must his cause inspire and possess him that no doubts arise in his mind as to his own powers. Only when the writer is fully conscious of his own strength, when he has full confidence in his inspiration and his cause, so that he need not strive laboriously after effect, will he produce works of art that are worthy of admiration for their freshness and power (xix 26, 27). Unless he has a firm confidence in himself, and dares to set up entirely for himself, there will be lacking what is a requisite of of all true art, originality. The latter by no means implies that an author shall say only what was never uttered beforesince that would almost preclude all possibility of being original. It means rather just what we have stated above, that the truths the writer expresses must come from the innermost depths of his heart, must have been 'really felt, thought, or lived' by him (xix 494-5).

In this inspiration, then, in this originality, do we find the touchstone of literature, as of all art. The artist that feels this first requisite in himself must strive to develop those qualities which are necessary towards attaining the noble mission of literature in general, and his own specific mission in particular. Only when he views human nature in its higher self, will he express that truth which is alone good and beautiful (xix 326). He must indeed learn to sympathize deeply with humanity in general; he must make the hopes and fears of the people and their yearnings his own (xix 17). At the same time he must remember that he may not cringe to the clamor of the masses, that he must be above the popular convictions (xix 77). Rather should he wed himself to great principles, imbue his heart and soul with all that is noble and true, be himself the impersonation of what mankind should strive for (xix 17, 38, 77). This, in fact, is the distinguishing mark of every real 'artist, whether painter or sculptor, poet or novelist' (xix 559).

4.-POETRY, THE NOVEL, AND HISTORY

We have now given in broad lines what Brownson considered the distinctive mission of all literature that aspires to the rank of art. This literature manifests itself under various forms, and these naturally have their own peculiar features. Strict prose is properly the language of the understanding, the ade

quate vehicle of instruction; poetry, on the other hand, as a form of art, does not aim primarily to instruct, but rather to move and to please (xix 226). Hence all writings in prose form, that can be ranked as real art, must also partake of the nature of poetry; i. e., they must address themselves to the sense and the imagination as well as to the intellect and the heart (xix 424). Among these forms of prose that Brownson mentions directly are the novel and, to some extent, history.

Poetry is not merely a variety of artistic production, but actually stands at the head of all liberal arts; the poetic genius is unsurpassed in the natural order (xix 424). Poetry surpasses the other species of art because it is able to embody the sublime and the beautiful 'in the greatest variety of forms, or under the greatest variety of aspects.' Like them it addresses itself to the senses, but the truth or ideal it expresses is more within the grasp of the intellect than is the case with the other arts. (Ibid.) It is at least just as beautiful, and, in so far as it is more tangible, also more perfect. The essential of poetic form is rhythmical language (xix 338). Through this form the poet must express the true and the good as clearly as does the philosopher himself; but unlike the latter he must reveal them 'in their splendor, their grandeur, and their loveliness.'

However, the mere 'form of the sublime and the beautiful' in itself is not art; it must express also some content and can be used only to reveal, not to conceal thought (xix 424). In like manner is mere feeling without clear and distinct thought an empty bubble. Descriptions, too, that are introduced only for their own sake have no value; at their best they may betray a mood or viewpoint of the author, but they do not raise us above our ordinary surroundings (xix 338, 426, 427). The poet that thus describes for the mere sake of description gives us not the poetry of every-day life but this life itself; if he has an ideal in his mind, he has failed to give it exterior form (xix 425). It is just this poetry of every-day life that should be one of the noblest aims of the artist. We have already mentioned 'that in all things, even the most common and trivial, as well as in the most extraordinary and grand, there is an ideal element, something divine, that in the lowest there is something not low, in the familiar something elevated and noble, in the transitory something permanent, in the changing something immutable,

in the homely something beautiful'—and this element it is especially 'the province of the poet to seize and embody in his verse' (xix 424).

If such is the essence of poetry, it follows that verse-forms containing only 'puerile conceits, flimsy sentiments,' are not included in the sphere of poetic art, no matter how well the line flows on and how harmonious the sound (xix 315). The same holds true if full, free rein is given to the 'extravagances of a wild and inconstant fancy.' That the poet must indeed feel, has been said often enough; and in so far as he must feel, is there need of spontaneity. However, that spontaneity is false which consists in blind passion, a rushing forth of the spirit no one knows whither. There must always be a kind of premeditation, or at least the silent guidance of those sound principles that above were demanded of every literary artist (xix 312-3, 315-6).

