on might be employed as a vessel to catch the overrunnings of
the precious ichor.

Who could not wish to know the poetry of Keats as we already knew his
life through the matchless essay of Lowell? That might be filled out
with the most striking passages of his poetry, simply let in at
appropriate places, without breaking the flow of that high discourse,
and forming a rich accompaniment which could leave no reader unpleasured
or uninstructed. The passages given from the poet need not be relevant
to the text of the critic; they might be quite irrelevant and serve the
imaginable end still better. For instance, some passages might be given
in the teeth of the critic, and made to gainsay what he had been saying.
This would probably send the reader, if he was very much perplexed, to
the poet himself, which was the imaginable end. He might be disappointed
one way or he might be disappointed the other way, but in the mean while
he would have passed his time, and he would have instructed if he had
not amused himself.

It would be very interesting to take such a criticism as that of Lowell
on Dryden and give not only the fine things from him, but the things
that counted for the critic in his interesting contention that Dryden
failed of being a prime poet because of the great weight of prose in
him, and very good prose; or, as the critic charmingly put it, he had
wings that helped him run along the ground, but did not enable him to
fly. It would be most valuable for us to see how Dryden was a great
literary man, but not one of the greatest poets, and yet must be ranked
as a great poet. If the balance inclined now toward this opinion, and
now against it, very possibly the reader would find himself impelled to
turn to the poet's work, and again the imaginable end would be served.

A listener here asked why the talker went chiefly to Lowell for the
illustration of his theory, and was frankly answered, For the same
reason that he had first alluded to Leigh Hunt: because he had lately
been reading him. It was not because he had not read any other
criticism, or not that he entirely admired Lowell's; in fact, he often
found fault with that. Lowell was too much a poet to be a perfect
critic. He was no more the greatest sort of critic than Dryden was the
greatest sort of poet. To turn his figure round, he had wings that
lifted him into the air when he ought to be running along the ground.

The company laughed civilly at this piece of lu