In that garden fair
Came Lancelot walking; this is true, the kiss
Wherewith we kissed in meeting that spring
day,

I scarce dare talk of the remembered bliss,

When both our mouths went wandering in

one way;

And, aching sorely, met among the leaves,
Our hands being left behind strained far

away.

To say that Lancelot and Guinevere kissed each other would certainly have been ordinary, and Mr. Morris's way of stating the fact is original; but since it is not possible that the kiss could have been performed as he describes it-for although the lovers might have restrained their natural impulse to embrace as well as kiss, and might have kept their hands before them or at their sides, it is inconceivable that they should have poked their hands out behind them while craning their necks forward to bring their lips together - we must conclude that Mr. Morris considered it a less evil to be fantastic than to be commonplace. Mr. D. G. Rossetti has written several poems which seem to me imperishably great; but he also has suffered from the tyrannical necessity of being original, after nature has been laid under contribution by poets for thousands of years. It would have been as commonplace for Mr. Rossetti to say that he sat musing on the grass, as for Mr. Morris to say that Lancelot took Guinevere into his arms and kissed her. Accordingly Mr. Rossetti writes thus:

The wind flapped loose, the wind was still,
Shaken out dead from tree and hill:
I had walked on at the wind's will, -
I sat now, for the wind was still.

missible to say so commonplace a thing as that he sat on a green bank and meditated. From the works of Mr. Browning, and even from those of Mr. Tennyson, illustration might be derived of the shuddering horror with which modern poets avoid commonplace; and the oddities and eccentricities of painters during the present century have been equally conspicuous. I recollect seeing a picture of St. George and the dragon, by an artist admired by many eloquent young ladies, in which the dragon looked like a large green lizard, and St. George like a medical gentleman administering to it, by means of a long glass bottle which he poked into its mouth, a dose of castor-oil. I was given to understand that the piece had a profound spiritual significance, but I had not soul enough to comprehend it.

If the necessity of being original lies hard upon poets in these days, is it not all the more, on that account, the duty of critics to press upon them the equally inexorable necessity of resisting the fas cinations of false and affected originality? Novelty is essential to art; every genuine art-product, in sculpture, in painting, in poetry, is unique: but it is intensely untrue that everything that is novel and unparalleled is art; and so easy is it to ape or to travesty right newness, that Whitman's conscious and trumpeted purpose to produce something original ought to have been, in the eyes of critics so acute as Dr. Dowden and so accomplished as Mr. W. Rossetti, a presumption that the originality forthcoming would be spurious. Every art-product is new, but every art-product is also old; and the operation of producing a true poem or picture an operation too subtle to be described in words or executed by rule consists essentially in combining newness of form and colour and musical harmony with oldness of principle and law. An some-illustration of this union, applicable, to my thinking, with scientific accuracy to the case in hand, is afforded by nature every spring. When the brown hillside breaks, as Goethe finely says, into a wave of green, every hollow of blue shade, every curve of tuft, and plume, and tendril, every broken sun-gleam on spray of young leaves, is new. No spring is a represen tation of any former spring. And yet the. laws of chemistry and of vegetable life are unchanging. The novelty that the poet must give us is the novelty of spring; and the transcendant but inevitable difficulty of poetical originality lies in this, that the limits of variation within which

Between my knees my forehead was, —
My lips, drawn in, said not, Alas!
My hair was over in the grass,
My naked ears heard the day pass.

Original, no doubt, but is it not
what odd? The posture described is gro-
tesque, and in a room, when attempted by
persons making no claim to the character
of poet, cannot be achieved; but even on
a peculiarly formed bank in the country,
it would be uncomfortable. The feat per-
formed by Mr. Rossetti might be recom-
mended to professors of gymnastics, and,
perhaps, if one sat with his head between
his knees and his hair in the grass for an
hour, the acoustic nerve would become so
sensitive through torture that he could
"hear the day pass;" but it is not easy
to believe that the lines would have been
as they are, if Mr. Rossetti had felt it ad-