The novel is a prose form of literature; but it partakes of the nature of poetry and in so far its main purpose is 'to move and to please' rather than 'to enlighten and convince.' Any novel therefore that aims primarily to inculcate some theory or doctrine 'in an inartistic way,' i. e., directly and immediately, is objectionable (xix 225). In works of instruction repose is demanded, only the intellect is to be active; whereas novels demand action and are impatient to come to an end. The interest derived from a story is quite different from that engendered by logical discussion; the two are not compatible (xix 226).

As the novel is the most popular form of literature, it becomes specially important that its interest arise only from what is healthy and noble in the life and nature of man. And just here we touch upon the greatest abuse of this form of literature; for the sentimental, which is so often used as the bait in novels, is a dangerous means to employ. The sentiments are in themselves free from blame (xix 151); but it takes consumate skill to depict correctly, while anyone can pervert them. When perverted, they turn into morbid sentimentality, and are generally the source of corruption in man; they are in fact the mortal foe of real piety and strength of character (xix 145, 146, 151). Almost the same judgment must be passed on the use of love in our novels. Human love is of course a fact in life,

but one that is generally learned early enough; while in novels its portrayal is as a rule false, overwrought, and entirely independent of the faculty of reason (xix 241, 444-6). What was said in general before about false views of life, finds here its particular application. Nor does the sentimental afford a healthy relaxation to the spirit of man. Amusement, indeed, has its place and time, but it must ever be innocent and salutary (xix 151).

Morbid sentimentalism is always false, and hence cannot be justified even when combined with religious discussion, regardless of what some writers of the religious novel seem to think (xix 144, 146). The religious novel is peculiar, and partakes of two different natures. As a form of art it belongs to the sphere of art and is subject to the latter's laws. But being also religious, it is subject likewise to the laws of religion. Thus are combined two distinct species of art, the secular and the religious; and whereas the interest of the one is in the natural, that of the other is in the supernatural-and the result is a literary hybrid (xix 157, 227-8). Of course the natural and the supernatural are not in themselves incompatible. The former is always subject to the latter by nature. But just here is the crux of our question, since the main feature of interest in the religious novel is not the religious discussion in it but its story or its chaarcters (xix 165, 236-8). No matter from what point of view these novels are considered, they must be condemned as miserable failures. Since the action in them is mixed up with a good deal of religious discussion, they will disgust him who takes up the novels for the sake of the story; while he who takes them up for religious instruction will be diverted from his purpose by the story, which he will consider superfluous and a hindrance. Religious novels as a rule are 'wretchedly dull as novels, and miserably defective as theological treatises.' They are failures in either way, 'as offensive as a picture in which the painter joins the beautiful head of a maiden to the body of a fish,' and must be reckoned as a 'literary monstrosity,' indefensible both from the religious standpoint and from the artistic (xix 144-6, 157-8, 295, 299-300, 565-6). The novelist, therefore, should avoid whatever is dogmatic or controversial, and depend rather on the 'silent influence' of what he has written. If his work is imbued with a healthy

spirit, one that lifts the heart of the reader to the higher aspirations of the soul, excites in him real admiration for characters of true morality—it will be really and truly a religious novel and at the same time true art (xix 146-7, 254, 565, 572).

Besides poetry and the novel, history is mentioned above as one of the forms of literature discussed specifically by Brownson. History does not mean here a mere chronicle of facts. Of course it must limit itself to actual happenings and in that sense cannot be anything but a record of events. However, the events recorded succeeded each other, they are not purely isolated facts, and the historian who desires to 'rise above the dry annalist or bald chronicler,' must give them in their interrelation and their totality (xix 383). There is then in history in a sense a theory above facts, which lifts it from the region of the purely scientific record to that of literature. The presence of a tendency gives history its position as a literary power, which, as in the other forms of literature, exerts its influence on society and must be considered by the literary critic. 'Facts are never to be feared' in themselves, and the theory of the historian should always remain 'within the order of facts,' should be merely a theory according to which the facts are explained and arranged (xix 383, 386). But there are writers who think that history as such is a speculative science. They record facts in accordance with a theory that is not merely historical, that transcends the order of facts and searches into the higher origin, into the metaphysical relation and meaning, of events. They write for the purpose of propagating 'metaphysical, ethical, political, and socialistic theories' under the guise of history. Of course all facts of the life of man and of society have a meaning and relation that transcends the world of fact, that can be the object of speculation; but the result of such speculation is no longer the work of the historianrather of the philosopher and the theologian (xix 383-4, 387). History must remain free of such metaphysical theories, must restrict itself to facts and to the natural order, and guide itself by the demands of literature. If authors wish to propagate theological or metaphysical theories, they should do so in works avowedly of that purpose. They have no right to use history as the means of insinuating their pet speculations into unsuspicious minds that are reading for the events recorded