he was corrupted by the love of income, | Scott, Molière in the rank of primary, or it was in a romantic attempt to realize, in genuine poets, and leaves Milton among stone at Abbotsford, his ideal of a Scot- the secondary, at least excites suspicion. tish baronial hall, that he was ruined. In another line of production take Molière as an example. A decided, irresistible vocation drew him into dramatic composition. In vain his father's business opened to him an assured prospect of wealth. In vain his class-fellow, the Prince of Conti, offered him a place about the court, where he might have figured as a gentleman. The theatre, the passion of representation, had got entire possession of him, and drew him into a career, then the very reverse of lucrative, despised by the nobility, excommunicated by the church. Genius was not here allied with ambition, but encountered and overmastered ambition, prudence, prospects. I would not say that the theory ipso facto explodes itself by bringing out such a verdict. A critical doctrine endorsed by the name of Keble deserves not only respectful handling, but careful examination. The unkindness of his friends, which has hoisted his name into the position of a party-leader, has obscured Keble's valid claims to be a poet, and his still stronger claims as a feeling and appreciative critic of poetry. In this theory of poetry, in which spontaneity, or inspiration, is made the test of the primary, or true poet, and in which the source of poetry is found in seeking the relief of an overpowering feeling, lies, as it appears to me, the very truth. The true explanation of the poetic mysOverwhelming impulse in a fixed direc- tery, about which so much has been tion, instinct, inspiration, improvisation, written, is here. But confusedly appreentrainement, these are the character- hended, or imperfectly worked out, it has istics of the true poet. There is no led some critics, and even so genial a choosing, no deliberation, no interven-critic as Keble, into a general repudiation of will, but bacchatur vates si pectore possit Excussisse deum. Of all this, it is said, we find in Milton the very contrary. Long choosing, and beginning late," he does not know if he shall write prose or verse, an epic or a drama. He makes a list of nearly one hundred subjects, with the intention of comparing their possibilities for literary treatment. The subjects are suggested by his reading, not by his imagination. They are largely historical. He might have taken one as well as another. And when he does at last compel his reluctant muse to the task of composition, the product corresponds; a work of high art, elaborate mosaic, drawn from the stores of a vast reading. The vulgar have always found Milton's learning" a stumbling-block. The hostile critic finds in it an evidence of want of genius. There is high literary skill; there is no passionate devotion to some one class of objects or train of thought. There is an enthusiasm, but the enthusiasm of Milton is, like that of Rubens, an enthusiasm of his art, not of his subject. He is in every line conscious that he is the builder of the lofty rhyme. 66 The praise of poetic feeling, of true creative genius, belongs assuredly to, Tasso, Scott, and Molière. But a critical theory which results in placing Tasso, tion of all elaborate poetry, and into a particularly erroneous verdict in the case of Milton. It is Milton's case which I have in view at this moment. But in endeavouring to show that Keble's verdict ought to be set aside as contrary to the evidence, it is necessary to consider the general principle on which that verdict, which placed Milton in the second class of poets, was based. I have said that I admit the principle in its true sense, but dispute the inference. The principle in question is not more Keble's than it is Schiller's, and not more Schiller's than it is Aristotle's. But though it can claim the authority of such great names, it has not been by any means assented to by all philosophic critics. For this principle of a central thought or passion, drawing to itself the forces of the poet's whole nature, involves in it the further doctrine that the poem and the poet are inseparable, that they form a whole which must be judged together. There is, on the other hand, a doctrine which, I believe, is not unpopular, that a poem, like a statue, is a work of art, a "thing of beauty," to be enjoyed while it is before us, but of which we ask not whence it came, or how it got there. This theory has the support of great names, and notoriously that of Goethe, though Geothe is here often greatly caricatured by his followers. The other doctrine regards poetry not as a work of art, but as a prophetic ut terance. It is not a toy offered for the poetical literature of any language ranges amusement of the intellectual voluptuary, from its highest point to its lowest, or the recreation of the leisure moments through a scale which it is impossible to of the busy. As the noblest product, graduate with precision, through fine the highest effort, of human intelligence shades of merit, just as human character raised to a state of intense and ecstatic does, and for the very reason that the