that woven robe of illusion which is so hard a matter to those who live in horizons of the eye and hand.  Yet as idealism was found on its mental side harmonious with reason in all knowledge, and on its emotional side harmonious with the heart in its outgoings, so this perfecting temperament that belongs to it and most characterizes it, falls in with the natural faith of mankind.  Idealism in this sense, too, existed in life before it passed into literature.  The youth idealizes the maiden he loves, his hero, and the ends of his life; and in age the old man idealizes his youth.  Who does not remember some awakening moment when he first saw virtue and knew her for what she is?  Sweet was it then to learn of some Jason of the golden fleece, some Lancelot of the tourney, some dying Sydney of the stricken field.  There was a poignancy in this early knowledge that shall never be felt again; but who knows not that such enthusiasm which earliest exercised the young heart in noble feelings is the source of most of good that abides in us as years go on?  In such boyish dreaming the soul learns to do and dare, hardens and supples itself, and puts on youthful beauty; for here is its palaestra.  Who would blot these from his memory? who choke these fountain-heads, remembering how often along life’s pathway he has thirsted for them?  Such moments, too, have something singular in their nature, and almost immortal, that carries them echoing far on into life where they strike upon us in manhood at chosen moments when least expected; some of them are the real time in which we live.  It was said of old that great men were creative in their souls, and left their works to be their race; these ideal heroes have immortal souls for their children, age after age.  Shall we in our youth, then, in generous emulation idealize the great of old times, and honour them as our fair example of what we most would be?  Shall we, in our hearts, idealize those we love,—­so natural is it to believe in the perfection of those we love,—­and even if the time for forgiveness comes, and we show them the mercy that our own frailty teaches us to exercise, shall we still idealize them, since love continues only in the persuasion of perfection yet to come, and is the tenderer because it comes with struggle?  Whether in our acts or our emotions shall we give idealism this range, and deny it to literature which discloses the habits of our daily practice in more perfection and with greater beauty?  There we find the purest types to raise and sustain us; to direct our choice, and reenforce us with that emotion, that passion, which most supports the will in its effort.  There history itself is taken up, transformed, and made immortal, the whole past of human emotion and action contained and shown forth with convincing power.  Nor is it only with the natural habit of mankind that idealism falls in, but with divine command.  Were we not bid be perfect as our Father in heaven is perfect?  And what is that image of the Christ, what is that world-ideal, the height of human thought, but the work of the creative reason,—­not of genius, not of the great in mind and fortunate in gifts, but of the race itself, in proud and humble, in saint and sinner, in the happy and the wretched, in all the vast range of the millions of the dead whose thoughts live embodied in that great tradition,—­the supreme and perfected pattern of mankind?