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her　friend。　　〃I　don't　quite　know　who　it　is；　but　it　must　make　things

a　little　clearer　in　the　long　run。〃　　Alas！　a　copious　use　of　the

guillotine　would　scarcely　clear　the　stage　of　〃Sordello。〃　　It　is

hardly　to　be　hoped　that　〃Sordello；〃　or　〃Red　Cotton　Night　Cap

Country；〃　or　〃Fifine；〃　will　continue　to　be　struggled　with　by

posterity。　　But　the　mass　of　〃Men　and　Women；〃　that　unexampled　gallery

of　portraits　of　the　inmost　hearts　and　secret　minds　of　priests；

prigs；　princes；　girls；　lovers；　poets；　painters；　must　survive

immortally；　while　civilization　and　literature　last；　while　men　care

to　know　what　is　in　men。



No　perversity　of　humour；　no　voluntary　or　involuntary　harshness　of

style；　can　destroy　the　merit　of　these　poems；　which　have　nothing　like

them　in　the　letters　of　the　past；　and　must　remain　without　successful

imitators　in　the　future。　　They　will　last　all　the　better　for　a

certain　manliness　of　religious　faithsomething　sturdy　and　assured

not　moved　by　winds　of　doctrine；　not　paltering　with　doubts；　which　is

certainly　one　of　Mr。　Browning's　attractions　in　this　fickle　and

shifting　generation。　　He　cannot　be　forgotten　while；　as　he　says　…





〃A　sunset　touch；

A　chorus　ending　of　Euripides；〃





remind　men　that　they　are　creatures　of　immortality；　and　move　〃a

thousand　hopes　and　fears。〃



If　one　were　to　write　out　of　mere　personal　preference；　and　praise

most　that　which　best　fits　one's　private　moods；　I　suppose　I　should

place　Mr。　Matthew　Arnold　at　the　head　of　contemporary　English　poets。

Reason　and　reflection；　discussion　and　critical　judgment；　tell　one

that　he　is　not　quite　there。



Mr。　Arnold　had　not　the　many　melodies　of　the　Laureate；　nor　his

versatile　mastery；　nor　his　magic；　nor　his　copiousness。　　He　had　not

the　microscopic　glance　of　Mr。　Browning；　nor　his　rude　grasp　of　facts；

which　tears　the　life　out　of　them　as　the　Aztec　priest　plucked　the

very　heart　from　the　victim。　　We　know　that；　but　yet　Mr。　Arnold's

poetry　has　our　love；　his　lines　murmur　in　our　memory　through　all　the

stress　and　accidents　of　life。　　〃The　Scholar　Gipsy；〃　〃Obermann；〃

〃Switzerland；〃　the　melancholy　majesty　of　the　close　of　〃Sohrab　and

Rustum；〃　the　tenderness　of　those　elegiacs　on　two　kindred　graves

beneath　the　Himalayas　and　by　the　Midland　Sea；　the　surge　and　thunder

of　〃Dover　Beach；〃　with　its　〃melancholy；　long…withdrawing　roar；〃

these　can　only　cease　to　whisper　to　us　and　console　us　in　that　latest

hour　when　life　herself　ceases　to　〃moan　round　with　many　voices。〃



My　friends　tell　me　that　Mr。　Arnold　is　too　doubting；　and　too

didactic；　that　he　protests　too　much；　and　considers　too　curiously；

that　his　best　poems　are；　at　most；　〃a　chain　of　highly　valuable

thoughts。〃　　It　may　be　so；　but　he　carries　us　back　to　〃wet；　bird…

haunted　English　lawns；〃　like　him　〃we　know　what　white　and　purple

fritillaries　the　grassy　harvest　of　the　river　yields；〃　with　him　we

try　to　practise　resignation；　and　to　give　ourselves　over　to　that

spirit





〃Whose　purpose　is　not　missed；

While　life　endures；　while　things　subsist。〃





Mr。　Arnold's　poetry　is　to　me；　in　brief；　what　Wordsworth's　was　to　his

generation。　　He　has　not　that　inspired　greatness　of　Wordsworth；　when

nature　does　for　him　what　his　〃lutin〃　did　for　Corneille；　〃takes　the

pen　from　his　hand　and　writes　for　him。〃　　But　he　has　none　of　the

