foreordained in the book of poetic Revelations. "The poet should speak
as little as possible in his own person," we read, "for it is not this
that makes him an imitator." [Footnote: _Poetics_, 1460 a.] One cannot
too much admire Aristotle's canniness in thus nipping the poet's egotism
in the bud, for he must have seen clearly that if the poet began to talk
in his own person, he would soon lead the conversation around to
himself, and that, once launched on that inexhaustible subject, he would
never be ready to return to his original theme.

We may regret that we have not Aristotle's sanction for condemning also
extra-poetical advertisements of the poet's personality, as a hindrance
to our seeing the ideal world through his poetry. In certain moods one
feels it a blessing that we possess no romantic traditions of Homer, to
get in the way of our passing impartial judgment upon his works. Our
intimate knowledge of nineteenth century poets has been of doubtful
benefit to us. Wordsworth has shaken into what promises to be his
permanent place among the English poets much more expeditiously than has
Byron. Is this not because in Wordsworth's case the reader is not
conscious of a magnetic personality drawing his judgment away from
purely aesthetic standards? Again, consider the case of Keats. For us
the facts of his life must color almost every line he wrote. How are we
to determine whether his sonnet, _When I Have Fears,_ is great poetry or
not, so long as it fills our minds insistently with the pity of his love
for Fanny Brawne, and his epitaph in the Roman graveyard?

Christopher North has been much upbraided by a hero-worshiping
generation, but one may go too far in condemning the Scotch sense in his
contention:

Mr. Keats we have often heard spoken of in terms of great kindness, and