For now our tongue's use is to us no more, Than an unstringed viol or a lute, Or like a cunning instrument cased up, Or, being open, put into his hand, Who knows no touch to tune the harmony. For this evil there will be no cure but the restoration of a sound standard of national taste. It must be once more acknowledged that it shows ignorance and bad taste to be carried away by the mere sound of words; that it is the right of every reader to reason on what he reads with severity, and his duty to understand before he admires. It must be understood that poetry does not lie in mere curiosities of language; that, for instance, champagne does not become poetical when described as "the foaming grape of eastern France," and to call the sacramental: cup. "the chalice of the grapes of God," is an impurity both of taste and of English. On this matter every reader who has studied the literature of his country, ought to be a judge. "There are many," says Dryden, "who understand Greek and Latin, and yet are ignorant of their mother tongue. The proprieties and delicacies of the English are known to few 'tis impossible even for a good wit to understand and practise them without the help of a liberal education, long reading and digesting of those few good authors we have among us, the knowledge of men and manners, the freedom of habitude and conversation with the best company of both sexes; and, in short, without wearing off the rust he has acquired while laying in a stock of learning." Since Dryden's time the number of good authors has largely increased, and our language is still used with purity in society. It ought not, therefore, to be so "difficult to understand the purity of English, and critically to discern not only good writers from bad, but also to distinguish that which is pure in a good author from that which is vicious and corrupt in him." Above all it should be required that the subjects chosen be of a kind to appeal to the head and the heart of every educated Englishman. We might learn a lesson on this point from our forefathers, whom the modern "dilettanti" affect to despise. Nothing is more common than to hear ignorant depreciation of what is broadly called eighteenth-century taste and poetry, and that both were limited, and in some respects artificial, we readily admit. But the men of the Restoration and of Queen Anne's time knew the kind of poetry of which their age was capable, and the form in which it could best be expressed, and in consequence their writing is intelligible and readable at the present day. As for ourselves we are so doubtful of our own taste - nay, so sceptical of our own feelings that we are liable to be imposed upon by every species of literary masquerade and mumming. Our poets seek to reflect for us the feeling of every age except our own. We have nothing really in common with the religious sentiments of Greek tragedy. There is little of any kind left to us from the Middle Ages, and it is senseless to try to recover what is gone. We cannot, like the Elizabethan poets, "warble a native woodnote wild" in an age which is already over-civilized; and when Mr. Tennyson says that he "sings but as the linnet sings," it is plain that he deceives himself. If poetry is to live, we must have a poetry reflecting our own life and thought. The question then naturally arises, Do the materials for such poetry exist? Mr. Morris unhesitatingly answers there are none; we live in an empty day." So long as society is active and language pure, we shall refuse to believe in the justice of this taunt; but until a poet arises to "show the very age and body of the time his form and pressure," we shall have to endure it. Meantime we are led to ask how it is that a poet can affirm that there is nothing worth writing of in "the actions of men, their hope, their fear, their pleasure." Undoubtedly there are obvious difficulties in the way of the poet in search of living themes. In an age of paper, when public opinion embodies itself in an outward form, the realities of individual life and feeling are apt to disguise themselves, while the facilities of travel help to level those local features which give such character to our earlier poetry. But these are only modifying causes. They deprive life of its outer garb of picturesqueness and romance, but they cannot destroy poetry, whose abode is in the human heart. The great obstacle to the production of plain and direct poetry is the almost invincible prejudice that all poetry must be necessarily embodied in a romantic form. All modern poetry has doubtless taken this form. Now by the term Romanticism we mean to denote, not so much the love of purely fanciful images of liberty and marvel, as the encroachment of the imagination on the domain of experience, and the application to established society of ideas springing out grew in France during the eighteenth century. When finally the energy of all this brooding thought, operating on an oppressed people, found delivery in the French Revolution, it seemed as if the pent up forces of centuries had discharged themselves upon a single age. The huge battles that followed, the overthrow of so many thrones, the sudden elevation of so many individuals before obscure, the splendid courage, and the wild adventure of the period, seemed indeed to have introduced a new era of Romance. It was the dramatic aspect of the Revolution which struck the imagination of the energetic and adventurous English race, and