The ideas and tastes of the eighteenth century in these matters were somewhat different from our own. Johnson, for instance, in The Vanity of Human Wishes, contents himself in his enumeration of the things that make up the pomp and splendor of a king's life, with such vaguely outlined elements as "the regal palace," "the luxurious board." Almost equally generalized is Pope's description of the happy man,—

"Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire;

Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter, fire."

In marked contrast to this are such lines as Tennyson's

"The seven elms, the poplars four,

That stand beside my father's door."

Each poet pursues his purpose consistently. The "flocks" and "trees" of Pope are as appropriate to his generalized landscape as the "elms" and "poplars" of Tennyson are to his particular one. All we can say is that there is a preference on the part of probably the larger class of poets for specific themes and methods-a preference sometimes so marked that a poet like Keats will swell the description of even an imaginary bower with a wealth of "botanical circumstance."

These differences are really but differences of emphasis which help us to define more exactly the limits of poetry. We may agree with Dr. Johnson in the main, yet feel that he went too far in his restrictions. That which is obvious to "vigilance" only, should certainly be as good poetic material as that which is obvious to "carelessness" merely. But it should always be obvious, not necessarily to the whole world, for that would sink poetry to the level of the commonplace, but obvious to the alert, the discerning, and the imaginative, in a word, to the poet himself. Things that are recondite, that can be discovered and set forth only by abstract reasoning, are not proper material for poetry. Neither are those natural phenomena which reveal themselves only to microscopic examination or which require the test of scientific analysis. Such things are the material of the philosopher and the scientist, and should be handled through the medium of prose.

To state the principle broadly then, the poet may safely generalize only up to the point where perception readily follows, and he may be specific only down to the same point. Such a general truth as

"Slow rises worth by poverty depressed"

is poetic material because it is based upon

observation of the more immediate kind, and is readily verified by most men's experience. But such a scientific generalization as, "In animal life the ascent of the scale of creation is a process of differentiation of functions," goes beyond the proper realm of poetry. So with particularization. The poet may number the streaks of a tulip provided he can do it with a glance of the eye. If the streaks are too faint or too numerous for that, the numbering becomes a scientific and not a poetic process. Even the numbering with a glance of the eye may be unpoetic if done for other purposes than delight. On the whole, it is plain what Dr. Johnson would have excluded-very minute details, accidental peculiarities, methodically precise description and classification. In further illustration, take Byron's description of the Lake of Geneva as viewed from the castle of Chillon: "A thousand feet in depth below

The massy waters meet and flow."

This might seem to be a violation of our principle. But a second thought shows that it is not. "Nine hundred and fifty-five feet" would be such a violation, because we should then have an exact reference to an abstract standard of measurement. The round number makes no pretence to accuracy, even though the poet goes

on to speak of a fathom-line. The reader gets merely an impression of vast depth. Whether the statement even approaches exactness is a matter of comparative indifference. Most frequently, indeed, the poet avoids all reference to such standards of measurement as feet, hours, and the like. When Spenser would tell us the

time, he says:

"By this the northern Wagoner had set."

When Keats would indicate a certain distance, he writes:

"About a young bird's flutter from the wood."

The legions of Satan, according to Milton, lay on the lake of fire,

"Thick as autumnal leaves that strow the brooks In Vallombrosa."

In every case we are referred directly to the powers of sense-perception.

Suggestion and Association. While poetry sometimes achieves its end of giving delight by the simple method of filling the mind with pleasing tales and pictures, more often perhaps, the end is attained by opening avenues of contemplation and stimulating the mind to create its own images. By the art of suggestion, or by playing

upon the law of association, the poet may set up such a creative activity in the mind of his auditor as yields perhaps the keenest of all imaginative pleasures. For instance, he may compress a dozen images into a single word, as when Collins speaks of "sallow Autumn"; or by a striking epithet he may start a long train of thought, as when Shakspere discourses of the "hungry ocean." An admirable instance of the effectiveness of suggestion may be seen in the word "silent" as used by Keats in the last line of his sonnet, On First Looking into Chapman's Homer. The ellipses so frequently found in verse, the compounding of nouns, the suppression of verbs, the resort to exclamatory forms, all owe part of their effectiveness to the fact that they substitute suggestion for complete expression.

The laws of mental association may likewise be counted upon to stimulate this imaginative activity. Words carry with them long trains of associated ideas, varying of course with the knowledge and experience of the individual. The poet instinctively seeks that language which is richest in associations. Milton, in L'Allegro and Il Penseroso, plays upon classical mythology and literature in a way to give intense delight to those versed in that lore.