“But to resume our old theme of scholars and their whereabout,” said the Baron, with an unusual glow, caught no doubt from the golden sunshine, imprisoned, like the student Anselmus, in the glass bottle; “where should the scholar live?  In solitudeor in society?  In the green stillness of the country, where he can hear the heart of nature beat, or in the dark, gray city, where he can hear and feel the throbbing heart of man?  I will make answer for him, and say, in the dark, gray city.  Oh, they do greatly err, who think, that the stars are all the poetry which cities have; and therefore that the poet’s only dwelling should be in sylvan solitudes, under the green roof of trees.  Beautiful, no doubt, are all the forms of Nature, when transfigured by the miraculous power of poetry; hamlets and harvest-fields, and nut-brown waters, flowing ever under the forest, vast and shadowy, with all the sights and sounds of rural life.  But after all, what are these but the decorations and painted scenery in the great theatre of human life?  What are they but the coarse materials of the poet’s song?  Glorious indeed is the world of God around us, but more glorious the world of God within us.  There lies the Land of Song; there lies the poet’s native land.  The river of life, that flows through streets tumultuous, bearingalong so many gallant hearts, so many wrecks of humanity;—­the many homes and households, each a little world in itself, revolving round its fireside, as a central sun; all forms of human joy and suffering, brought into that narrow compass;—­and to be in this and be a part of this; acting, thinking, rejoicing, sorrowing, with his fellow-men;—­such, such should be the poet’s life.  If he would describe the world, he should live in the world.  The mind of the scholar, also, if you would have it large and liberal, should come in contact with other minds.  It is better that his armour should be somewhat bruised even by rude encounters, than hang forever rusting on the wall.  Nor will his themes be few or trivial, because apparently shut in between the walls of houses, and having merely the decorations of street scenery.  A ruined character is as picturesque as a ruined castle.  There are dark abysses and yawning gulfs in the human heart, which can be rendered passable only by bridging them over with iron nerves and sinews, as Challey bridged the Savine in Switzerland, and Telford the sea between Anglesea and England, with chain bridges.  These are the great themes of human thought; not green grass, and flowers, and moonshine.  Besides, the mere external forms of Nature we make our own, and carry with us into the city, by the power of memory.”