But I have given enough examples for what would form Part I. of the English anthology. Part II. would consist of really bad verses from really great poetry.

Auspicious Reverence, hush all meaner song,

is one of the most pompously stupid lines in English poetry. Arnold did not hesitate to quote instances from Shakespeare:--

Till that Bellona's bridegroom, lapp'd in proof, Confronted him with self-comparisons.

You would have to sacrifice Browning, because it might fairly be concluded--well, anything might be concluded about Browning. Byron is, of course, a mine. Arthur Hugh Clough is, perhaps, the 'flawless numskull,' as, I think, Swinburne calls him. Tennyson surpa.s.sed

A Mr. Wilkinson, a clergyman,

in many of his serious poems.

To travellers indeed the sea Must always interesting be

I have heard ascribed to Wordsworth, but wrongly, I believe. I should, of course, exclude from the collection living writers; only the select dead would be requisitioned. They cannot retort. And the entertaining volume would ill.u.s.trate that curious artistic law--the survival of the unfittest, of which we are only dimly beginning to realise the significance. It is like the immortality of the invalid, now recognised by all men of science. You see it manifested in the plethora of memoirs.

All new books not novels are about great dead men by unimportant little living ones. When I am asked, as I have been, to write recollections of certain 'people of importance,' as Dante says, I feel the force of that law very keenly.

_To_ FREDERICK STANLEY SMITH, ESQ.

SWINBLAKE: A PROPHETIC BOOK, WITH HOME ZARATHRUSTS.

Every student of Blake has read, or must read, Mr. Swinburne's extraordinary essay, _William Blake: a critical study_, of which a new edition was recently published. It would be idle at this time of day to criticise. Much has been discovered, and more is likely to be discovered, about Blake since 1866. The interest of the book, for us, is chiefly reflex. _And does not the great mouth laugh at a gift_, if scheduled in an examination paper with the irritating question, 'From what author does this quotation come?' would probably elicit the reply, 'Swinburne.' Yet it occurs in one of Blake's prophetic books.

How fascinated Blake would have been with Mr. Swinburne if by some exquisite accident he had lived _after_ him. We should have had, I fancy, another Prophetic Book; something of this kind:

Swinburne roars and shakes the world's literature-- The English Press, and a good many contemporaries-- Tennyson palls, Browning is found-- Only a brownie-- The mountains divide, the Press is unanimous-- Aylwin is born-- On a perilous path, on the cliff of immortality-- I met Theodormon-- He seemed sad: I said, 'Why are you sad-- Are you writing the long-promised life-- Of Dante Gabriel Rossetti?'-- He sighed and said, 'No, not that-- Not that, my child-- I consigned the task to William Michael-- Pre-Raphaelite memoirs are cheap to-day-- You can have them for a s.e.xtet or an octave.'-- I brightened and said, 'Then you are writing a sonnet?'

He shook his head and said it was symbolical-- For six and eightpence!-- A golden rule: Never lend only George Borrow--

A new century had begun, and I asked Theodormon what he was doing on that path and where Mr. Swinburne was. Beneath us yawned the gulf of oblivion.

'Be careful, young man, not to tumble over; are you a poet or a biographer?'

I explained that I was merely a tourist. He gave a sigh of relief: 'I have an appointment here with my only disciple, Mr. Howlgla.s.s; if you are not careful he may write an appreciation of you.'

'My dear Theodormon, if you will show me how to reach Mr. Swinburne I will help you.'

'I swear by the most sacred of all oaths, by Aylwin, you shall see Swinburne.'

Just then we saw a young man coming along the path with a Kodak and a pink evening paper. He seemed pleased to see me, and said, 'May I appreciate you?'

I gave the young man a push and he fell right over the cliff. Theodormon threw down after him a heavy-looking book which, alighting on his skull, smashed it. 'My preserver,' he cried, 'you shall see what you like, you shall do what you like, except write my biography. Swinburne is close at hand, though he occasionally wanders. His permanent address is the Peaks, Parna.s.sus. Perhaps you would like to pay some other calls as well.'

I a.s.sented.