expressed itself with true national force in the roving genius of Byron and the patriotic chivalry of Scott. But the dreamy and altogether unpractical pretensions of French idealism found no favour with the English mind. To the clear and sceptical intelligence of Byron, curiously introspective as he was and open to the power of ro mantic passion, the prophecies of the infinite improvement of the human race sounded like idle tales. The English aristocracy, long used to the art of government, braced by real liberty, and schooled in the style of the great classical authors, rejected with contempt the products of French and German sentimentalism. There is no better reflection of the national mind of the period than in the pages of "The Anti-Jacobin," particularly the excellent parodies of "The Knife-grinder" and "The Rovers." This strong national antipathy serves to explain the ferocity with which the critics of that day attacked the writings of those poets who were most influenced by French ideas. of a sentimental desire for a lawless and | vidual liberty, here first apparent, formed primitive freedom. Sir Walter Scott has the nucleus of that vast body of philosdescribed with his usual felicity the ef- ophy, philanthropy, and sentiment which fects of this habit upon a character like Waverly, secluded by circumstances from society, and weakened in judgment by indiscriminate excursions throughout the whole field of literature. But to such an extent has this spirit now spread that, so far from being recognized and deplored as a disease prejudicial alike to taste and common sense, it is regarded as part of the poetical temperament. A person of a visionary and abstracted turn is now called at choice "romantic" 66 or poetical." In the summary of last year's events we find Mazzini's character described by a writer in the "Times" as that of "a poet or a prophet rather than of a statesman." We know not why these should be considered distinct and incompatible varieties of mind. Milton, the greatest of English poets, was a statesman and controversialist, and the practical wisdom running through Shakespeare's plays gives evidence of an intelligence not inferior to Bacon's own. Again, how small a portion of great English poetry can be called romantic in the sense in which we use the word! The reason of this is plain. Romanticism expresses the aspiration of natural as opposed to civil liberty. It is the poetry of the mind, which cannot find room for its energies to expand in active life, and which therefore turns its gaze inward, or transforms itself in a world of books. It takes no root in a community whose action is at once great and free. No symptoms of the temper are visible in the commonwealths of Athens and Rome, where it was open to the best intellects to find free expression in public affairs; nor for the same reason are there before this century any traces of it in England. Such apparent indications as exist in the shape of the amatory sonnets and conventional pastoralism of the Elizabethan age, or the conceits of Cowley's school, merely represent a temporary taste for fashionable exotics; they are not the growth of the English mind. Time, however, has avenged the poets. It has required but the lapse of a generation to naturalize habits of thought once so uncongenial, and to set up as the sole standard of poetry writings upon which the critics had laid their ban. The docRomanticism in England is an importa- trine of the moral progress and ultimate tion from the Continent. The true cradle perfection of man is now the first article of the spirit was despotic France; its of faith with English Liberalism. Of the great original representative is Rousseau; early nineteenth-century poets those who its typical works are, in France, "La Nou- are most in favour with our contemporary velle Héloise," and in Germany "The critics are Wordsworth and Shelley, Sorrows of Werther," both of which rather than Byron, the poets of ideas, sprang out of that introspective mood not the poet of action. The causes of which is reflected in Rousseau's own this great revolution in taste it is difficult filthy "Confessions." The spirit of indi- at present to explain. Much of it may doubtless be referred to the transfer of the forms of the past, and have reduced power from the upper to the middle poetry to such mere furniture and cosclasses. The poets of the last century tume, as picturesque sonnets à la Dante, were the representatives, or the clients, or stage "properties "after the Early Engof a body born and bred to the govern- lish. Truly to those who look on life ment; they wrote in times when England, and poetry with these eyes, the present with an imperial policy, played a great must indeed be “an empty day." part in the affairs of the world, and the Nothing is so likely to recruit the atmosphere of their poetry is therefore exhausted powers of our poets as the public and social. But in the present admission of fresh air from the outer day, when the foreign politics of England world. There is no lack of fit subare expressed in the doctrine of non-in-jects. Human nature as viewed, not tervention, when at home society itself indeed by the kaleidoscope of ideas, but acknowledges no standard but that of competition, it is hard for the individual to recognize any interests which are higher and wider than his own. In such a community the eager and imaginative mind is inclined to take refuge in its own ideas, and hence, perhaps, that