existence. It is the duty of the poet to induce such moments
of clear sight. He is the declared enemy of all living by
reflex action, of all that is done betwixt sleep and waking,
of all the pleasureless pleasurings and imaginary duties in
which we coin away our hearts and fritter invaluable years.
He has to electrify his readers into an instant unflagging
activity, founded on a wide and eager observation of the
world, and make them direct their ways by a superior
prudence, which has little or nothing in common with the
maxims of the copy-book. That many of us lead such lives as
they would heartily disown after two hours' serious
reflection on the subject is, I am afraid, a true, and, I am
sure, a very galling thought. The Enchanted Ground of dead-
alive respectability is next, upon the map, to the Beulah of
considerate virtue. But there they all slumber and take
their rest in the middle of God's beautiful and wonderful
universe; the drowsy heads have nodded together in the same
position since first their fathers fell asleep; and not even
the sound of the last trumpet can wake them to a single
active thought.

The poet has a hard task before him to stir up such fellows
to a sense of their own and other people's principles in
life.

And it happens that literature is, in some ways, but an
indifferent means to such an end. Language is but a poor
bull's-eye lantern where-with to show off the vast cathedral
of the world; and yet a particular thing once said in words
is so definite and memorable, that it makes us forget the