he is permitted to work are narrow. His makes some approach to the perspicuity, poetry must be as different from that of compression, vividness, and force of good any other poet as one spring is different writing in general. If his English critics from another; but it must not be more so. had contented themselves with discrimiIt is a fundamental principle, laid down nating between what is passibly good and by that ancient nation which was inspired what is insufferably bad in his work, comto write the bible of art, that all gigan- mending the former and condemning the tesque, eccentric, distorted, extravagant latter, not a word would have been written art is barbarous. By working in the spirit by me upon the subject. Dr. Dowden, of the lesson taught it once and forever Mr. Rossetti, Mr. Buchanan, and, most by Greece, Europe has gone beyond vociferously of all, Mr. Swinburne, accept Greece; but as far as Europe, in Shake- him at his own valuation as "the greatest speare, has transcended Greece, so far of American voices," and the poet of will America fall behind and below not democracy. To do so is to wrong the Europe only, but Egypt, Babylon, and true poets whom America has produced, Assyria, if she cast the lesson of Greece and to strike a pang as of despair into the to the winds and consent to the identifi- hearts of those who, amid all short-comcation of democracy with lawless extrav-ings and delinquencies, amid Fiske trageagance. It would, I belive, be unfair to dies and Tammany Rings, refuse to bethe Americans to speak of them as lieve that democracy means dissolution, pledged to admiration of Whitman. They are not afraid to give every one a hearing, and in this they are bravely right; but they have a way, also, of getting, sooner or later, at the true value of a man, and I rather think they have found Whitman out. I have produced abundant evidence to prove that he exceeds all the bounds fixed to sound poetical originality, and is merely grotesque, and surprising.

and that the consummation of freedom must be an exchange of the genial bonds and decent amenities of civilization for infra-bestial license. Originality, true and clear, characterizes the real pocts of America. There is in them a fragrance and flavour native to the American scil, a something that gives them a character as distinctive as marks off the Elizabethans from Milton, or distinguishes Pope and It is instructive to note that, whenever his school from recent English poets. Whitman is, comparatively speaking, ra- More than this was not to be looked for tional and felicitous, his writing becomes or desired; the strong presumption was proportionally like that of other people. that more than this would indicate monOf really good poetical work there is, in-strosity, debility, or affectation; and this deed, in those of his poems known to me presumption has been verified by Whitand I have read, with desperate reso- man. Nature in America is different from lution, a great deal both of his prose and nature in Europe, but we do not, in crosshis verse, including productions which his ing the Atlantic, pass from cosmos into eulogists specifically extol - very little. chaos; and Mr. Carlyle's expression, Even his best passages have this charac-"winnowings of chaos," would be a canteristic of inferior writing, that they deal with sensational subjects and fierce excitements. His lack of delicate and deep sensibility is proved by his producing horror when he aims at pathos. The true masters of pathos obtain their greatest effects by means that seem slight. A Shakespeare, a Goethe, will make all generations mourn over the sorrows of an Italian girl, of a German grisette; a daisy, a mouse, a wounded hare, evoke touches of immortal pathos from Burns. Whitman must have his scores massacred, his butcherly apparatus of blood and mangled flesh, his extremity of peril in storm, his melodramatic exaggeration of courage in battle. But it is in the few sketches of such scenes, occurring in the poem called "Walt Whitman," that he is most successful; and then his affectations fall, to a refreshing extent, from his loins, and he

didly scientific description of Whitman's poetry if only it were possible to associate with it the idea of any winnowing process whatever. Street sweepings of lumber - land - disjointed fragments of truth, tossed in wild whirl with disjointed fragments of falsehood - gleams of beauty that have lost their way in a waste of ugli ness- such are the contents of what he calls his poems. If here and there we have tints of healthful beauty, and tones of right and manly feeling, they but suffice to prove that he can write sanely and sufferably when he pleases, that his mon

These words are Mr. Swinburne's, and perhaps would not be endorsed by the others. I take this opby Mr. Swinburne (in a republished essay on the text portunity of protesting against certain comments made of Shelley) on an article written by me for this review in the year 1957. I do not say what Mr. Swinburne represents me as saying, and what I did say can be proved to be grammatically correct.

a

From Macmillan's Magazine.

