longitudes, having a certain distribution
of raw materials and human beings, and a certain topography.
It might just as well be represented by X for all practical
purposes. Thus in the secret code of the diplomatic corps if
X were agreed on as the symbol for England, it would be just
as adequate and would even save time. But England (that
particular sound) for a large number of individuals who have
been brought up there, has become the center of deep and
far-reaching emotional associations, so that its utterance in
the presence of a particular listener may do much more than
represent a given geographical fact. It may be associated
with all that he loves, and all that he remembers with affection;
it may suggest landscapes that are dear to him, a familiar
street and house, a particular set of friends, and a cherished
historical tradition of heroic names and storied places. It
may arouse such ardor and devotion as Henley expresses in
his famous _England, my England_:

"What have I done for you,
England, my England,
What is there I would not do,
England, my own?
With your glorious eyes austere,
As the Lord were walking near,
Whispering terrible things and dear,
As the song on your bugles blown,
England--
Round the world on your bugles blown!"

Words thus become powerful provocatives of emotion.
They become loaded with all the energies that are aroused by
the love, the hate, the anger, the pugnacity, the sympathy,
for the persons, objects, ideas, associated with them. People
may be set off to action by words (just as a bull is set off by a
red rag), although the words may be as little freighted with
meaning as they are deeply weighted with emotion.

Poets and literary men in general exploit these emotional
values that cling to words. Indeed, in epithets suggesting
illimitable vistas, inexpressible sorrows, and dim-remembered
joys, lies half the charm of poetry.

"Before the beginning of years,
There came to the making of man,
Time with a gift of tears,
Grief with a glass that ran;
Pleasure with pain for a leaven,
Summer with flowers that fell;
Remembrance fallen from Heaven,
And madness risen from Hell,
Strength without hands to smite,
Love that endures for a breath,
Night the shadow of light,
And life, the shadow of death."[1]

[Footnote 1: Swinburne: _Atalanta in Calydon_ (David Mackay
edition), p. 393.]

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