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" [Footnote: Thomas Hardy,
_To Shakespeare_.]
Such is the self-perpetuating principle which appears to insure
perennial growth of the poet's egoism. The mystery of inspiration breeds
introspection; introspection breeds egoism; egoism breeds pride; pride
breeds contempt for other men; contempt for other men breeds hostility
and persecution; persecution breeds proud isolation. Finally, isolation
breeds deeper introspection, and the poet is ready to start on a second
revolution of the egocentric circle.

CHAPTER II
THE MORTAL COIL
If I might dwell where Israfel
Hath dwelt, and he where I,
He might not sing so wildly well
A mortal melody,
sighs Poe, and the envious note vibrates in much of modern song. There
is an inconsistency in the poet's attitude,--the same inconsistency that
lurks in the most poetical of philosophies. Like Plato, the poet sees
this world as the veritable body of his love, Beauty,--and yet it is to
him a muddy vesture of decay, and he is ever panting for escape from it
as from a prison house.


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