THE HAMILTON ASSOCIATION. 53 



the black cloud fashioning itself together, now pouring out fire, now 

 hail and rain ; what is it ? Ay, what ? At bottom we do not yet 

 know ; we can never know at all. It is not by our superior insight 

 that we escape the difficulty ; it is by our superior levity, our inatten- 

 tion, our wan^ of insight. It is by our no^ thinking that we cease to 

 wonder at it. Hardened round us, encasing wholly every notion we 

 form, is a wrappage of traditions, hearsays, mere words. We call 

 that fire of the black thunder-cloud ' electricity,' and lecture learn- 

 edly about it, and grind the like of it out of glass and silk ; but w/iaf 

 is it ? What made it ? Whence comes it ? Whither goes it ? 

 Science has done much for us ; but it is a poor science that would 

 hide from us the great, deep, sacred infinitude of nescience, whither 

 we can never penetrate, on which all science swims as a mere super- 

 ficial film. This world, after all our science and sciences, is still a 

 miracle ; wonderful, inscrutable, magical and more, to whosoever will 

 think of it." There is here no opposition to science, but rather a 

 just estimate of its value and its limits. 



What is left now is the hardest part of the task. It is difficult 

 to say very much, with any degree of clearness, about what is almost 

 indescribable, which must be felt, not taught. To say it briefly, 

 poetry is the record of the inspirations which have been sent by 

 some higher power to help us on our way. It is the habit of some 

 to laugh at inspiration as a cloak to hide all sorts of extravagances 

 and fancies, but that is not the inspiration which moves the world. 

 There is hardly any one who does not know it in some degree. 

 Many a time flashes will visit us, presenting a new thought or an old 

 one in a new and grander way^we know not how it came or was 

 suggested — nothing seemed to lead up to it, but there it was, and 

 perhaps never left us. Such little flashes, or twinklings, rather, are 

 to the inspiration of the poet but as the stars to the sun. 



" Each year brings forth its millions ; but how long 



The tide of generations should roll on 



And not the whole combined and countless throng 



Compose a mind like thine ? though all in one 



Condensed their scattered rays, they would not form a Sun." 



These flashes of inspiration are the fountain of poetry, or, in the 

 words of Shelley, " poetry redeems from decay the visitations of the 

 divinity in man." 