THE CURATE IN CHARGE.

CHAPTER XIV.

strosities and solecisms are sheer affectation, that he is not mad, but only counterHe is in no sense feits madness. superlatively able man, and it was beyond MILDMAY made his way back to Oxford his powers to make for himself a legiti mate poetical reputation. No man of high without any delay. He knew that the capacity could be so tumid and tautolog- master of the college, who was a man icil as he could talk, for instance, of the with a family, had not yet set out on the But I must add fluid wet" of the sea; or speak of the inevitable autumn tour. aroma of his armpits, or make the crass that, though no man could have been more and vile mistake of bringing into light anxious to obtain preferment in his own what nature veils, and confounding liberty person than he was to transfer his preferwith dissolute anarchy. The poet of de- ment to another, yet various doubts of the mocracy he is not; but his books may practicability of what he was going to atserve to buoy, for the democracy of Amer- tempt interfered, as he got further and ica, those shallows and sunken rocks on further from Brentburn, with the enthusiwhich if it is cast, it must inevitably, asm which had sprung up so warmly in amid the hootings of mankind, be wrecked. Cicely's presence. It would be very diffiAlways, unless he chooses to contradict cult, he felt, to convey to the master the himself for the sake of paradox, his polit- same clear perception of the rights of the ical doctrine is the consecration of muti- case as had got into his own head by nous independence and rabid egotism and what he had seen and heard at the recimpudent conceit. In his ideal city "the tory; and if all he made by his hesitation men and women think lightly of the laws." was to throw the living into the hands of His advice is to resist much and to obey Ruffhead! For Brentburn was no longer little. This is the political philosophy of an indifferent place-the same as any bedlam, unchained in these ages chiefly other in the estimation of the young don'; through the influence of Rousseau, which quite the reverse; it was very interesting has blasted the hopes of freedom wher- to him now. Notwithstanding the bran ever it has had the chance, and which new church, he felt that no other parish must be chained up again with ineffable under the sun was half so attractive. contempt if the self-government of na-churchyard, with those two narrow threads tions is to mean anything else than the of paths; the windows, with the lights in death and putrescence of civilization. Incapable of true poetical originality, Whitman had the cleverness to invent a literary trick, and the shrewdness to stick to it. As a Yankee phenomenon, to be goodhumouredly laughed at, and to receive that moderate pecuniary remuneration which quacks, he nature allows to vivacious would have been in his place; but when influential critics introduce him to the English public as a great poet, the thing becomes too serious for a joke. While reading Whitman, in the recollection of what had been said of him by those gentlemen, I realized with bitter painfulness how deadly is the peril that our literature may pass into conditions of horrible disease, the raging flame of fever taking the place of natural heat, the ravings of delirium superseding the enthusiasm of poetical imagination, the distortings of tetanic spasm caricaturing the movements, dancelike and music-measured, of harmonious strength. Therefore I suspended more congenial work to pen this little counterblast to literary extravagance and affectaPETER BAYNE.

tion.

The

them, which glimmered within sight of
the grave; the old-fashioned, sunny gar-
den; the red cottages, with not one wall
which was not awry, and projecting at
every conceivable angle; the common,
with its flush of heather-all these had
come out of the unknown, and made them-
selves plain and apparent to him. He
felt Brentburn to be in a manner his own;
a thing which he would be willing to give
to Mr. St. John, or rather to lend him for
his lifetime; but he did not feel the least
inclination to let it fall into the hands of
Neither did he feel in-
any other man.
clined to do as Mr. Chester, the late rec-
tor, had done to expatriate himself, and
leave the work of his parish to the curate
in charge. Besides, he could not do this,
for he was in perfect health; and he
could neither tell the necessary lie him-
self, nor, he thought, get any doctor to
tell it for him. As he got nearer and
nearer to the moment which must decide
all these uncertainties, he got more and
more confused and troubled in his mind.
The master was the college, as it hap-
pened at that moment; he was by far the
most influential and the most powerful
person in it; and what he said was the

