qualities and may be styled poetic prose, while verse without it is prosaic poetry, if poetry at all. The samples given in illustration of the mechanism, I have quoted from various other authors. The remaining specimens are all original, and are illustrative of poetic quality, or the want of it.

The first requisite of genuine poetry is a poetic subject. The best verses possible on a low or commonplace subject, will, of necessity, contain only commonplace ideas; and, for this reason, if for no other, will lack the truly poetic essence.

To illustrate: An aged gentleman who is a Senator from one of the Eastern States, and is widely known as The Hockesin Philosopher, wrote me several letters on educational subjects, and mentioned the many callings in life which he had pursued more or less successfully, modestly underestimating his past achievements. He also referred to the criticism of certain authors on my published works, as set forth in a certain scientific journal.

In answering this letter, I wrote several lines supposing I was writing prose, when I suddenly discovered that all I had written was in perfect rhyme and rhythm, though written out in full length lines, just as any poem might be written to look like prose. I give it as a sample of poetry with the poetry left out. Following is the letter:

DEAR MR. JACKSON:

Cleveland, O., May 23d,

Allow me one word. I have no sympathy with this one-idea plan,

What the world wants now is an all-round man.

Not one with his heart anchored fast to base greed,

And his head all gone up to one corner to seed.

Most mischievous saying under the sun

Is "Jack of all trades and master of none.”
Where one is thus wisely restrained in his zest,
A thousand are hindered from doing their best.
"One thing at a time," may be all very well,
But one thing all the time is like prisoner's cell,
Confining ideas in cast-iron grooves,

Till the Idea Tinker forgets the world moves.
I don't mean to write you this letter in verse,
But the Muse makes it jingle, no matter how terse.
The last man on earth would be I, if I know it,
To be transformed into a

Laureate poet."

The authors say eyes are t'e surest of sign;

I aver there's no fine frei.zy rolling" in mine.

But this fairly well will illustrate the truth,

That you can't get blood out of a turnip. Forsooth!
No matter how perfect the meter and rhyme,

A prosaic subject will only keep time.

A commonplace thought, though you trim and you prune,
Like a drum, makes good music,-excepting the tune.

The marble block may hide an angel within,

And the sculptor release it; but sorry the kin

Set free by the veriest Angelo's skill,

If only a sandstone be fashioned at will.

But ere I shall close, I must make you this point:
My critics, you notice, are all out of joint.
Their essays appearing in last College Journal
Are wise and some otherwise; some are-supernal.
I pretty near said something else that would rhyme.

You need not begrudge them their jolly good time.

They may think they have silenced me, fair means or foul;
But then, I am like the Irishman's owl

That he bought for a parrot; and while it sat winking,

Pat said, "Fa'th, he kapes up a d'ale of a thinkin!"

But 'tis only lent. They'll all get their dues,

Without the assistance of this jolly muse.

In sober good earnest I'll see that they're schooled;
And till then, I remain,

Most respectfully,

GOULD.

Now, you have doubtless observed that that is a good sample of rhyme and rhythm, but there is no poetry in it.

There is one line, however, that comes dangerously near the limit. It is where we said "The marble block may hide an angel within, And the sculptor release it." There is a beautiful thought, and if you want to write jingle you must carefully exclude beauty and sublimity. It may be forcible and logical, but that doesn't make it poetic. The sample just quoted is forcible and logical, and for the most part sensible and serious, but it could be all these if written in prose. Versification adds nothing to its force or its sense, and as there is no pretension to beauty, there can be no claim to poetry.

Senator Jackson appreciated this letter very highly, and in his reply gave evidence that he should be ranked with that class of grand old men who are loved by all who know them.

His beauty of character inspired me to answer in language that I shall now submit as a specimen of poetic prose, because it contains the beautiful thoughts necessary to poetry, but is not versified till near the last where it passes almost insensibly into verse. I shall also alter the pronouns so as to make it read as a message to you, thus:

The heart may bloom perennially, though the head be whitened with the frosts of age. Accustom yourself, while young, to think cheerfully and without melancholy, upon the great problem of existence. Anticipate the solemnities of advanced life; meet the questions at issue manfully and rationally; fortify yourself, while young, against the depressing influences of superstitious fear, and you may retain youth always.

