POETRY.

MIND-STUFF.

SYSTEM DES THANSCENDENTALEN IDEALISM:1B. "Awl coxcombs vanquish Berkeley with a grin."

You said that life was Lyric,—

Or Epic, was it, you said P Your words are so wise at times, friend, . The meaning not seldom seems fled.

But perhaps 'twas the hearer at fault, friend, And not the words that you used, For I notice when you are wisest My mind only gets more confused.

But Life, you say, is Lyric, And you mean, I think, or I gmess- For the words "subjective subsistence"

Only puzzle me more, I confess—

You mean, I say, or I fancy, That life is a sort of sham, The result of a mental delusion The conceit of a fancied "I am."

For I know you said, your friend, friend,.

Was not the identical "I,"

But only a kind of phantasmos,

A myth, a deception, not I: A picture, in fact, projected, In mathematical phrase, From the plane of a mental perception On the plane of a mental haze.

You denied, I think I remember, ' The existence of Matter per se,

And said it was only a " concept "—

No matter most certain to me—

And you spoke, I know, of "subjective," Of abstract, of concrete, of real; And the scorn you put in your tone, friend,.

Was certainly nothing ideal.

The mind, you told me, was only The perpetual flux and the flow

Of certain perceptions we connote—

Another word, I believe, for "we know "- That the " self " was merely a fiction, The result of "connoting," in fact; But nothing that really existed, Save only in phrase, in abstract.

And then, I remember, you quoted Some words that you said were by Hume ;•.

No'wiser could well have existence— His words, not himself, I presume—

But I felt, as I heard you declaim them, "True or false, I know, for my part, I'm content to hold as sufficient, 'I think, I exist,' with Descartes."

For I gather, I think, as resulting, If I take what you say to be true, That yourself, friend, are only delusion, And I but a function of you. • But still, it is curious and strange, friend,.

After what you say is so plain, That considering how close our relations, We should differ so much in the main.

For, not to use words that are rude, friend,.

Or to wax unneetif ally hot,

I am clear that whatever I am, friend, Most certainly you I am not.

And so, farewell, if you please, friend, To your queer metaphysical stuff, For though Life with you is delusion, With me it is real enough.

"Life is a shadow," says Scripture,

But certainly not, as I'm taught, A shadow, indeed, of nothing, Projected on nothing from naught.

CHARLES W. STUBBS-- Granborough Vicarage, January 1st.