above him in a sublime solitude, the soul of Milton dwells apart like a star; or because in a region of unapproachable beauty, our sage and sacred poet Spenser, rehearses the story of his " Faerie Queene."

STANLEY. The question to be discussed, with reference to Mr. Ruskin's argument, is whether common-place or second-rate poetry is to be tolerated.

Right glad should I be to see the whole of it burnt on one vast pyre, 66

more to encumber the ground.”

never

TALBOT. "Common-place poetry" strikes me as a term without meaning. No verse that has the slightest claim to be termed "poetry," can be "common-place." It is quite possible, however, that it may be second-rate in quality; and it is against poetry of this stamp that Mr. Ruskin wages war. "No one," he says, 6. should be allowed to trouble the world with it." But if the world asks for it, we may conclude the world needs it; and I believe there is far more demand for poetry of this class than for the great works of the greatest masters. I believe, too, there are moments when men even of high intellect, will prefer a simple touching song, full of heart, if not of inspiration, to the sublimest effort of a Milton, or a Dante.

HARTLEY. You are right, Talbot; and this belief of yours has been well expressed by Longfellow, who, after describing the sense of sadness" not akin to pain,” which comes over him at the evening hour, adds:—

"Come read to me some poem,

Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.

TALBOT. An apt though very familiar quotation. Truly a simple poem like this may be loved as much and repeated as often by the man who knows "the master's hand upon the chords," and who is familiar with the greatest works of the greatest poets, as by the seventeen-year-old maiden, whose world of poetry is limited to "Lalla Rookh," the occasional verses of Mrs. Hemans, and L. E. L., of Longfellow, and Tennyson. Indeed these stanzas answer Mr. Ruskin in words more effective than any which we could utter; for the "humbler poet," of whom Longfellow speaks, evidently belongs to that

third order, the existence of which the author of “Modern Painters" so dogmatically ignores.

HARTLEY. Wrong in this instance, as in many others, Mr. Ruskin is, in the main, not only one of the most eloquent, but also one of the most right-thinking of living authors. His antipathies are strong, but his likings are stronger. Such a man may have determined enemies, he must have warm friends. I differ continually from Ruskin in the particulars of his criticism, but seldom with regard to the principles upon which his assertions are based.

TALBOT. What noble examples of rural poetry in prose might be selected from his works.

HARTLEY. Yet there is a want of spontaneity about They appear to me to be too much worked at, and

them.

elaborated.

TALBOT. They show, however, a marvellous amount of clearsightedness and subtle knowledge, and that heartfelt love for nature which cannot be assumed. I know nothing more beautiful in its way, than a finely imaginative passage on the grass, which, if it were not so long, I should like to read to you.

STANLEY. I remember it well. It is a poem and sermon in one, and a glorious piece of composition.

HARTLEY. By all means, let us hear it. It will fit in well with our topic.

TALBOT. A portion of it shall suffice. A prose extract from a living writer, which is not a criticism on some rural poet, cannot be considered in order. But what matter? If we choose to flit from Pope to Ruskin, who shall gainsay our election?

"The fields! Follow but forth for a little time the thoughts of all that we ought to recognise in those words. All spring and summer is in them-the walks by silent, scented pathsthe rests in noonday heat, the joy of herds and flocks-the power of all shepherd-life and meditation, the life of sunlight upon the world, falling in emerald streaks, and sailing in soft blue shadows, where else it would have struck upon the dark mould, or scorching dust-pastures beside the pacing brookssoft banks and knolls of lowly hills, thymy slopes of down overlooked by the blue line of lifted sea —crisp lawns all dim with early dew, or smooth in evening warmth of barred sunshine, dinted by happy feet, and softening in their fall the sound of loving voices; all these are summed up in those simple words; and these are not all. We may not measure to the full the depth of this heavenly gift, in our own land; though, as we think of it longer, the infinite of that meadow sweetness, Shakspeare's peculiar joy, would open on us more and more, yet we have it but in part. Go out in the springtime, among the meadows that slope from the shores of the Swiss lakes to the roots of their lower mountains. There, mingled with the taller gentians and the white narcissus, the grass grows deep and free; and as you follow the winding mountain paths, beneath arching boughs all veiled and dim with blossom-paths that for ever droop and rise over the green banks and mounds sweeping down in scented undulation, steep to the blue water, studded here and there with new-mown heaps, filling all the air with fainter sweetness-look up towards the higher hills, where the waves of everlasting green roll silently into their long inlets among the shadows of the pines; and we may perhaps at last know the meaning of those quiet words of the 147th Psalm, 'He maketh grass to grow upon the mountains.' There are also several lessons symbolically connected with this subject which we must not allow to escape us. Observe, the peculiar characters of the grass, which adapt it especially for the service of man, are its apparent humility and cheerfulness. Its humility, in that it seems created only for lowest service-appointed to be trodden on, and fed

upon. Its cheerfulness, in that it seems to exult under all kinds of violence and suffering. You roll it, and it is stronger the next day; you mow it, and it multiplies its shoots, as if it were grateful; you tread upon it, and it only sends up richer perfume. Spring comes, and it rejoices with all the earthglowing with variegated flame of flowers-waving in soft depth of fruitful strength.⚫ Winter comes, and though it will not mock its fellow plants by growing then, it will not pine and mourn, and turn colourless or leafless as they. It is always green; and is only the brighter and gayer for the hoar frost."

HARTLEY. We have rant enough in these days about the beauties of God's earth. It is no small boon to meet with a man to whom the secret treasures of the earth are unveiled, who has a heart susceptible enough to yield its fealty to the humblest and most unobtrusive forms of beauty, and a mind strong enough to apprehend and to describe Nature in her sublimest and most solitary paths.

TALBOT. On what poet are we to sit to-night? It is surely time that we should commence our task.

STANLEY. As the author of one of the best descriptive poems in the language, and as the most notable of Cowper's immediate predecessors, I think that the fat bard of "The Seasons" has the nearest claim on our attention.

HARTLEY. "O, Jemmy Thomson, Jemmy Thomson, O!" A true poet, I doubt not, but I never felt my affections drawn towards him; nor could I, even in the Arcadian days of childhood, gather much delight from "The Seasons." James Thomson was a good-natured, easy, indifferent sort of man; inspired, doubtless, in his charac