just been devising an imaginary scheme of deliverance, she is more than welcome to another century of repose.

III. It will be remembered, by such as have read our former article on this subject, that some Mesmerists deny the phenomena of phreno-magnetism, as it has been illiterately called; and attribute the appearances which gave rise to the supposition of their existence, to the inclusive phenomenon of double consciousness, which has been discussed above. If one might trust, not the moral, but the intellectual veracity of published accounts, there would seem to be two kinds of cases. One of these might be characterized as connected with phrenology; the other only with the mesmeric double-consciousness. In the former the response is immediate; in the latter, some little time elapses between the call and the answer. In the former the reply is vivid; in the latter it is faint. Nor were it improbable that a mixed condition should occur. But it is with the phrenological instances alone that we have any thing to do under this part of the subject, since community of consciousness has already been disposed of. Nor is it difficult to suppose that the touch or approximation of the operator's finger shall depolarize and liberate the cerebral organ touched or approached. Awaked by itself, alone, the particular organ rushes into a fury of activity; for it is by the balance of all these organs that we are kept in equipoise. The whole force of the spirit pours through the opened floodgate. It is like monomania, or the rapture of the saint, the poet, the sage, when the object of contemplation is not the universe, but something less. It is like every thing we do, in fine; partial, exclusive, and in excess.

There only remains the application of our quaint hypothesis to the case of the natural or spontaneous somnambulist. Being by no means prepared for an elaborate discussion of all the ambages of this mysterious subject, nor yet willing to enter more fully into it with the preparation which we have, we refer the reader to the suggestion thrown out already concerning Braid's hypnotic patients, as probably enough containing the clew to this part of the labyrinth. May not the halves of the cerebro-spinal axis in one individual become polar to one another, when the propitious circumstances are provided, say by fatigue or narcotics? Since two equal and similar things, fallen into the mutual relation of polarity, cannot become one solar and the other planetary, inasmuch as neither of them is

the greater or the less; and since the idea of a dual unit, the coefficients of which are both solar, is impossible; it follows that they become both planetary, revolving round one another like double suns, that is to say, both negative; that is to say, again, both non-sensitive, both non-voluntative, both non-cogitative; that is to say, again, both asleep. Is this the true theory of sleep? Since one hemisphere of the cerebral mass is often larger than the other, may it not in that degree and in such cases be neuro-positive; and does not such a supposition render the Joseph, or habitual dreamer, intelligible? In conclusion, may not the partial disentrancement of only one of the hemispheres, in one who sleeps, produce sleepwalking and its extraordinary concomitants, such as prevision and clearsight? At all events, it is certainly not so difficult to reduce the fact of spontaneous somnambulism under our gratuitous hypothesis as it seems at first sight.

One word more, and we have done. It is to be feared that some readers, and more especially such as are very favorable to the claims of Mesmerism, will be of opinion that this hypothesis has been brought forward with unbecoming levity. It will perhaps be supposed that we do really believe in the higher phenomena just as decidedly as we have professed to do in the trance, but that we are ashamed or afraid to avow the fact. The real truth of the matter is neither far to seek nor ill to tell. The whole subject of Mesmerism was thrust on our attention early in life. We witnessed experiments of every sort, and we were too easily satisfied with their results. Then came the intellectual necessity of understanding and explaining such amazing phenomena; that is to say, of coördinating and coadunating them with the uncompleted sphere of science. A little band of fellow-students looked to us for such a service; and the hypothesis, which has been outlined above, was the product of our eager meditations. Having seen reason, however, to question the methodological validity of mesmeric evidence, our poor hypothesis is now advanced as nothing more than a playful exercitation of the intellect, in so far as all the more dubious findings of mesmeric research are concerned. Whatever may be its intrinsic worth or worthlessness as a piece of speculative thought, its value as a contribution to science is exactly equal to zero; and we do not entertain the very faintest hope, wish, or expectation concerning its future fortunes in the world.

The earth hath bubbles as the water hath,

And this is of them!

ART. II. THE POETRY OF KEATS.

WE shall not be accused of courting popular approbation in the selection of a subject for the following essay. The English poet, whose name is written above, is with few exceptions the least known among us. True, he has admirers among the lovers of genuine poetry. But the great verse-devouring public cannot stop to analyze and appreciate the beauties of writers like him, like Tennyson, Milnes, and Browning. Therefore Mrs. Norton, Eliza Cook, Mrs. Ellis, and Barry Cornwall are the names by which modern English poetry is commonly represented among us. There are exceptions to these remarks. Tennyson has long been before the public, in a readable form, and is at last coming into notice since it has become fashionable to read "The Princess." Keats has but lately appeared in a manner worthy his merits. One only of Milnes' charming volumes has strayed among us, but its modest presence was forgotten amid the flourish of trumpets that announced the "New Timon." Browning and Horne, the authors of "Paracelsus," "Sordelles," "Bells and Pomegranates," and "Orion," are yet to come. Perhaps we ought not to complain of this. It is easier to read songs than study epics. The jingling bells of rhyme sound pleasantly enough to ears not attuned to the sphere-born melody of the true singer. But we may certainly be excused in our attempt to write a few imperfect words on Keats, a poet differing widely in several ways from all other living English or American writers.