thing that would be done. Mildmay ac- | sure, your living. You have been to see cordingly took his way with very mingled it? Well! and how do you think it will feelings, across the quadrangle to the feel to be an orderly rector, setting a good beautiful and picturesque old house in example, instead of enjoying yourself, and which this potentate dwelt. Had he any collecting crockery here?" right to attempt to make such a bargain as was in his mind? It was enough that the living had been offered to him. What had he to say but yes or no?

That was a cruel speech, and Mildmay grew red at the unworthy title crockery; but the master's savage sentiments on this subject were known. What is a man with eight children to be expected to know about rare china?

66

"I believe there are much better collections than mine in some country rectories," he said; "but never mind; I want to speak to you of something more interesting than crockery. I do not think I can take Brentburn."

The master framed his lips into that shape which in a profane and secular person would have produced a whistle of surprise. "So!" he said, "you don't like it? But I thought you were set upon it. All the better for poor Ruffhead, who will now be able to marry after all."

The master's house was in a state of confusion when Mildmay entered it. The old hall was full of trunks, the oaken staircase encumbered with servants and young people running up and down in all the bustle of a move. Eight children of all ages, and half as many servants, was the master-brave man ! — about to carry off to Switzerland. The packing was terrible, and not less terrible the feelings of the heads of the expedition, who were at that moment concluding their last calculation of expenses, and making up little bundles of circular notes. "Here is Mr. Mildmay," said the master's wife, "and, thank heaven! this reckoning up is "That is just what I wanted to speak to over;" and she escaped with a relieved you about," said Mildmay, embarrassed. countenance, giving the new comer a smile "I don't want it to fall to Ruffhead. Lisof gratitude. The head of the college ten, before you say anything! I don't was slightly flustrated, if such a vulgar want to play the part of the dog in the word can be used of such a sublime per- manger. Ruffhead is young, and so am I; son. I hope no one will suspect me of but, my dear master, listen to me. The Romanizing tendencies, but perhaps a pale curate in charge, Mr. St. John, is not ecclesiastic, worn with thought, and un-young; he has been twenty years at Brenttroubled by children, would have been more like the typical head of a college than this comely yet careworn papa. The idea, however, flashed through Mildmay's mind, who had the greatest reverence for the master, that these very cares, this evident partaking of human nature's most ordinary burdens, would make the great don feel for the poor curate. Does not a touch of nature make the whole world kin?

66

"Well, Mildmay," said the master, come to say good-bye? You are just in time. We are off to-night by the Antwerp boat, which we have decided is the best way with our enormous party." Here the good man sighed. "Where are you going? You young fellows don't know you're born, as people say-coming and going, whenever the fancy seizes you, as light as a bird. Ah! wait till you have eight children, my dear fellow, to drag about the world."

"That could not be for some time, at least," said Mildmay, with a laugh; "but I am not so disinterested in my visit as to have come merely to say good-bye. I wanted to speak to you about Brentburn." "Ah-oh," said the master; "to be

burn, a laborious excellent clergyman. Think how it would look in any other profession, if either Ruffhead or I should thus step over his head."

"The curate in charge!" said the master, bewildered. "What are you talking about? What has he to do with it? I know nothing about your curate in charge."

"Of course you don't; and therefore there seemed to be some hope in coming to tell you. He is a member of our own college; that of itself is something. He used to know you, he says, long ago, when he was an undergraduate. He has been Chester's curate at Brentburn, occupying the place of the incumbent, and doing everything for twenty years; and now that Chester is dead, there is nothing for him but to be turned out at a moment's notice, and to seek his bread, at over sixty, somewhere else—and he has children too."

This last sentence was added at a venture to touch the master's sympathies; but I don't think that dignitary perceived the application; for what is there in common between the master of a college and a poor curate? He shook his head with, however, that sympathetic gravity and deference towards misfortune which no man

who respects himself ever refuses to show.