contemplation, it demands for its recep- poetry is the purest efflux of the human tion our most serious hours. The atti- character. To no human spirit is given tude to which it is addressed in the the endowment of universal insight. hearer is not that of the critic, but that The widest range of thought and feeling of the disciple. If we go to the poet, it has its horizon somewhere. And we must be as we go to the seer, not to seat must descend very low in the scale before ourselves on the chair of the judge, but we reach a singer who has no vein, no to sit at his feet. If we cannot do this impulse from without, no nature - who we shall not catch the mystic tones in can give us nothing. As a convenient which he speaks to the listening ear. distinction for popular use, there can be We shall see in his words only verses to no objection to our speaking of first-rate be scanned and measured. Here is a and second-rate poetry. But as a scienfoot too many, here is a figure out of tific classification, grounded upon an esjoint; there a catachresis an impossi-sential difference in the men, the disble conjunction of images. We edit tinction breaks down when applied to and comment the poets still, but it is the facts of literature. And the popular not to see what they meant, but what designation of "great" reserved for a faults they made. Mr. Elwin has proved few poets out of all time, is not tested or that Pope could not write English; and measured by the criterion which this Mr. Gladstone has convincingly shown theory assumes, viz., the presence of one that Virgil was a schoolboy who wrote overwhelming train of thought. The only clever exercises. Reverence is the popular classification does not base itindispensable condition of true criti- self upon a regard had to any one specicism; for the only question of sound fic quality. "Great" or "first-class,” criticism is What is this writer's mean- when said of a poet is an epithet used ing?" "What truth does he endeavour with the same laxity as when applied to a to convey?" Endeavour, I say, for no man. As men are popularly called poetry is perfect, or near it. It is a "great" for very various and incommenstruggle, an endeavour to convey an im- surable qualities, so poets are classed as pression far short of the fulness with "great poets " for the possession of very which the writer's soul is agitated. Every varied and incompatible gifts. Many of poem is a fragment. It is a spark struck the minor poets are more conspicuously off, an incarnation from the abiding es-dominated by a single idea than some of sence. The mind of the poet is what we want to penetrate to; his words are only the telescope to bring the man nearer to us. On this hypothesis there can be no great poetry but that which flows from a great mind. Or rather all poetry is great, and true, and genuine, so far as it is the utterance of a great and true and genuine nature. A poet can but give what he has in him; and the more he has in him the more he can give. Here comes in Hegel's dictum, that "the value of a work of art rises in the ratio as the thought is more deep and comprehensive, and in the ratio as that thought is more vividly expressed." the greater. Crabbe will hardly be classed by criticism among the greater poets. Yet he surely has true poetic sensibility which shows itself in one decided direction-sympathy with the sorrow and gloom of homely life. But as we rise in the scale and come to the grand writers, this singleness of direction tends to disappear. Mental cultivation is its direct antagonist. As the sympathies spread with the expanding intellect, feeling is no longer pent in a single channel. Keble's criterion fails precisely in its application to the greatest poets. I do not know how he would have applied it to Shakespeare. I do not remember that he has anywhere tried to do so. In ap Thus, at the outset we see that the at-plying it to Milton it led him into the tempt to make two distinct classes of poets, the primary and the secondary, and to make the possession of a "ruling passion" the test of admission into the class of "primary," falls to the ground. The paradox of placing Milton among the secondary poets. The wide range of Milton's imagination, the wealth of acquirement and association, the spoil of all the ages, with which Milton decorated his edifice, concealed from the eye of a critic, whose sensibility was keen, but whose horizon was narrow, the burning passion, the thrilling pathos, which a spirit in harmony with the poet can feel glowing and throbbing deep down below the measured cadence of the Miltonic verse. It is impossible to deny that Keble made a mistake in his judgment of Miltona mistake which compromises his character as a critic of poetry. It is an easy mode of explaining Keble's lapsus by ascribing it to theological prejudice. Bentley, in the generation after Milton, complained that "thousands because they hated the man, could see no merit in the poem." (Preface to "Paradise Lost.") The question of the feelings which sway an individual mind is not one for criticism; and it is odious to impute motives. The inquiry into the truth of the theory under which Keble pronounced his depreciatory