He alone of men, though he travel to the pit, picks up no
company by the way; but has a contrivance to avoid scripture,
and find a narrow road to damnation. Indeed, if the majority
of men go to the nether abodes, 'tis the most hopeful argument
I know of his salvation, for 'tis inconceivable that he should
ever do as other men.

One might imagine that in the end the poet's poignant sense of his
isolation might allay his excessive conceit. A yearning for something
beyond himself might lead him to infer a lack in his own nature. Seldom,
however, is this the result of the poet's loneliness. Francis Thompson,
indeed, does feel himself humbled by his spiritual solitude, and
characterizes himself,

I who can scarcely speak my fellows' speech,
Love their love or mine own love to them teach,
A bastard barred from their inheritance,
* * * * *
In antre of this lowly body set,
Girt with a thirsty solitude of soul.
[Footnote: _Sister Songs_.]

But the typical poet yearns not downward, but upward, and above him he
finds nothing. Therefore reflection upon his loneliness continually
draws his attention to the fact that his isolation is an inevitable
consequence of his genius,--that he

Spares but the cloudy border of his base
To the foiled searching of mortality.
[Footnote: Matthew Arnold, Sonnet, _Shakespeare_.]

The poet usually looks for alleviation of his loneliness after death,
when he is gathered to the company of his peers, but to the supreme poet
he feels that even this satisfaction is denied. The highest genius must
exist absolutely in and for itself, the poet-egoist is led to conclude,
for it will "remain at heart unread eternally." [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 so