But let us imagine the grandson of an Italian immigrant to America, a young seer, trained in the photoplay technique by the high American masters, knowing all the moving picture resources as Dante knew Italian song and mediaeval learning.  Assume that he has a genius akin to that of the Florentine.  Let him be a Modernist Catholic if you will.  Let him begin his message in the timber lands of Minnesota or the forests of Alaska.  “In midway of this our mortal life I found me in a gloomy wood astray.”  Then let him paint new pictures of just punishment beyond the grave, and merciful rehabilitation and great reward.  Let his Hell, Purgatory, and Paradise be built of those things which are deepest and highest in the modern mind, yet capable of emerging in picture-writing form.

Men are needed, therefore they will come.  And lest they come weeping, accursed, and alone, let us ask, how shall we recognize them?  There is no standard by which to discern the true from the false prophet, except the mood that is engendered by contemplating the messengers of the past.  Every man has his own roll call of noble magicians selected from the larger group.  But here are the names with which this chapter began, with some words on their work.

Albert Duerer is classed as a Renaissance painter.  Yet his art has its dwelling-place in the early Romanesque savageness and strangeness.  And the reader remembers Duerer’s brooding muse called Melancholia that so obsessed Kipling in The Light that Failed.  But the wonder-quality went into nearly all the Duerer wood-cuts and etchings.  Rembrandt is a prophet-wizard, not only in his shadowy portraits, but in his etchings of holy scenes even his simplest cobweb lines become incantations.  Other artists in the high tides of history have had kindred qualities, but coming close to our day, Elihu Vedder, the American, the illustrator of the Rubaiyat, found it a poem questioning all things, and his very illustrations answer in a certain fashion with winds of infinity, and bring the songs of Omar near to the Book of Job.  Vedder’s portraits of Lazarus and Samson are conceptions that touch the hem of the unknown.  George Frederick Watts was a painter of portraits of the soul itself, as in his delineations of Burne-Jones and Morris and Tennyson.

It is a curious thing that two prophet-wizards have combined pictures and song.  Blake and Rossetti, whatever the failure of their technique, never lacked in enchantment.  Students of the motion picture side of poetry would naturally turn to such men for spiritual precedents.  Blake, that strange Londoner, in his book of Job, is the paramount example of the enchanter doing his work with the engraving tool in his hand.

Rossetti’s Dante’s Dream is a painting on the edge of every poet’s paradise.  As for the poetry of these two men, there are Blake’s Songs of Innocence, and Rossetti’s Blessed Damozel and his Burden of Nineveh.

As for the other poets, we have Coleridge, the author of Christabel, that piece of winter witchcraft, Kubla Khan, that oriental dazzlement, and the Ancient Mariner, that most English of all this list of enchantments.  Of Tennyson’s work, besides Merlin and the Gleam, there are the poems when the mantle was surely on his shoulders:  The Lady of Shalott, The Lotus Eaters, Sir Galahad, and St. Agnes’ Eve.