letters on literature-第3章

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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。　　I　remember　taking　up　the　quarto　in　white　cloth；　at　the　Oxford

Union；　and　being　instantly　led　captive　by　the　beauty　and　originality

of　the　verse。



There　was　this　novel　〃meteoric〃　character　in　the　poem：　　the　writer

seemed　to　rejoice　in　snow　and　fire；　and　stars；　and　storm；　〃the　blue

cold　fields　and　folds　of　air；〃　in　all　the　primitive　forces　which

were　alive　before　this　earth　was；　the　naked　vast　powers　that　circle

the　planets　and　farthest　constellations。　　This　quality；　and　his

varied　and　sonorous　verse；　and　his　pessimism；　put　into　the　mouth　of

a　Greek　chorus；　were　the　things　that　struck　one　most　in　Mr。

Swinburne。　　He　was；　above　all；　〃a　mighty…mouthed　inventer　of

harmonies；〃　and　one　looked　eagerly　for　his　next　poems。　　They　came

with　disappointment　and　trouble。



The　famous　〃Poems　and　Ballads〃　have　become　so　well　known　that　people

can　hardly　understand　the　noise　they　made。　　I　don't　wonder　at　the

scandal；　even　now。　　I　don't　see　the　fun　of　several　of　the　pieces；

except　the　mischievous　fun　of　shocking　your　audience。　　However；　〃The

Leper〃　and　his　company　are　chiefly　boyish；　in　the　least　favourable

sense　of　the　word。　　They　do　not　destroy　the　imperishable　merit　of

the　〃Hymn　to　Proserpine〃　and　the　〃Garden　of　Proserpine〃　and　the

〃Triumph　of　Time〃　and　〃Itylus。〃



Many　years　have　passed　since　1866；　and　yet　one's　old　opinion；　that

English　poetry　contains　no　verbal　music　more　original；　sonorous；　and

sweet　than　Mr。　Swinburne　wrote　in　these　pieces　when　still　very

young；　remains　an　opinion　unshaken。　　Twenty　years　ago；　then；　he　had

enabled　the　world　to　take　his　measure；　he　had　given　proofs　of　a　true

poet；　he　was　learned　too　in　literature　as　few　poets　have　been　since

Milton；　and；　like　Milton；　skilled　to　make　verse　in　the　languages　of

the　ancient　world　and　in　modern　tongues。　　His　French　songs　and　Greek

elegiacs　are　of　great　excellence；　probably　no　scholar　who　was　not

also　a　poet　could　match　his　Greek　lines　on　Landor。



What；　then；　is　lacking　to　make　Mr。　Swinburne　a　poet　of　a　rank　even

higher　than　that　which　he　occupies？　　Who　can　tell？　　There　is　no

science　that　can　master　this　chemistry　of　the　brain。　　He　is　too

copious。　　〃Bothwell〃　is　long　enough　for　six　plays；　and　〃Tristram　of

Lyonesse〃　is　prolix　beyond　even　mediaeval　narrative。　　He　is　too

pertinacious；　children　are　the　joy　of　the　world　and　Victor　Hugo　is　a

great　poet；　but　Mr。　Swinburne　almost　makes　us　excuse　Herod　and

Napoleon　III。　by　his　endless　odes　to　Hugo；　and　rondels　to　small　boys

and　girls。　　Ne　quid　nimis；　that　is　the　golden　rule　which　he

constantly　spurns；　being　too　luxuriant；　too　emphatic；　and　as　fond　of

repeating　himself　as　Professor　Freeman。　　Such　are　the　defects　of　so

noble　a　genius；　thus　perverse　Nature　has　decided　that　it　shall　be；

Nature　which　makes　no　ruby　without　a　flaw。



The　name　of　Mr。　Robert　Bridges　is　probably　strange　to　many　lovers　of

poetry　who　would　like　nothing　better　than　to　make　acquaintance　with

his　verse。　　But　his　verse　is　not　so　easily　found。　　This　poet　never

writes　in　magazines；　his　books　have　not　appealed　to　the　public　by

any　sort　of　advertisement；　only　two　or　three　of　them　have　come　forth

in　the　regular　way。　　The　first　was　〃Poems；　by　Robert　Bridges；

Batchelor　of　Arts　in　the　University　of　Oxford。　　Parva　seges　satis

est。　　London：　　Pickering；　1873。〃



This　volume　was　presently；　I　fancy；　withdrawn；　and　the　author　has

distributed　some　portions　of　it　in　succeeding　pamphlets；　or　in　books

printed　at　Mr。　Daniel's　private　press　in　Oxford。　　In　these；　as　in

all　Mr。　Bridges's　poems；　there　is　a　certain　austere　and　indifferent

beauty　of　diction　and　a　memory　of　the　old　English　poets；　Milton　and

the　earlier　lyrists。　　I　remember　being　greatly　pleased　with　the

〃Elegy　on　a　Lady　whom　Grief　for　the　Death　of　Her　Betrothed　Killed。〃





〃Let　the　priests　go　before；　arrayed　in　white；

And　let　the　dark…stoled　minstrels　follow　slow

Next　they　that　bear　her；　honoured　on　this　night；

And　then　the　maidens　in　a　double