This peculiarity is the reproduction of the beautiful in nature and sensuous life, with a corresponding beauty of form. Poets of this class have little of the didactic, little of the higher spiritual insight of which we shall hereafter speak as the characteristics of the lowest and highest species of poetry. Keats represents beauty as it manifests itself in outward forms, not from any ulterior moral purpose, but simply from a love of the beautiful in itself. He is an Artist of the first degree, embodying his conceptions, at times, in forms of surpassing beauty, as in "Hyperion," "The Eve of St. Agnes," and portions of "Endymion."

Such being the distinguishing feature of this writer, it seems necessary, previous to a review of his works, to indicate the relation of the beautiful to poetry. This will require a definition of Poetry, which we will endeavour to give in a brief

space, though at the risk of repeating what has been better said by critics before.

What, then is the essence of the poetical? With what objects material or spiritual is poetry concerned?

The least informed reader of the reviews will discover that every man has an answer to this. One tells us poetry is imitation, another, creation, another, that its legitimate province is the beautiful, another, that it should be a teacher of truth and morality. In fact the subtle spirit seems to elude the grasp of all. No sooner have the critics built their walls of limitation around it, than it lightly scales them and darts off into unexplored realms. Every original poet finds the materials of his art lying in by-places and corners which had been given over by common consent to the dominion of the prosaic. We must not look to criticism to teach us the possibilities of poetry. It can deal only with the past, illustrating and explaining what has been done. It must follow in the train of genius, content with being her expositor. The weather-prophet may sit in the fields, on a bright day, surrounded with his almanacs and instruments, and predict the changes of the elements; but the sudden rising of a thunder storm disperses all his fine calculations, and sends him dripping to his home. Our definitions of poetry must not be narrow. Any theory of the Art is incomplete which shuts the door against the future. We must accept the past, acknowledge and classify it, if we will, but stand in reverence before the awful coming of every new bard.

The futility of all these critical limitations at once appears when we attempt to define our ideas of the beautiful, the true, and the good, the very terms employed to limit the art. What is this Beauty, this Truth, this Love, which are separately or unitedly considered the domain of poetry?

As far as our vision extends, Truth, Love, and Beauty appear to complete the circle of being. They are perceived by what we call the intellectual, affectional, and imaginative faculties of the mind. This distinction seems the least arbitrary of any we can make. It is one which the mind appears naturally to recognize. This is all we are now permitted to know of absolute being; as much of the Deity as he is pleased to reveal to us; as much, perhaps, as our faculties, in their present state, can comprehend.

But here arises a difficulty. Are Truth, Love, and Beauty separate elements, or is Being one, revealing itself in these forms? In nature, are the forces of heat, electricity, and

attraction really different, or only one force acting in different circumstances? In morals, are humility, piety, self-denial, separate virtues, or is there but one essential virtue receiving these names from its several manifestations? These questions, especially the first, which includes the others, are of the first importance to the decision of our subject; for if there be but one germ of spiritual existence which is Truth, Love, or Beauty, according to the relation in which we perceive it, then is it manifestly absurd to say poetry deals only with the beautiful, the true, or the good.

The most accurate analysis we can make of things so abstract seems to prove that Being is one. At least, no one of the elements we have mentioned can exist in perfection separated from the others. Remove the elements of Truth from existence, and Love and Beauty go to seek their lost companion. There can be no perfect Love without Truth and Beauty; no perfect Beauty disjoined from Truth and Love. As we fix our mental vision upon the essence of Being, these elements blend and separate like the shifting lights of a brilliant gem.

Thus a spiritual thing is not fully known until this question is decided in relation to it. Then if we knew the precise amount of the element or elements of Being in it, its relation to every other thing in the universe and to God, the source of all, our knowledge of it would be complete. Then could we form a theory of poetry which would last for all time, but not till then. Our critics, we apprehend, are not anxious to attempt such a task.

The Poet sees things in their reality. In proportion as he looks deeply into the mystery of Being, discovering the blended lustre of Truth, Love, and Beauty, is he a true seer. His vocation is not to sever things God hath joined. He cannot cut off one from the triple elements of existence and sing of it, for the sole condition of a correct appreciation of one is a knowledge of all. This poet is yet to come. The songs of the bards have hitherto been of things in their diversity. They have been musical fragments from the secret of nature. song must be of its harmony, its unity.

His

Men have sought to limit the province of poetry, and their limitations have only indicated the boundaries of their own vision. They tell us Homer, Shakespeare, Pope, or Shelley have closed the door against all others. They can only mean that their own sight can pierce no further. Poesy obeys other laws than those of their manufacture. Its range is coextensive