verdict on Milton, is one of wider interest, and one which is fairly open to critical discussion. solitude from which alone a great work can proceed. At sixty he was as systematic a student as he had ever been, and had his days regularly distributed for the different kinds of work. From the social poet of modern life, a favourite at the tables of the rich, caressed by society, expect congenial work. From the So far, indeed, from Milton's "long brooding solitude and isolation of Michoosing and beginning late" being in-chael Angelo came the "Moses," and the consistent with a true poetic vocation, it"Last Judgment." On no other condiis the condition of the greatness of his tions can the world be gifted with a noble product. No poet, as no artist, can bring poem, or a work of the highest art. out in words, or on the canvas, more than that which is in him. A young poet can, at most, give evidence of ardent feeling and fresh imagination. Many poets continue young throughout, and give us no more at fifty than they did at twenty. Not so Milton. For some of his best years he was indeed truant to his genius, carried away more by a stoical sense of his duty as a citizen than by the political passion of the day. First blindness, and then the fall of his party, brought him back to his true vocation. He had never forgotten this vocation, indeed he had never suspended the preparation for it. And what poet ever made such preparation for his work, ever passed through such an apprenticeship? We have seen that all his first years, from the university onwards, he was educating himself for poetry. He was not laying up materials, collecting passages, gathering pearls of expression in order afterwards to string them; he was forming and feeding his mind. He ranged over the fields of knowledge, not indeed without a love of knowledge, but still with an end in view, that of intellectual culture. What distinguishes Milton from Selden cr Saumaise? They were men of learning. Milton would have been called learned if he had amassed the knowledge he had, simply for its own sake. But he did not aim at accumulating, he aimed at informing. He had a reflex object, the creation and storing of his own intellect and imagination. He knew that any work of literature is only worth what its writer is worth. Men do not gather grapes off thorns. He steadily prepared, not a book, but himself. He did not overlay his mind and crush its vigour by the weight of acquisition, but fed and stored it. His ideal was "to know what is of use to know," and that his heart should "contain of good, wise, just, the perfect shape." Blind, old, poor, dependent on uncultivated and unaffectionate daughters, he led the life of meditativel MARK PATTISON. From The Cornhill Magazine. THREE FEATHERS. CHAPTER XXXI. "BLUE IS THE SWEETEST." THE following correspondence may now, without any great breach of confidence, be published: "Eglosilyan, Monday morning. "DEAR MR. TRELYON, "Do you know what Mr. Roscorla says in the letter Wenna has just received? Why, that you could not get up that ring by dredging, but that you must have bought the ring at Plymouth. Just think of the wicked old wretch fancying such things; as if you would give a ring of emeralds to any one! Tell me that this is a story, that I may bid Wenna contradict him at once. I have got no patience with a man who is given over to such mean suspicions. "Yours faithfully, "MABYN ROSEWARNE." "DEAR MR. TRELYON, 66 "H. TRELYON." Pray do not lose any time in you by getting the ring, and that you it out; and then he was afraid to speak would make a joke of it when you found of it afterwards her finger. She betrayed no emotion at Wenna had quietly slipped the ring off the mention of Mr. Trelyon's name. Her face was a trifle red, that was all. said, "but I suppose he meant no harm. "It was a stupid thing to do," she Will you send him back the ring?" "Yes," she said, eagerly. "Give me the ring, Wenna." She carefully wrapped it up in a piece of paper, and put it in her pocket. Any one who knew her would have seen by her face that she meant to give that ring short shrift. Then she said, timidly — "You are not very angry, Wenna?' "No. I am sorry I should have vexed Mr. Roscorla by my carelessness." "Wenna," the younger sister continued, even more timidly, "do you know what I've heard about rings that when you've worn one for some time on a finger, you ought never to leave it off altogether; I think it affects the circulation or something of that kind. Now if Mr. Trelyon were to send you another ring, just to to keep the place of that one until Mr. Roscorla came back ——— "` "Mabyn, you must be mad to think of such a thing," said her sister, looking down. "Oh, yes," Mabyn said, meekly, "I thought you wouldn't like the notion of writing; but send me at once a sapphire Mr. Trelyon giving you a ring. And so, ring for Wenna. You have hit the size dear Wenna, I've I've got a ring for once, and you can do it again; but you you won't mind taking it from me; in any case, I have marked the size on and if you do wear it on the engaged this bit of thread, and the jeweller will finger, why, that doesn't matter, don't understand. And please, dear Mr. Trel-you