We came to a printing-house and found William Morris reverting to type and transmitting art to the middle cla.s.ses.

'The great Tragedy of Topsy's life,' said Theodormon, 'is that he converted the middle cla.s.ses to art and socialism, but he never touched the unbending Tories of the proletariat or the smart set. You would have thought, on h.o.m.oeopathic principles, that cretonne would appeal to cretins.'

'Vale, vale,' cried Charles Ricketts from the interior.

I was rather vexed, as I wanted to ask Ricketts his opinions about various things and people and to see his wonderful collection. Shannon, however, presented me with a lithograph and a copy of 'Memorable Fancies,' by C. R.

How sweet I roamed from school to school, But I attached myself to none; I sat upon my ancient Dial And watched the other artists' fun.

Will Rothenstein can guard the faith, Safe for the Academic fold; 'Twas very wise of William Strang, What need have I of Chantrey's gold?

Let the old masters be my share, And let them fall on B. B.'s corn; Let the Uffizi take to Steer-- What do I care for Herbert Horne

Or the stately Holmes of England, Whose glories never fade; The Constable of Burlington, Who holds the Oxford Slade.

It's t.i.tian here and t.i.tian there, And come to have a look; But 'thanks of course Giorgione,'

With Mr. Herbert Cook.

For MacColl is an intellectual thing, And Hugh P. Lane keeps Dublin awake, And Fry to New York has taken wing, And Charles Holroyd has got the cake.

After turning round a rather sharp corner I began to ask Theodormon if John Addington Symonds was anywhere to be found. He smiled, and said: 'I know why you are asking. Of course he _is_ here, but we don't see much of him. He published, at the Kelmscott, the other day, "An Ode to a Grecian Urning." The proceeds of the sale went to the Arts and Krafts Ebbing Guild, but the issue of "Aretino's Bosom, and other Poems," has been postponed.'

We now reached a graceful Renaissance building covered with blossoms; on each side of the door were two blue-breeched gondoliers smoking calamus.

Theodormon hurried on, whispering: '_That_ is where he lives. If you want to see Swinburne you had better make haste, as it is getting late, and I want you to inspect the Castalian spring.'

The walking became very rough just here; it was really climbing. Suddenly I became aware of dense smoke emerging with a rumbling sound from an overhanging rock.

'I had no idea Parna.s.sus was volcanic now,' I remarked.

'No more had we,' said Theodormon; 'it is quite a recent eruption due to the Celtic movement. The rock you see, however, is not a real rock, but a sham rock. Mr. George Moore has been turned out of the cave, and is still hovering about the entrance.'

Looming through the smoke, which hung like a veil of white muslin between us, I was able to trace the silhouette of that engaging countenance which Edouard Manet and others have immortalised. 'Go away,' he said: 'I do not want to speak to you.' 'Come, come, Mr. Moore,' I rejoined, 'will you not grant a few words to a really warm admirer?'--but he had faded away. Then a large hand came out of the cavern and handed me a piece of paper, and a deep voice with a slight brogue said: 'If you see mi darlin'

Gosse give this to him.' The paper contained these verses:--

Georgey Morgie, kidden and sly, Kissed the girls and made them cry; _What_ the girls came out to say George never heard, for he ran away.

W. B. Y

We skirted the edge of a thick wood. A finger-post pointed to the Castalian spring, and a notice-board indicated _Trespa.s.sers will be prosecuted_. _The lease to be disposed of. Apply to G. K. Chesterton_.

Soon we came to an open s.p.a.ce in which was situated a large, rather dilapidated marble tank. I noticed that the water did not reach further than the bathers' stomachs. Theodormon antic.i.p.ated my surprise. 'Yes, we have had to depress the level of the water during the last few years out of compliment to some of the bathers, and there have been a good many bathing fatalities of a very depressing description.'

'You don't mean to say,' I replied, 'Richard le Gallienne?'

'Hush! hush! he was rescued.'

'Stephen Phillips?' I asked, anxiously.

'Well, he couldn't swim, of course, but he floated; you see he had the Sidney Colvin lifebelt on, and that is always a great a.s.sistance.'