The bright and peaceful countenance will still reflect the purity of the life within, and youthful associates will still prefer the sunshine of your company.

Reciprocally, you may now, in your youth, find great profit in cultivating the acquaintance of the aged. Honor them with filial devotion; cheer them with kindly consideration, and you will speedily find a singular charm in their society. Neither is it all on account of their greater experience in life, but rather in anticipation of the greater experience they are soon to enter upon. From within the very gates of heaven they are smiling back upon us their peaceful benediction.

We should look upon them as having served out their time under more trying circumstances than now obtain, and with less of comfort and naught of luxury, they nevertheless stood such tests as few are now required to bear. They are at present simply waiting on the threshold, and only

A beckoning hand, a nod or a smile

From the guardian angel that watches the while,
Is needed to set their souls aflight,

On pinions of love to the realms of light.

Like flowers full blown they have given us cheer,
And sweetened our lives from year to year.

A slightly chilled zephyr alone may suffice

To droop their loved forms, and they're gone in a trice.

1

Let us cherish them tenderly, watching with care,
The ebb of affection's fragrance rare.

Though withered and fading, they ever impart
A soothing balm to the bleeding heart.

The bud and the flower in beauty are tossed,

But anon, the dead leaves hide the roots from the frost.
Though fair in our youth and strong in our prime,
It was last year's leaves gave us strength to climb;
And the blush on the bud as on cheek of love

Is penciled by artists that smile from above.

Now that is a sample of poetry depending wholly upon the element of beauty. Beautiful thoughts about beautiful things expressed in beautiful language and involving even beauty of character. There is no sublimity about it, not even grandeur - no attempt to rise above that which is merely beautiful.

This satisfies the aesthetic sense; but, now, there are higher emotions to be ministered unto; viz., the moral or spiritual. To be poetic in support of these faculties, we must be not only logical, though imaginative, but we must embody either grandeur or sublimity in sufficient measure to awaken like sentiments or emotions in the minds of those whose sensibilities are sufficiently developed to exercise or enjoy such a high grade of feeling.

As a sample of this form of expression I beg to offer you, in conclusion, an original epic, founded on the long meter doxology.

Try to rise with me to the full appreciation of this lofty sentiment, as I expand the familiar theme and clothe it with the grandeur and sublimity of God's own handiwork in

nature.

Now learn we a lesson from Nature,

God manifest unto the flesh;

But first as becometh the Creature,
His praises we utter afresh.

And we call upon Nature to praise Him;
The highest, the lowliest thing;

All goodness conspires to raise Him,

And crown Him of all kings, The King.

His beauty of character inspired me to answer in language that I shall now submit as a specimen of poetic prose, because it contains the beautiful thoughts necessary to poetry, but is not versified till near the last where it passes almost insensibly into verse. I shall also alter the pronouns so as to make it read as a message to you, thus :—

The heart may bloom perennially, though the head be whitened with the frosts of age. Accustom yourself, while young, to think cheerfully and without melancholy, upon the great problem of existence. Anticipate the solemnities of advanced life; meet the questions at issue manfully and rationally; fortify yourself, while young, against the depressing influences of superstitious fear, and you may retain youth always.

The bright and peaceful countenance will still reflect the purity of the life within, and youthful associates will still prefer the sunshine of your company.

Reciprocally, you may now, in your youth, find great profit in cultivating the acquaintance of the aged. Honor them with filial devotion; cheer them with kindly consideration, and you will speedily find a singular charm in their society. Neither is it all on account of their greater experience in life, but rather in anticipation of the greater experience they are soon to enter upon. From within the very gates of heaven they are smiling back upon us their peaceful benediction.

We should look upon them as having served out their time under more trying circumstances than now obtain, and with less of comfort and naught of luxury, they nevertheless stood such tests as few are now required to bear. They are at present simply waiting on the threshold, and only

A beckoning hand, nod or a smile

From the guardian angel that watches the while,
Is needed to set their souls aflight,

On pinions of love to the realms of light.

Like flowers full blown they have given us cheer,

And sweetened our lives from year to year.

A slightly chilled zephyr alone may suffice

To droop their loved forms, and they're gone in a trice.