ominous abstention from politics which is beginning to mark the professors of modern "Culture." by the standard of experience and religion, affords a field as rich now as it proved to the Roman satirist. The authors of "Adam Bede" and "Martin Chuzzlewit" have not found the present a barren age. The aspect of men and things, we are told by modern exquisites, is vulgar and prosaic: Sed quid magis Heracleas, Aut Diomedeas, aut mugitum labyrinthi? Why should we turn in preference to the legends of the Round Table, or the dreams of an Earthly Paradise? Themes of public interest are certainly not wanting. It is inconceivable that Englishmen, with feeling and imagination, should continue to regard themselves as mere material atoms, and not as actors in the history of a country, the love of which moved Milton, Republican as he was, to celebrate the feudal glories of But the historian will understand the progress of events better than ourselves. He will have to determine why the most unromantic society that ever existed pleases itself with likening its own feelings to those of the knight-errant; he will explain why the literary portion of a nation, whose genius lies in practical thought and action, has given itself over to the study of poetical metaphysics; and he will perhaps be able to understand why we have rejected the masculine standard of classical simplicity for the caAn old and haughty nation, proud in arms. prices of French idealism, and like Democritus have "excluded sane poets from The political and religious issues of Helicon." Meantime we can see for our-our time are not less momentous than selves that, though the spirit of romance when Dryden wrote "Absalom and Achithas extended its area, it has lost its in-ophel," and "The Hind and the Panspiration. The revival of chivalric po- ther." Or if it be said that the interests etry has indeed outlasted the age of mod-of men have extended beyond the bounds ern adventure, but in a literary, no longer of country, why cannot the poet look on in a living form. Marmion and William life with the same clear sense that maniof Deloraine are replaced by King Arthur. fests itself through the force and passion The poetical creed, which carried along of "Childe Harold?" It is not, however, many minds with the force of religion, for the critic to dictate subjects to the has petrified into ritualism. Instead of the enthusiastic rhapsodies of Shelley, we have the splendid but meaningless music of Mr. Swinburne, with his Herthas, his Hymns, his Litanies, and his Lamentations. Other writers, failing any longer to find in modern society the images of romance, have turned back to poet; the duty of the former is to require that whatever subject be represented in poetry, its treatment shall be generally intelligible, and that the poet's language be plain and pure. Let only this much be accomplished, and poetry, instead of an enervating article of luxury, will again become a national power. "I am afraid my but was going to be of an uncomplimentary character." "Then I can guess what it was. You were going to say How came I to have a romantic inspiration?" "You are right, and you must confess that there is something surprising in it." "I am bound to agree with you, of course, though it is hardly fair to expect me to see the incongruity," said George, not quite pleased at being put out of the pale of romance. "What incongruity?" asked Sir Thomas, who had an uncomfortable habit of being unconscious of general conversation till the tone of it became querulous, when he invariably roused himself, and asked to be put au fait of the discussion. "What incongruity? I missed that." "The incongruity between Henderson and moonshine," said Harry. "Ah, well! but that does not explain." But nobody seemed inclined to offer a fuller explanation, and we were silent for a few minutes during which I began rather to repent of having snubbed poor George. I was beginning to suspect what was the source from which he drew his romantic inspirations, and what the explanation of his change of manner, and I feared that there was disappointment in store for him. I said therefore in a tone of apology: "I like the idea of a moonlight picnic; why should we not carry it out? What do you say, Grace?" "I expect Grace says What does Harry say?" said Lady Raymond, who had come out to consult us about some chintzes, "and if Harry is the wise man I take him for, he will say that moonlight picnics in the month of May are not to be thought of by sane people." "Poor Henderson," said Harry, "there's a harder hit for you than Janet's." "Not at all," said George, "for I quite agree with Lady Raymond: we must have a midsummer night for our revels.” "And act scenes from the Midsummer Night's Dream with all the tenants to look on," suggested Grace. "It is really a fascinating plan and shall certainly be carried out. Come, Harry dear, you need not look so forbiddingly wise about it." "I am anxious not to fall into Henderson's error, and drift through romance into madness." "I think it is just as good a way as the beaten track - through much learning," said Grace. "Tell us, now, what madness can there possibly be in acting scenes from Shakespeare in the wood on a warm, lovely summer's night?" "None whatever, if one could be sure that the night would be quite warm and lovely, and that one was oneself quite impervious to mist and dew, and that there is no harm in risking one's life for a foolish freak, and — and And Harry looked into Grace's eyes, and Grace looked up at Harry, and blushed a deep rose-red, and said— "I give in as usual, though I believe it is very bad for you that I should. Do you know, dear, I think I am a very demoralizing wife for you? For I not only always let you have your own way, but I generally acknowledge that you are right." "Then," said George, "it is clearly the duty of the rest of us to save Harry's character from further deterioration by never allowing him to have his own way, and continually declaring him to be in the wrong. So I propose that we get up our picnic in defiance of these wise married people." But the picnic would not be got up. Grace's defection and Harry's prudence acted as a wet blanket, and Madeline was in a dreamy mood, and had not taken part in the discussion. So the subject was allowed to drop. "I used to think," said Grace, "that people did grow wise with being married, but I am sure it is not true of either Harry or me. No, dear, you need not protest; you have been growing more and more silly and idle ever since that evening when you said some very silly things under the cedar-tree; do you remember? And what is more, I, who was silly and idle enough already, have grown sillier and idler with you. So I believe it is all a delusion about people getting wiser when they marry. I believe marriage has a very bad effect upon one's mind. Don't you agree with me, Madeline?" Madeline started as if from a dream, and Grace went on "Maddy, dear, you shouldn't be up in the clouds when we are discussing such grave subjects. I want you to tell Harry that being married has had a very bad effect upon him and me, and that it is bad generally for the race." "In what way?" asked Madeline, making an effort to come out of her dream. "In the way of making people silly and idle." "I think Grace is stating part of a much wider proposition, which I am inclined to consider a true one- - that any great personal happiness is bad for people," said George, rather sentenciously. We protested in chorus against this gloomy philosophy. "Nevertheless, you may be right," said Madeline; "I have sometimes thought it myself; but I have come to the conclusion that even if it be true that happiness is demoralizing, some people must submit to be spoilt for the good of the community; for if there were not a few very happy people in the world, I don't know who would have courage to live at all." "Then Grace and I may go on being happy," said Harry, "and have the pleasant consciousness that we are sacrificing ourselves for the common good." "And nobody must ever reproach us for being silly and idle," said Grace. "I like this theory of Madeline's." Then Lady Raymond came to the window again, and called to Harry and Grace to come in and judge of the effect of some curtains. She was very busy refurnishing the rooms she had devoted to the use of the young couple. We fell into an uncomfortable silence. Madeline had spoken with so much feeling that I felt it would be better to change the subject. But I could think of nothing to say, and we sat looking at one another. At last I said, merely to break the silence "I think one of the greatest absurdities in connection with marriage is the habit people have of treating married people as if they were older than unmarried people of the same age." "They are certainly younger," said Madeline. "In spite of household cares?" asked George. "I never can see why people should talk as if only married people had cares," said I. "As if household happiness were not as much a part of married life as household cares," said Madeline. "I get very tired of hearing people extol marriage in the abstract, while they make out that, in actual life, it is nothing but a tissue of petty worries." "I expect worry averages much the same among married people as among the unmarried," said George. "Of course it does." And then, with involuntary earnestness, Madeline added, "Only with married people the worries are easier to bear, because there are two backs to every burden." She checked herself abruptly. A sudden rush of feeling had made her speak with a warmth that was hardly judicious. She made some excuse about its getting late and the children's tea-time, and left us hurriedly. In a few seconds George Henderson bethought himself that a short walk would be pleasant before dinner, and I was left alone with Mrs. Barnard and Sir Thomas. "What is the matter with Madeline?" said Mrs. Barnard; "and why did she go off in that sudden way?" "She said it was tea-time, and she must go home to the children," said I. "It wants half-an-hour to tea-time," said Mrs. Barnard; "she need not have hurried off in that way. I am going home myself in a few minutes, and we might have gone together." "Well, but as your daughter has deserted you, won't you stay and dine with us?" said Sir Thomas, graciously. I volunteered to take a message to the cottage, and Mrs. Barnard consented to remain. "There is something odd about Madeline," said Mrs. Barnard: "I thought she was looking pale and languid while she was sitting here just now. I don't think she can be well. She reads too much at night." 66 'Ah, that's bad," said Sir Thomas; "it shatters the nerves. Bring her to my wife to be doctored, if she is not quite the right thing. Or send her to Brighton to be braced a little. Girls do get languid in the spring." "I don't think Madeline is languid," I said, anxious to save her from transporta |