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has been usually regarded as having no other subject than woman; who, indeed, may become the true object of love, as represented in the drama of King Rene's daughter, when her beauty and perfection are seen in the light of what must be called, for the sake of truth, Divine Love.

Let the reader admit for a moment that there is a land, an unseen land, which, in order to have a name for it, we will call Arcadia ; but, though called a land, this word is only used figuratively. It represents not merely an imaginary land, but the land of imagination, a word of immense significance; for from that land the world receives its Iliads, Odysseys, and Æneids, a great multitude of Promethean stories, and innumerable tales of chivalry in both prose and verse.

Let it be supposed, we say, as a mere hypothesis, that there is an Arcadian land, a world in which poets find a congenial home, where they conceive the great works of Art through which their names become immortal. This is making. but a very small demand upon the candor of the student, who must reasonably agree that the ancient and ever-renewed claim of the poets, that their art proceeds from a

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divine gift, the nature of which can perhaps only be properly known by poets themselves, must have some truth to rest upon. Genuine poets—we do not refer to mere versifiers, who have often only an acquired skill in word-jingling—are a peculiar class of men, not as having an actual faculty unknown to other men, but because of a peculiar awakening of their faculties which, under favorable circumstances, opens to them such views of life as, for want of a better explanation, may be considered a divine giftvery much as the religious faculty, though common to all mankind, receives at times an extraordinary illumination, as if from a supernatural source; and it may indeed be regarded as supernatural, if we define nature from a low point of view, as the mere material fabric of the world.

We desire to induce the reader to accept the suggestion as probable, that poets of the class referred to have access, either through nature or grace, to a certain interior world of ideas and feelings, which for the present we will call Arcadia; not a visible place, yet often figured as a land, with mountains and streams, where the sun, or we may say the moon, if we please, never sets, and where there is a never-ending summer—as we find

it referred to in the 18th Sonnet of Shakespeare in the line:

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“For summer and his pleasures wait on thee.”

This land, or Arcadia, is well described in the little poem of Heriot de Borderie, inserted in the preface to Remarks on Alchemy and the Alchemists.

“There is an isle
Full, as they say, of good things ;—fruits and trees
And pleasant verdure; a very master-piece
Of nature's; where the men immortally
Live, following all delights and pleasures. There
Is not, nor ever hath been, Winter's cold
Or Summer's heat, the season still the same,-
One gracious Spring, where all, e'en those worst used
By fortune, are content. Earth willingly
Pours out her blessing: the words “thine” and “mine”
Are not known 'mongst them: all is common, free
From pain and jealous grudging. Reason rules,
Not fantasy: every one knows well
What he would ask of other; every one
What to command: thus every one hath that
Which he doth ask;

commanded, does. This island hath the name of Fortunate;

And, as they tell, is governed by a Queen
Well-spoken and discreet, and therewithal
So beautiful, that, with one single beam
Of her great beauty, all the country round
Is rendered shining. When she sees arrive
(As there are many so exceeding curious
They have no fear of danger 'fore their eyes)
Those who come suing to her, and aspire
After the happiness which she to each
Dotb promise in her city, she doth make
The strangers come together; and forthwith,
Ere she consenteth to retain them there,
Sends for a certain season all to sleep.
When they have slept so much as there is need,
Then wake they them again, and summon them
Into her presence. There awaits them not
Excuse or caution; speech however bland,
Or importunity of cries. Each bears
That on his forehead written visibly,
Whereof he hath been dreaming. They whose dreams
Have been of birds and hounds, are straight dismissed ;
And at her royal mandate led away,
To dwell thence-forward with such beasts as these.
He who hath dreamed of sconces broken, war,
And turmoil, and sedition, glory won,
And highest feats achieved, is, in like guise,
An exile from her court; whilst one whose brow
Is pale, and dead, and withered, showing care

Of pelf and riches, she no less denies
To be his queen and mistress. None, in brief,
Reserves she of the dreamers in her isle,
Save him, that, when awakened he returns,
Betrayeth tokens that of her rare beauty
His dreams have been. So great delight hath she
In being and in seeming beautiful,
Such dreamer is right welcome to her isle.

All this is held a fable: but who first
Made and recited it hath, in this fable,
Shadowed a Truth.

This isle we take to be the Arcadian land. It is owned or visited in common by all genuine poets, who, because they know that admission to that beautiful country is accorded only to a favored class, and to those only upon their being in possession of certain required credentials, rarely give any hint even of the true character of the country to the non-elect. They only write of it in a mystery, or under the guise of writing about something else, which, as in the poem of Colin Clouts, may be understood, or misunderstood, as a poem in honor of Queen Elizabeth ; who has, however, as little to do with that poem as she has with the Apocalypse and its New Jerusalem. We propose to show that

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