terms, is the higher point of view, and the truer-the science which interprets life in terms of things or the intuition which translates things in terms of life? Which is the medium of genuine comprehension-the analytic reason which dissects wholes into parts and then arranges the fragments in imitation of the whole again, or that sympathetic insight which grasps at once felt wholes and does not seek to analyze?

The same antithesis persists and is elaborated in Bergson's later writings. We have the same insistence that science and logic are merely the useful instruments of our practical activity, never the means whereby true knowledge of reality can be gained. And we have the same intent to replace this fragmentary analytic view with the intuitive grasp which belongs to the inner life itself. Not a world of things creating eventually life; but Life itself is to appear, finally, as the master and creator.

POEMS

ISAAC FLAGG

OPENING HYMN

IN

"THE SONS OF JACOB"

(Sung by the shepherd brethren)

O thou who bringest light,
Our pathways makest bright,
Lifting the veil of night.

Guide us, O Lord, we pray
Through this another day;
Let not our footsteps stray.

God of our fathers, send
Health on the flocks we tend;
Their little ones defend.

Hear thou their trembling cry

When the gray wolf stands nigh; Each day their needs supply.

Where the cropt herbage grew, Make it to spring anew, Freshen'd with kindly dew.

Bless us, O Lord, with peace,
And as our years increase
Let not thy mercies cease.

AVE PISCATOR

Lines read at a reception given by the Faculty Club to Dr. Henry Van Dyke, 1905

There are three stages or degrees
Of piscatorial mysteries.

Unnumber'd accidents must meet
To show the angler forth complete;

Eke that which in the stars is writ,
Piscator nascitur non fit;

Whilst he, on far perfection bent,
Through each successive element,

Mud, water, air, essays to climb,
Molding his destiny sublime.

The novice, those exist for him
Which nigh unto the bottom swim.

Thus, lowliest of the briny brood,
The flounder famed for platitude;

In fresh, the bullhead or horn'd pout,
The eel long-lived and long-drawn-out.

These teach, to hold with sandy grip
What chances through the fingers slip;

To brave the heads and horns of things
That clash with fond imaginings;

How to doze timely, yet be full
Of feeling for a welcome pull;

To learn what purposes of state
They serve who only sit and wait.

The second stage, by one degree
Above the bottom aims to be.

Here through the middle waters gleam
Perch, shiner, chub, the plucky bream:

A scaly company, yet each
Blest with some faculty to teach.

It is the realm of doubt and fear,
Wild hopes and disappointments drear.

But in his soul who faltereth not
Celestial patience is begot;

His boyish fancy is imbued
With love of rain and solitude;

Round him a frivolous, inane,
Much-nibbling world will surge in vain.

The third sphere is the top: and few,
To its high ordinances true,

Will for the last probation wait,

Which sifts the small fry from the great.

There is a finny vagabond,
Long-nosed marauder of the pond,

Whom nature suffereth to exist

Expressly that he may assist

The callow neophyte to rise

Through spoon-lore to the Book of Flies.

Between the upper and mid way

The pickerel darts upon his prey.

Him you, when spoonless, can feel sure

Of taking with batrachian lure.

Draw froggy's trousers off in haste,
Decapitate him at the waist;

The nether remnant then, hook'd fast,
Fantastically dangling, cast

Out where the lily-pads make way
There for the still, black water-hey!

A swell, a vortex, and a splash!
A tug down on the supple ash!

[The couplets here omitted touch upon the achievements of those to whom the sacred utensils have been shown by the Hierophant, who have answered the questions propounded by him, and have been finally advanced from the Lesser to the Greater mysteries of the top.]

And yet no titles to his name,
Parchment prerequisites to fame;

No tassel'd cap and hooded gown
Invest the angler with renown.

A something in his eye, his walk,
Or in the flavor of his talk;

Something not on the prosaic plan
Stamps the inveterate fisherman.

His grammar is the cloud-fleck'd dawn,
A forest path his lexicon,

His specialty the universe.

He can songs make. He doth converse

Familiarly with jay and wren,

Or dallies with the water-hen.

Oft with the chipmunk he breaks bread.
At drowsy noon, where rests his head

Odors of terebinth and balm,
Exhaling slumber soft and calm,

Wrap him in dreams.-Anon, awake-
What peals the sultry stillness break?

What shadow sweeps from ledge to ledge
Before the storm-cloud's livid edge?

Aeolian voices, piping shrill,

Wail from the pines that crown the hill.

""Tis time," I hear Piscator say,
"To unjoint and quit; no more to-day."