life, that flows through streets tumultuous, bearingalong so many
gallant hearts, so many wrecks of humanity;--the many homes and
households, each a little world in itself, revolving round its
fireside, as a central sun; all forms of human joy and suffering,
brought into that narrow compass;--and to be in this and be a part
of this; acting, thinking, rejoicing, sorrowing, with his
fellow-men;--such, such should be the poet's life. If he would
describe the world, he should live in the world. The mind of the
scholar, also, if you would have it large and liberal, should come
in contact with other minds. It is better that his armour should be
somewhat bruised even by rude encounters, than hang forever rusting
on the wall. Nor will his themes be few or trivial, because
apparently shut in between the walls of houses, and having merely
the decorations of street scenery. A ruined character is as
picturesque as a ruined castle. There are dark abysses and yawning
gulfs in the human heart, which can be rendered passable only by
bridging them over with iron nerves and sinews, as Challey bridged
the Savine in Switzerland, and Telford the sea between Anglesea and
England, with chain bridges. These are the great themes of human
thought; not green grass, and flowers, and moonshine. Besides, the
mere external forms of Nature we make our own, and carry with us
into the city, by the power of memory."

"I fear, however," interrupted Flemming, "that in cities the soul
of man grows proud. He needs at times to be sent forth, like the
Assyrian monarch, into green fields, `a wonderous wretch and
weedless,' to eat green herbs, and be wakened and chastised by the
rain-shower and winter's bitter weather. Moreover, in cities there
is danger of the soul's becoming wed to pleasure, and forgetful of
its high vocation. There have been souls dedicated to heaven from