When I contemplate--said my friend, the Poet--the infinite largeness of comprehension belonging to the Central Intelligence, how remote the creative conception is from all scholastic and ethical formulae, I am led to think that a healthy mind ought to change its mood from time to time, and come down from its noblest condition,--never, of course, to degrade itself by dwelling upon what is itself debasing, but to let its lower faculties have a chance to air and exercise themselves. After the first and second floor have been out in the bright street dressed in all their splendors, shall not our humble friends in the basement have their holiday, and the cotton velvet and the thin-skinned jewelry--simple adornments, but befitting the station of those who wear them--show themselves to the crowd, who think them beautiful, as they ought to, though the people up stairs know that they are cheap and perishable? ----I don't know that I may not bring the Poet here, some day or other, and let him speak for himself. Still I think I can tell you what he says quite as well as he could do it.--Oh,--he said to me, one day,--I am but a hand-organ man,--say rather, a hand-organ. Life turns the winch, and fancy or accident pulls out the stops. I come under your windows, some fine spring morning, and play you one of my _adagio_ movements, and some of you say,--This is good,--play us so always. But, dear friends, if I did not change the stop sometimes, the machine would wear out in one part and rust in another. How easily this or that tune flows!--you say,--there must be no end of just such melodies in him,--I will open the poor machine for you one moment, and you shall look.--Ah! Every note marks where a spur of steel has been driven in. It is easy to grind out the song, but to plant these bristling points which make it was the painful task of time. I don't like to say it,--he continued,--but poets commonly have no larger stock of tunes than hand-organs; and when you hear them piping up under your window, you know pretty well what to expect. The more stops, the better. Do let them all be pulled out in their turn! So spoke my friend, the Poet, and read me one of his stateliest songs, and after it a gay _chanson_, and then a string of epigrams. All true,-- he said,--all flowers of his soul; only one with the corolla spread, and another with its disk half opened, and the third with the heart-leaves covered up and only a petal or two showing its tip through the calyx. The water-lily is the type of the poet's soul,-- he told me. ----What do you think, Sir,--said the divinity-student,--opens the souls of poets most fully? Why, there must be the internal force and the external stimulus. Neither is enough by itself. A rose will not flower in the dark, and a fern will not flower anywhere.