creeping　prose　which；　to　my　poor　mind；　invades　even　〃Tintern　Abbey。〃

He　is；　as　Mr。　Swinburne　says；　〃the　surest…footed〃　of　our　poets。　　He

can　give　a　natural　and　lovely　life　even　to　the　wildest　of　ancient

imaginings；　as　to　〃these　bright　and　ancient　snakes；　that　once　were

Cadmus　and　Harmonia。〃



Bacon　speaks　of　the　legends　of　the　earlier　and　ruder　world　coming　to

us　〃breathed　softly　through　the　flutes　of　the　Grecians。〃　　But　even

the　Grecian　flute；　as　in　the　lay　of　the　strife　of　Apollo　and

Marsyas；　comes　more　tunably　in　the　echo　of　Mr。　Arnold's　song；　that

beautiful　song　in　〃Empedocles　on　Etna；〃　which　has　the　perfection　of

sculpture　and　the　charm　of　the　purest　colour。　　It　is　full　of　the

silver　light　of　dawn　among　the　hills；　of　the　music　of　the　loch's

dark；　slow　waves　among　the　reeds；　of　the　scent　of　the　heather；　and

the　wet　tresses　of　the　birch。



Surely；　then；　we　have　had　great　poets　living　among　us；　but　the

fountains　of　their　song　are　silent；　or　flow　but　rarely　over　a

clogged　and　stony　channel。　　And　who　is　there　to　succeed　the　two　who

are　gone；　or　who　shall　be　our　poet；　if　the　Master　be　silent？　　That

is　a　melancholy　question；　which　I　shall　try　to　answer　（with　doubt

and　dread　enough）　in　my　next　letter。　｛1｝







OF　MODERN　ENGLISH　POETRY







My　dear　Wincott；I　hear　that　a　book　has　lately　been　published　by　an

American　lady；　in　which　all　the　modern　poets　are　represented。　　The

singers　have　been　induced　to　make　their　own　selections；　and　put

forward；　as　Mr。　Browning　says；　their　best　foot；　anapaest　or　trochee；

or　whatever　it　may　be。　　My　information　goes　further；　and　declares

that　there　are　but　eighteen　poets　of　England　to　sixty　inspired

Americans。



This　Western　collection　of　modern　minstrelsy　shows　how　very

dangerous　it　is　to　write　even　on　the　English　poetry　of　the　day。

Eighteen　is　long　odds　against　a　single　critic；　and　Major　Bellenden；

in　〃Old　Mortality；〃　tells　us　that　three　to　one　are　odds　as　long　as

ever　any　warrior　met　victoriously；　and　that　warrior　was　old　Corporal

Raddlebanes。



I　decline　the　task；　I　am　not　going　to　try　to　estimate　either　the

eighteen　of　England　or　the　sixty　of　the　States。　　It　is　enough　to

speak　about　three　living　poets；　in　addition　to　those　masters　treated

of　in　my　last　letter。　　Two　of　the　three　you　will　have　guessed　at

Mr。　Swinburne　and　Mr。　William　Morris。　　The　third；　I　dare　say；　you　do

not　know　even　by　name。　　I　think　he　is　not　one　of　the　English

eighteenMr。　Robert　Bridges。　　His　muse　has　followed　the　epicurean

maxim；　and　chosen　the　shadowy　path；　fallentis　semita　vitae；　where

the　dew　lies　longest　on　the　grass；　and　the　red　rowan　berries　droop

in　autumn　above　the　yellow　St。　John's　wort。　　But　you　will　find　her

all　the　fresher　for　her　country　ways。



My　knowledge　of　Mr。　William　Morris's　poetry　begins　in　years　so　far

away　that　they　seem　like　reminiscences　of　another　existence。　　I

remember　sitting　beneath　Cardinal　Beaton's　ruined　castle　at　St。

Andrews；　looking　across　the　bay　to　the　sunset；　while　some　one

repeated　〃Two　Red　Roses　across　the　Moon。〃　　And　I　remember　thinking

that　the　poem　was　nonsense。　　With　Mr。　Morris's　other　early　verses；

〃The　Defence　of　Guinevere；〃　this　song　of　the　moon　and　the　roses　was

published　in　1858。　　Probably　the　little　book　won　no　attention；　it　is

not　popular　even　now。　　Yet　the　lyrics　remain　in　memories　which

