember the first line of my immortal works! And if he does remember,
and is only bringing it up against me that in the intervals of doing my
work in life I was a feeble fellow, go back and tell him that it is
likely enough, yet I fail to see how it can be any business of his,
since it was only my work that I ever asked for recognition. They say
that I used to go about begging a dinner on the strength of it. Did
I?... I cannot remember. Anyhow, that nuisance is over sometime ago, and
_his_ kitchen is safe!"

To you, who have followed the argument of this little book, the theory
of poetic "inspiration" will be intelligible enough. It earned a living
in its day and, if revived in ours, might happily supersede much modern
chatter about art and technique. For it contains much truth:--

_When the flicker of London sun falls faint on the Club-room's green
and gold,
The sons of Adam sit them down and scratch with their pens in the mould--