see? yon, don't get a very expensive one, but She produced the ring of dark blue a plain, good one, just like what a poor stones, and herself put it on Wenna's person like me would buy for a present, finger. if I wanted to. And post it at once, please this is very important. "Yours most sincerely, "MABYN ROSEWARNE." "Oh, Mabyn," Wenna said, 66 how could you be so extravagant! And just after you gave me that ten shillings for the Leans." "You be quiet," said Mabyn, briskly, In consequence of this correspond-going off with a light look on her face. ence, Mabyn, one morning, proceeded to And yet there was some determination seek out her sister, whom she found busy about her mouth. She hastily put on with the accounts of the Sewing-Club, her hat and went out. She took the which was now in a flourishing condition. path by the hillside over the little harMabyn seemed a little shy. bour; and eventually she reached the "Oh, Wenna," she said, "I have some-face of the black cliff, at the foot of thing to tell you. You know I wrote to which a grey-green sea was dashing in ask Mr. Trelyon about the ring. Well, white masses of foam; there was no livhe's very, very sorry-oh, you don't ing thing around her but the choughs know how sorry he is, Wenna! but it's and daws, and the white seagulls sailing quite true. He thought he would please 'overhead. She took out a large sheet of brown joint work of charity, but she conquered paper and placed it on the ground. Then the feeling, and went and saw the gentle she sought out a bit of rock, weighing about two pounds. Then she took out the little parcel which contained the emerald ring, tied it up carefully along with the stone in the sheet of brown paper; finally, she rose up to her full height and heaved the whole into the sea. A splash down there, and that was all. lady, and perceived nothing altered or strange in her demeanour. At last the letter from Jamaica came; and Mabyn, having sent it up to her sister's room waited for a few minutes, and then followed it. She was a little afraid, despite her belief in the virtues of the sapphire ring. She clapped her hands with joy. When she entered the room, she ut"And now, my precious emerald ring, tered a slight cry of alarm and ran forthat's the last of you, I imagine! And ward to her sister. Wenna was seated there isn't much chance of a fish bring-on a chair by the side of the bed, but she ing you back, to make mischief with your ugly green stones!" Then she went home, and wrote this note: "DEAR MR. TRELYON, "Eglosilyan, Monday. "I have just thrown the emerald ring you gave Wenna into the sea, and she wears the other one now on her engaged finger, but she thinks I bought Oh, green is forsaken, You can't tell what mischief that emerald had thrown her arms out on the bed, her Mabyn's eyes were all afire now. WenShe would not na would not answer. even raise her head. 66 Wenna, I want to see that letter." deserve it; he says what is true; I want Oh, no, no," the girl moaned. "I you to leave me alone, Mabyn — you you can't do anything to help this But Mabyn had by this time perceived that her sister held in her hand, crumpled up, the letter which was the cause of this wild outburst of grief. She went forward and firmly took it out of the yielding fingers; then she turned to the light and read it. "Oh, if I were a man!" she said; and then the very passion of her indignation finding no other vent, filled her eyes with proud and angry tears. She forgot to re"MABYN ROSEWARNE. joice that her sister was now free. She Are you never coming back only saw the cruel insult of those lines, to Eglosilyan any more?" and the fashion in which it had struck down its victim. "P.S. So the days went by, and Mabyn waited with a secret hope, to see what answer Mr. Roscorla would send to that letter of confession and contrition Wenna had written to him at Penzance. The letter had been written as an act of duty, and posted too; but there was no mail going out for ten days thereafter, so that a considerable time had to elapse before the answer came. "Wenna," she said, hotly, "you ought to have more spirit! You don't mean to say you care for the opinion of a man who would write to any girl like that! You ought to be precious glad that he has shown himself in his true colours. Why, he never cared a bit for you— never! - or he would never turn at a moment's notice and insult you” 66 "I have deserved it all; it is every word of it true; he could not have written otherwise ”—that was all that Wenna would say between her sobs. During that time Wenna went about her ordinary duties, just as if there was no hidden fire of pain consuming her heart; there was no word spoken by her "Well," retorted Mabyn," after all I or to her of all that had recently oc- am glad he was angry. I did not think curred; her mother and sister were glad he had so much spirit. And if this is his to see her so continuously busy. At opinion of you, I don't think it is worth first she shrank from going up to Trel- heeding, only I hope he'll keep to it. yon Hall, and would rather have corre- Yes, I do! I hope he'll continue to think sponded with Mrs. Trelyon about their 'you everything that is wicked, and re |