of a whole scene at once, as the daguerreotype does; they must describe it piecemeal.  Much less can it represent that whole scene at once in all its glories of colour, glow, fragrance, life, motion.  In short, it cannot give life and spirit.  All merely descriptive poetry can do is to give a dead catalogue—­to kill the butterfly, and then write a monograph on it.  And, therefore, there comes a natural revulsion from the baldness and puerility into which Wordsworth too often fell by indulging his false theories on these matters.

But a revulsion to what?  To the laws of course which underlie the phenomena.  But again—­to which laws?  Not merely to the physical ones, else Turner’s “Chemistry” and Watson’s “Practice of Medicine” are great poems.

True, we have heard Professor Forbes’s book on Glaciers called an epic poem, and not without reason:  but what gives that noble book its epic character is neither the glaciers nor the laws of them, but the discovery of those laws:  the methodic, truthful, valiant, patient battle between man and nature, his final victory, his wresting from her the secret which had been locked for ages in the ice-caves of the Alps, guarded by cold and fatigue, danger and superstitious dread.  For Nature will be permanently interesting to the poet, and appear to him in a truly poetic aspect, only in as far as she is connected by him with spiritual and personal beings, and becomes in his eyes either a person herself, or the dwelling and organ of persons.  The shortest scrap of word-painting, as Thomson’s “Seasons” will sufficiently prove, is wearisome and dead, unless there be a living figure in the landscape, or unless, failing a living figure, the scene is deliberately described with reference to the poet or the reader, not as something in itself, but as something seen by him, and grouped and subordinated exactly as it would strike his eye and mind.  But even this is insufficient.  The heart of man demands more, and so arises a craving after the old nature-mythology of Greece, the old fairy legends of the Middle Age.  The great poets of the Renaissance both in England and in Italy had a similar craving.  But the aspect under which these ancient dreams are regarded by them is most significantly different.  With Spenser and Ariosto, fairies and elves, gods and demons, are regarded in their fancied connection with man.  Even in the age of Pope, when the gods and the Rosicrucian Sylphs have become alike “poetical machinery,” this is their work.  But among the moderns it is as connected with Nature, and giving a soul and a personality to her, that they are most valued.  The most pure utterance of this feeling is perhaps Schiller’s “Gods of Greece,” where the loss of the Olympians is distinctly deplored, because it has unpeopled, not heaven, but earth.  But the same tone runs through Goethe’s classical “Walpurgis Night,” where the old human “twelve gods,” the antitypes and the friends of men, in whom our forefathers delighted, have vanished utterly, and given place to semi-physical Nereides, Tritons, Telchines, Psylli, and Seismos himself.