such as Emerson’s Trust thyself:  ever’ heart vibrates to that iron string; or some vivid lyrical image such as All the trees of the field shall clap their hands, or even a complete poem of simple words but permanent beauty, such as that one of Wordsworth’s beginning I wandered lonely as a Cloud; this will not only improve concentration and sharpen memory:  it will enrich the mind with ever-available sources of inspiration, courage and joy.

 EDGAR J. SAXON.

THE WORLD’S WANDERERS.

Tell me, thou star, whose wings of light
Speed thee in thy fiery flight,
In what cavern of the night

        Will thy pinions close now?

Tell me, moon, thou pale and grey
Pilgrim of heaven’s homeless way,
In what depth of night or day. 

        Seekest thou repose now?

Weary wind, who wanderest
Like the world’s rejected guest,
Hast thou still some secret nest

        On the tree or billow?

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

CLOUD-CAPPED TOWERS.

Building castles in the air has always been one of the favourite amusements of mankind.  To it we owe much, not only of the zest of life, but also of motive power for overcoming difficulties and reaching out towards new possibilities.  Yet all literature, and tradition that is earlier than any written literature, is full of a deep note of warning; over and over again we see in the dim past the shadow of a tower that was built in vain, of walls that were piled too high and toppled into ruin, of crests that tapped the thunder-clouds and drew down lightning to their own destruction.  Evidently man has seen danger in his own desire!  The castle must be built with wisdom as well as with industry and boldness if it is to escape disaster and to become a storehouse, a safe defence or a vantage-ground for surveying earth and sky.

There is one obvious precaution we should observe in building our castles, and that is to realise that all which we imagine and think about tends sooner or later to externalise itself and pass into action.  Every idea tends to glide into an ideal.  Nearly all thinkers have recognised this, and have seen that morality lies much farther back than action, farther back than conscious will.  Banquo had dreams of ambition, as had Macbeth, but they dealt differently with them; while Macbeth allowed his visions to lead him on to treachery and murder, Banquo prayed against the temptations that came to him in sleep.  To most of us imagination, sleeping or waking, comes in less dramatic form, but we should all think more sanely and act more wisely if we interposed a definite revision by the conscious mind and will of all our plans and ideals between their (perhaps quite automatic) formation in our imagination and their translation into fact.  Slack muscle should go with the daydream