_Nescio._ “With such views of human life, where do you find any relief from your melancholy?” _Tristo._ “To what should a mind saddened by its own afflictions look for consolation. The world of _realities_, as I have said, presents but a gloomy and scarred waste. Ah! then the greatness of the _poet’s_ power and the dignity of his art are most manifest. Then, that which in our grosser moods, we had deemed light, pretty, and only fit to while away an hour, becomes _mighty_, and _almost_ adorable. For the wearied and broken spirit, which all the riches of learning could not soothe, nor the gift of kingdoms elate, may by the witchery of poetry be wrapt into a calm, satisfied enjoyment.” _Nescio._ “I wonder not that an early father, in holy abhorrence, called poesy, _vinum dæmonum_, the wine of fiends, if its influence be such as you assert. For surely it supplies to the educated and refined, the same refuge from corroding thought and disturbing conscience, which the intoxicating cup offers to the sensual and brutish.” _Tristo._ “It is so in some measure, but with this difference, which will immediately rescue this ‘divina facultas’ from injurious reflections. The inebriating draught, the actual ‘uvæ succus’ offers its poor and transient relief to _all_. The unfortunate and the guilty, those upon whom melancholy has settled like a mist from the ground, causeless and undeserved, though unavoidable--and those upon whom an outraged conscience inflicts its scourgings in righteous retribution, may there seek and find oblivion. But only a pure life, a cultivated mind, a _religious nature_, (let not the phrase breed heresy,) can secure to one the healing influence of poetry.” _Nescio._ “The idea is a sublime one. But is it not merely a beautiful _idea_? Can you bring forward any evidence to make it manifest, or even any illustration to render it probable?” _Tristo._ “With ease. Indeed, were I to search far and wide through the whole circle of English poetry, I could not find a more pertinent illustration than in the passage which I have just been reading, and on which my finger now rests.” _Nescio._ “What is it? Read it.” _Tristo._ “Even its title is affecting. ‘On the receipt of my mother’s picture.’ It must be familiar to you, yet I will read a few lines. ‘O that those lips had language! Life has pass’d With me but roughly since I saw thee last. Those lips are thine--thy own sweet smile I see, The same, that oft in childhood solaced me; Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, ‘Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!’ The meek intelligence of those dear eyes (Blessed be the art that can immortalize, The art that baffles Time’s tyrannic claim To quench it) here shines on me still the same.’