and the working of their mind proceeds from the realisation of one aesthetic perception to that of another, more comprehensive if they are to be great poets having within them the principle of poetic growth.  There is undoubtedly an organic process in the evolution of a great poet, which you may, for convenience of expression, call logical; but the moment you forget that the use of the word ‘logic,’ in this context, is metaphorical, you are in peril.  You can follow out this ’logical process’ in a poet only by a kindred creative process of aesthetic perception passing into aesthetic comprehension.  The hunt for ‘ideas’ will only make that process impossible; it prevents the object from ever making its own impression upon the mind.  It has to speak with the language of logic, whereas its use and function in the world is to speak with a language not of logic, but of a process of mind which is at least as sovereign in its own right as the discursive reason.

Let us away then with ‘logic’ and away with ‘ideas’ from the art of literary criticism; but not, in a foolish and impercipient reaction, to revive the impressionistic criticism which has sapped the English brain for a generation past.  The art of criticism is rigorous; impressions are merely its raw material; the life-blood of its activity is in the process of ordonnance of aesthetic impressions.

It is time, however, to return for a moment to Shakespeare, and to observe in one crucial instance the effect of the quest for logic in a single line.  In the fine scene where John hints to Hubert at Arthur’s murder, he speaks these lines (in the First Folio text):—­

’I had a thing to say, but let it goe:  The Sunne is in the heauen, and the proud day, Attended with the pleasure of the world, Is all too wanton, and too full of gawdes To giue me audience:  If the midnight bell Did with his yron tongue, and brazen mouth Sound on into the drowzie race of night, If this same were a Churchyard where we stand, And thou possessed with a thousand wrongs:  ...  Then, in despight of brooded watchfull day, I would into thy bosome poure my thoughts....’

If one had to choose the finest line in this passage, the choice would fall upon

  ‘Sound on into the drowsy race of night.’

Yet you will have to look hard for it in the modern editions of Shakespeare.  At the best you will find it with the mark of corruption:—­

  +’Sound on into the drowsy race of night (’Globe’);

and you run quite a risk of finding

  ‘Sound one into the drowsy race of night’ (’Oxford’).

There are six pages of close-printed comment upon the line in the Variorum.  The only reason, we can see, why it should be the most commented line in King John is that it is one of the most beautiful.  No one could stand it.  Of all the commentators, only one, Miss Porter, whom we name honoris causa, stands by the line with any conviction of its beauty.  Every other person either alters it or regrets his inability to alter it.