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Rh evident that the imaginative force we have called relative vision will suflice. And if we consider the matter thoroughly, in many other forms of poetic art-forms which at first sight might seem to require absolute vision-we shall find nothing but relative vision at work.

Even in Dante, and even in Milton and Virgil, it might be difficult to trace the working of any other than relative vision. And as to the entire body of Asiatic poets it might perhaps be found (even in view of the Indian drama) that relative vision suffices to do all their work. Indeed the temper which produces true drama 1s, it might almost be said, a growth of the Western mind. For, unless it be Semitic, as seen in the dramatic narratives of the Bible, or Chinese, as seen in that remarkable prose story, The Two Fazr Cousms, translated by Rémusat, absolute vision seems to have but small place in the literature's of Asia. The wonderfulness of the world and the romantic possibilities of fate, or circumstance, or chance-not the wonderfulness of the character to whom these possibilities befall-are ever present to the mind of the Asiatic poet. Even in so late a writer as the poet of the S/Ili/l Ndmeh, the hero Irij, the hero Zal and the hero Zohreb are in character the same person, the virtuous young man who combines the courage of youth with the wisdom and forbearance of age. And, as regards the earlier poets of Asia, it was not t1ll the shadowy demigods and heroes of the Asiatic races crossed the Caucasus, and breathed a more bracing air, that they became really individual characters. But among the many qualities of man's mind that were invigorated and rejuvenated by that great exodus from the dreamy plains of Asia is to be counted, above all others, his poetic imagination. The mere sense of wonder, which had formerly been an all-sufficing source of pleasure to him, was all-sufficing no longer. The wonderful adventure must now be connected with a real and interesting individual character. It was left for the poets of Europe to show that, given the interesting character, given the Achilles, the Odysseus, the Helen, the Priam, any adventure happening to such a character becomes interesting.

What then 15 this absolute vision, this true dramatic imagination which can hardly be found in Asia-which even in Europe cannot be found except in rare cases? Between relative and absolute vision the difference seems to be this, that the former only enables the poet, even in its very highest exercise, to make his ov» n individuality, or else humanity as represented by his own individuality, live in the imagined situation;the latter enables him in 1ts highest exercise to make special individual characters other than the poet's own live in the imagined situation. “ That which exists in nature, ” says Hegel, “is a something purely individual and particular. Art, on the contrary, is essentially destined to manifest the general.” And no doubt this is true as regards the plastic arts, and true also as regards literary art, save 1n the very highest reaches of pure drama and pure lyric, when it seems to become art no longer-when it seems to become the very voice of Nature herself. The cry of Priam when he puts to his lips the hand that slew his son is not meiely the cry of a bereaved and aged parent; it is the cry of the individual king of Troy, and expresses above everytliing else that most naive, pathetic and winsome character. Put the words into the mouth of the irascible and passionate Lear and th P el

would be entirely out of keeping.

It may be said then that, while the poet of relative vision, even in its very highest exercise, can only, when depicting the Ly, ., c, Ep, ¢ external world, deal with the general, the poet of and absolute vision can compete with Nature herself gzgxgfa and deal mth both general and particular. If this is really so we may perhaps find a basis for a classification of poetry and of poets. That all poets must be singers has already been maintained. But singers seem to be divisible into three classes' first the pure lyrists, each of whom can with his one voice sing only one tune, secondly the epic poets, save Homer, the bulk of the narrative poets, and the quasi-dramatists, each of whom can with his one voice sing several tunes; and thirdly the true dramatists, who, having, like the nightingale of Gongora, many tongues, can sing all tunes.

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It is to the first-named of these classes that most poets belong. With regard to the second class, there are not of course many poets left for it: the first absorbs so many. But, when We come to consider that among those who, with each his one voice, can sing many tunes, are Pindar, Firdausi, ]ami, Virgil, Dante, Milton, Spenser, Goethe, Byron, Coleridge, Shelley, Keats, Schiller, Victor Hugo, the second class is so various that no generalization save such a broad one as ours could embrace its members. And now we come to class three, and must pause. The third class is necessarily very small. In it can only be placed such names as Shakespeare, Aeschylus, Sophocles, Homer and (hardly) Chaucer.

These three kinds of poets represent three totally different kinds of poetic activity.

With regard to the first, the pure lyrists, the impulse is Pure egoism. Many of them have less of even relative vision at its highest than the mass of mankind. They are often too much engaged with the emotions within to have any deep sympathy with the life around them. Of every poet of this class it may be said that his mind to him “ a kingdom is, ” and that the smaller the poet the bigger to him is that kingdom. To make use of a homely image-like the chaffinch whose eyes have been pricked by the bird-fancier, the pure lyrist is sometimes a warbler because he is blind. Still he feels that the Muse loves him exceedingly. She takes away his eyesight, but she gives him sweet song. And his song is very sweet, very sad, and very beautiful; but it is all about the world within his own soul-its sorrows, joys, fears and aspirations.

With regard to the second class the impulse here is no doubt a kind of egoism too; yet the poets of this class are all of a'different temper from the pure lyrists. They have a wide imagination; but it is still relative, still egoistic. They have splendid eyes, but eyes that never get beyond seeing general, universal humanity (typified by themselves) in the imagined situation. Not even to these is it given to break through that law of centrality by which every “ me ” feels itself to be the central “ me ”-the only “ me ” of the universe, round which all other spurious “ me's ” revolve. This “me ” of theirs they can transmute into many shapes, but they cannot create other “ me's ”-nay, for egoism, some of them scarcely would, perhaps, if they could.

The third class, the true dramatists, whose impulse is the simple yearning to create akin to that which made “ the great Vishnu yearn to create a world, ” are “ of imagination all compact ”f-so much so that when at work “ the divinity” which Iamblichus speaks of “seizes for the time the soul and guides it as he w1ll.”

The distinction between the pure lyrists and the other two classes of poets is obvious enough. But the distinction between the quasi-dramatists and the pure dramatists Examples at requires a word of explanation before we proceed Relativeand to touch upon the various kinds of poetry that spring Al2'°i"f° from the exercise of relative and absolute vision. i/'sion Sometimes, to be sure, the vision of the true dramatists the greatest dramatists-will suddenly become narrowed and obscured, as in that part of the Oedzpus tyrannus where Sophocles makes Oedipus ignorant of what every one in Thebes must have known, the murder of Laius. And again, finely as Sophocles has conceived the character of Electra, he makes her, in her dispute with Chrysothemis, give expression to sentiments that, in another play of his ow n, come far more appropriately from the lofty character of Antigone in a parallel dispute with Ismene. And, on the other hand, examples of relative vision in its furthest reaches can be found in abundance everywhere, especially in Virgil, Dante, Calderon and Milton. Some of the most remarkable examples of that high kind of relative vision which may easily be mistaken for absolute vision may be found in those great prose epics of the North which Aristotle would have called poems. Here is one from the Volszmga Saga. While the brothers of Gudrun are about their treacherous business of murdering Sigurd, her husband, as he lies asleep in her arms, Brynhild, Sigurd's former love, who in the frenzy of