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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
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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｝
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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
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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 b