forget　all　but　a　general　impression　of　the　vast　〃Earthly　Paradise；〃

that　huge　decorative　poem；　in　which　slim　maidens　and　green…clad　men；

and　waters　wan；　and　flowering　apple　trees；　and　rich　palaces　are　all

mingled　as　on　some　long　ancient　tapestry；　shaken　a　little　by　the

wind　of　death。　　They　are　not　living　and　breathing　people；　these

persons　of　the　fables；　they　are　but　shadows；　beautiful　and　faint；

and　their　poem　is　fit　reading　for　sleepy　summer　afternoons。　　But　the

characters　in　the　lyrics　in　〃The　Defence　of　Guinevere〃　are　people　of

flesh　and　blood；　under　their　chain　armour　and　their　velvet；　and　the

trappings　of　their　tabards。



There　is　no　book　in　the　world　quite　like　this　of　Mr。　Morris's　old

Oxford　days　when　the　spirit　of　the　Middle　Ages　entered　into　him；

with　all　its　contradictions　of　faith　and　doubt；　and　its　earnest

desire　to　enjoy　this　life　to　the　full　in　war　and　love；　or　to　make

certain　of　a　future　in　which　war　is　not；　and　all　love　is　pure

heavenly。　　If　one　were　to　choose　favourites　from　〃The　Defence　of

Guinevere；〃　they　would　be　the　ballads　of　〃Shameful　Death；〃　and　of

〃The　Sailing　of　the　Sword；〃　and　〃The　Wind；〃　which　has　the　wind's

wail　in　its　voice；　and　all　the　mad　regret　of　〃Porphyria's　Lover〃　in

its　burden。



The　use　of　〃colour…words；〃　in　all　these　pieces；　is　very　curious　and

happy。　　The　red　ruby；　the　brown　falcon；　the　white　maids；　〃the

scarlet　roofs　of　the　good　town；〃　in　〃The　Sailing　of　the　Sword；〃　make

the　poem　a　vivid　picture。　　Then　look　at　the　mad；　remorseful　sea…

rover；　the　slayer　of　his　lady；　in　〃The　Wind〃：





〃For　my　chair　is　heavy　and　carved；　and　with　sweeping　green　behind

It　is　hung；　and　the　dragons　thereon　grin　out　in　the　gusts　of　the

wind；

On　its　folds　an　orange　lies　with　a　deep　gash　cut　in　the　rind；

If　I　move　my　chair　it　will　scream；　and　the　orange　will　roll　out　far；

And　the　faint　yellow　juice　ooze　out　like　blood　from　a　wizard's　jar；

And　the　dogs　will　howl　for　those　who　went　last　month　the　war。〃





〃The　Blue　Closet；〃　which　is　said　to　have　been　written　for　some

drawings　of　Mr。　Rossetti；　is　also　a　masterpiece　in　this　romantic

manner。　　Our　brief　English　age　of　romanticism；　our　1830；　was　1856…

60；　when　Mr。　Morris；　Mr。　Burne　Jones；　and　Mr。　Swinburne　were

undergraduates。　　Perhaps　it　wants　a　peculiar　turn　of　taste　to　admire

these　strange　things；　though　〃The　Haystack　in　the　Floods；〃　with　its

tragedy；　must　surely　appeal　to　all　who　read　poetry。



For　the　rest；　as　time　goes　on；　I　more　and　more　feel　as　if　Mr。

Morris's　long　later　poems；　〃The　Earthly　Paradise〃　especially；　were

less　art　than　〃art　manufacture。〃　　This　may　be　an　ungrateful　and

erroneous　sentiment。　　〃The　Earthly　Paradise；〃　and　still　more

certainly　〃Jason；〃　are　full　of　such　pleasure　as　only　poetry　can

give。　　As　some　one　said　of　a　contemporary　politician；　they　are

〃good；　but　copious。〃　　Even　from　narrative　poetry　Mr。　Morris　has　long

abstained。　　He；　too；　illustrates　Mr。　Matthew　Arnold's　parable　of

〃The　Progress　of　Poetry。〃





〃The　Mount　is　mute；　the　channel　dry。〃





Euripides　has　been　called　〃the　meteoric　poet；〃　and　the　same　title

seems　very　appropriate　to　Mr。　Swinburne。　　Probably　few　readers　had

heard　his　nameI　only　knew　it　as　that　of　the　author　of　a　strange

mediaeval　tale　in　prosewhen　he　published　〃Atalanta　in　Calydon〃　in

1865。