the end. Then I began the 'Sym-
posium and the sun was shining on
the shrubs outside the ground floor
on which I slept before I shut the
book up. I have related these un-
important details because that night
was one of the most important
nights of my life. . . . Here in the
'Ph`drus' and the 'Symposium,' in
the 'Myth of the Soul,' I discovered
the revelation I had been waiting for,
the consecration of a long-cherished
idealism. It was just as though the
voice of my own soul spoke to me
through Plato. Harrow vanished
into unreality. I had touched solid
ground. Here was the poetry, the
philosophy of my own enthusiasm,
expressed with all the magic of un-
rivalled style." The experience re-
corded in these words is typical; it
comes to every one who has the

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