syllogisms. The man who has attuned himself to the moods and impulses of lyric poetry is a safe man in action. Yet he is more than this; he has in him that which is the groundwork of fireside pleasures and of the joys of companionship. In other words, he is a man of cultivated imagination, and he can play in many moods.

Here it may not be amiss to mention the claim of the imagination to consideration as a faculty of the mind and inquire to what extent it should be cultivated in our schools; for if its claim be not good, there is no warrant for using any of the literature of power as subject-matter for education. Bearing on this question is the following excellent remark by the late Charles Eliot Norton, who did so very much to raise the standard of culture in American education: "The imagination is the supreme intellectual faculty, and it is of all the one that receives least attention in our common system of education. The reason is not far to seek. The imagination is of all faculties the most difficult to control, it is the most elusive of all, the rarest in its full power. But upon its healthy development depend not only the sound exercise of the faculties of observation and judgment, but also the command of the reason, the control of the will, and the growth of the moral sympathies. The means for its culture which good reading affords is the most generally available and one of the most efficient." In the same discussion Professor Norton has this to say of poetry as the highest expression of the imagination: "Poetry is one of the most efficient means of education of the moral sentiment, as well as of the intelligence. It is the source of the best culture. A man may know all science and yet remain uneducated. But let him truly possess himself of the work of any one of the great poets, and no matter what else he may fail to know, he is not without education."

To the evident truth of these quotations the humanist will readily assent; and so will the true scientist whose earnest and frank devotion to truth makes it clear to him that nothing great in his field has ever been done without a constructive imagination. The loss of artistic imagination through years of painstaking investigation will be a source of regret to any one devoted to science, as was the loss of the ability to appreciate the charm of great poetry Darwin's old age regret. The taste for this great poetry is grounded on healthful and normal instincts, and it is the part of wisdom to see that this taste be developed in youth. The boy who has nurtured his youthful imagination on the magic of great verse will waken up some morning to find himself among the competent ones of his generation. His life will be bounded by that restraint which can come only through an inability to solve the mysteries and wonders that his imagination is constantly conjuring up. He wants much that he cannot understand and reason out; and the deeper things of life, things which touch him most vitally as a living creature, he looks on with reverence. If his imagination is alive to the experiences of great poetry, he cannot scoff at things felt in the soul but impossible of explanation. To him there are sacred things in the fireside life and at the altar that are not to be laid bare by the curiosity of the reasoner in his search for truth. And when the twilight of the gods falls about him he is not curious to know, but he trusts and fears. A song is worth more to him than a proof. On this he is satisfied to throw himself.

The music of the cathedral organ that Milton could hear daily as a boy stirred his imagination, and in later years he brought forth verse that for the grandeur and scope of its imagination has never been excelled. In a minor but far more human key the songs and balladry of Scotland awakened in Burns the imagination which has made him the idol of his native land and loved wherever English poetry is known. Artistic imagination for the creation or appreciation of poetry is contagious. What is true of the poet himself is also true of the reader of great poetry; its wonderful music causes him to feel and live poems that he has not the gift to write down. It is with this feeling of poems, this appreciation of the great work of poets, that we have to do. To awaken feelings a teacher must have an imagination afire with a little verse that is choicely good, must have at least felt the pure serene a time or two. This same passion for verse, be it ever so limited, can be handed over to the boy through a judicious use of the reading voice. That is the teacher's work in hand.

What kind of verse is to be handed over to the boy, and how much is there to be of it? To the latter question the only safe answer is this: not too much. Talents and tastes vary. Every student can be made to get by rote a certain amount of verse; but as for learning it by heart, feeling and appreciating its music, that is a different thing. The greatest and most painstaking of all anthologists of English verse, Francis Turner Palgrave, claims that there ought to be more than a glimpse into the Elysian fields of song. In the best collection that has yet appeared for the teacher or student, "The Children's Treasury of English Song," Professor Palgrave has this to say in the introduction: "The treasures here collected are but a few drops from an ocean, unequalled in wealth and variety by any existing literature. But the hope is held that it may prove a pleasure and gain to the dear English and English-speaking children, all the world over,—yet the editor will hold his work but half fulfilled, unless they are tempted by it to go on and wander, in whatever direction their fancy may lead them, through the roads and winding ways of this great and glorious world of English poetry. He aims only at showing them the path, and giving them a little foretaste of our treasures.—'To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new.'" That hope is to be the hope of the teacher; and it needs back of it the mastering of a few choice lyrics, after which the boy is to be sent forth to browse alone to his heart's desire.

On the question of the kind of verse to give to the boy, Professor Palgrave has made the following remark: "The standard of 'suitability to childhood' must exclude many pieces that have 'merit as poetry': pictures of life as it seems to middle age—poems coloured by sentimentalism or morbid melancholy, however attractive to readers no longer children—love as personal passion or regret (not love as the groundwork of action)—artificial or highly allusive language—have, as a rule, been held unfit. The aim has been to shun scenes and sentiments alien from the temper of average healthy childhood, and hence of greater intrinsic difficulty than poems containing unusual words." The limitations of verse for children, as stated in the remark just quoted, are reasonable and something of a guide to teachers. But they are not always easy to follow. However, nothing must be given to the child unless it has real merit as poetry, no matter how it may strike the fancy at first reading. Nor is any poem that would be otherwise good, to be excluded because it is feared the child may not completely grasp it. He may read plenty of verse that is beyond him somewhat and be all the better for having done so. The thing to be avoided is poetry that is not poetry. He may be allowed to read verse at times that would not be suitable for learning by heart. But what he learns thoroughly must be through and through great poetry. And it matters little what form it may have: ballad, song, fairy poem—he will learn to know it and to love it. Nor is it to be always within the reach of his intellect; his feelings will carry him safely beyond the narrow range of understanding.

If he would reach the boy, the teacher must find a point of