"St. John, St. John?" he said. "Yes, I think I recollect the name: very tall stoops -a peaceable sort of being? Yes. So he's Chester's curate? Who would have thought it? I suppose he started in life as well as Chester did, or any of us. What has possessed him to stay so long there?" "Well

thirty years' experience, and is thoroughly
known and loved by the people. What
can anybody think - what can any one
say-if one of us miserable subalterns is
put over that veteran's head? Where but
in the Church could such a thing be done
|—without at least such a clamour as
would set half England by the ears?"

66

Softly, softly," cried the master. "(Get away, you little imp. I'll come presently.) he is, as you say, a peaceable You mustn't abuse the Church, Mildmay. mild man; not one to push himself "Our arrangements may be imperfect, as "Push himself!" cried the master; indeed all arrangements are which are left "not much of that I should think. But in human hands. But, depend upon it, even if you don't push yourself, you needn't the system is the best that could be destay for twenty years a curate. What does vised; and there is no real analogy behe mean by it? I am afraid there must tween the two professions. A soldier is be something wrong." helpless who can only buy his promotion, and has no money to buy it with. But a clergyman has a hundred ways of making his qualifications known, and as a matter of fact I think preferment is very justly distributed. I have known dozens of men, with no money and very little influence, whose talents and virtues alone - but you must know that as well as I do. In this case there must be something behind something wrong- - extreme indolence, or incapacity, or something

"And I am quite sure there is nothing wrong," cried Mildmay, warmly, "unless devotion to thankless work, and forgetfulness of self is wrong; for that is all his worst enemy can lay to his charge."

"You are very warm about it," said the master, with some surprise; "which does you credit, Mildmay. But, my dear fellow, what do you expect me - what do you expect the college to do? We can't provide for our poor members who let them selves drop out of sight and knowledge. "There is nothing but extreme modPerhaps if you don't take the living, and esty, and a timid retiring disposition." Ruffhead does, you might speak to him to Yes, yes, yes," cried the master; keep your friend on as curate. But I have" these are the pretty names for it. Indonothing to do with that kind of arrange-lence which does nothing for itself, and ment. And I'm sure you will excuse me when I tell you we start to-night."

"Master," said Mildmay, solemnly, "when you hear of a young colonel of thirty promoted over the head of an old captain of twice his age, what do you Say?"

66

66

hangs a dead weight upon friends. Now, tell me seriously and soberly, why do you come to me with this story? What, in such a case, do you suppose I can do?"

"If you were a private patron," said Mildmay, "I should say boldly, I have come to ask you to give this living to the Say, sir!" cried the master, whose best man the man who has a right to sentiments on this, as on most other sub-it; not a new man going to try experi jects, were well known; "say! why I say ments like myself, but one who knows it's a disgrace to the country. I say it's what he is doing, who has done all that the abominable system of purchase which has been done there for twenty years. I keeps our best soldiers languishing. Pray, would say you were bound to exercise what do you mean by that smile? You your private judgment on behalf of the know I have no patience to discuss such a parish in preference to all promises or question; and I cannot see what it has to supposed rights; and that you should offer do with what we were talking of," he add- the living of Brentburn to Mr. St. John ed, abruptly, breaking off with a look of without an hour's delay." defiance, for he suddenly saw the mistake he had made in Mildmay's face.

"Hasn't it?" said the other. "If you will think a moment Ruffhead and I are both as innocent of parochial knowledge as as little Ned there." (Ned at this moment had come to the window which opened upon the garden, and, knocking with impatient knuckles, had summoned his father out.) "Mr. St. John has some

66

"That is all very well," said the master, scratching his head, as if he had been a rustic clodhopper, instead of a learned and accomplished scholar, "and very well put, and perhaps true. I say, perhaps true, for of course this is only one side of the question. But I am not a private patron. I am only a sort of trustee of the patronage, exercising it in conjunction with various other people. Come, Mildmay, you