excitation and receptiveness, where art may speak and we shall
understand. On the other hand, the condition shows a certain
dethronement of the will and attention which may ally it to the
hypnotic state.

Certain kinds of poetry imitate this method of nature by calling on us
with a thousand voices at once. Poetry deals often with vague or
contradictory statements, with a jumble of images, a throng of
impressions. But in true poetry the psychology of real life is closely
followed. The mysticism is momentary. We are not kept suspended in a
limbo, "trembling like a guilty thing surprised," but are ushered into
another world of thought and feeling. On the other hand, a mere
statement of inconceivable things is the _reductio ad absurdum_ of
poetry, because such a statement puzzles the mind, scatters the
attention, and does to a certain extent superinduce the "blank
misgivings" of mysticism. It does this, however, _without_ going further
and filling the mind with new life. If I bid a man follow my reasoning
closely, and then say, "I am the slayer and the slain, I am the doubter
and the doubt," I puzzle his mind, and may succeed in reawakening in him
the sense he has often had come over him that we are ignorant of our own
destinies and cannot grasp the meaning of life. If I do this, nothing
can be a more legitimate opening for a poem, for it is an opening of the
reader's mind. Emerson, like many other highly organized persons, was
acquainted with the mystic mood. It was not momentary with him. It
haunted him, and he seems to have believed that the whole of poetry and
religion was contained in the mood. And no one can gainsay that this
mental condition is intimately connected with our highest feelings and
leads directly into them.

The fault with Emerson is that he stops in the ante-chamber of poetry.
He is content if he has brought us to the hypnotic point. His prologue
and overture are excellent, but where is the argument? Where is the
substantial artistic content that shall feed our souls?

The Sphinx is a fair example of an Emerson poem. The opening verses are
musical, though they are handicapped by a reminiscence of the German way
of writing. In the succeeding verses we are lapped into a charming
reverie, and then at the end suddenly jolted by the question, "What is
it all about?" In this poem we see expanded into four or five pages of
verse an experience which in real life endures an eighth of a second,
and when we com