r.
The thing is to be able to look and understand when you _are_ up. I
once saw a curious sight as I sat with the swallows flying far under
my feet. The people did not wander about the street here and there as
usual, but hundreds after hundreds of small objects came on in regular
array. Then I could see long lines of Lilliputian soldiers marching in
the procession, with their tiny bayonets glancing in the sun; and
every now and then came up a soft swell of music, feeble but sweet.
'What is all this about?' thought I. 'Are they going to set one of
these little creatures over them for a bailie or a king?' And one did
march in the middle with a small space round him; 'but perhaps,'
thought I again, 'he is only a trumpeter.' Howbeit, the procession at
last halted, and gathered, and closed, and stood still for a time; and
there was another small swell of the instruments, with a feeble shout
from the throng, and then they all stirred, and broke, and dispersed,
and disappeared. This was just like the view from the mast-head: it
made me feel grand. But when I came down, I had not replaced one
prejudice with another. I did not despise the creatures I came among;
for they were then of the same size as myself. I pulled off my cap to
them, and was affable; only it did give me a queer thought--not a
merry one--when I heard that the official they had made that day, on
going home to his house, out of the grandeur and the din, was heard to
commune with himself, saying: 'And me but a mortal man after all!'

Poetry? No, sirs, I have learned no poetry. I had poetry enough of my
own without learning it, and so has everybody else. I once knew a
fellow who wrote very good poetry; but few of us understood it. That
man lost his labour. It is nature that _makes_ poetry; the poet has
merely found out the art of stirring it in the hearts of men, where it
lies ready-made, like the perfume of a flower. A poet who is not
understood only makes a noise; and he is the greatest poet who makes
the greatest number of human hearts to leap and tingle. But the fellow
I mean piqued himself on not being understood. Like the Yankee Noodle,
he cut capers that had no intelligible meaning in them, just to make
people stare. As for my own share of poetry, I will tell you when I
feel it stirring most. You must know that in the view from a steeple
the form of objects is changed only in one direction--that is
downwards. The small houses, the narrow streets, the little