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Saturday night (no other date).

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Never in the world was another such a dog as my Flush! Just now, because after reading taking anything else up, he threw himself into your note, I laid it down thoughtfully without my arms, as much as to say-"Now it's my turn. You're not busy at all now." He understands everything, and would not disturb me for the world. Do not tell Miss Mitford

one could have expected her to do; she shown in the previous instalment of these went and looked for a lodging where papers. Provoking as some of the stricthey could establish themselves. After tures must have been to one who had not a while she found two small rooms in a accidentally fallen into what would be house facing the river,- one in which commonly regarded as lyrical heresies, Dick could sleep, the other a room with but who had systematically intended, and a fire-place, where his hot meals, which laboured to do, the very things most dehe no doubt would insist upon, could be murred to she passes them over in the cooked, and where, in a corner, she her- note about to be given, with only a reself could sleep when the day was over. mote reference; playfully speaking of her She had a little stock of reserve money dog "Flush," then touching upon the on her person, a few shillings saved, and “Dead Pan," then turning to other obsomething more, which was the remnant jects of literary interest, with a nobly exof a sum she had carried about with her pressed admiration of Miss Martineau : for years, and which I believe she intended "to bury her," according to the curious pride which is common among the poor. But as for the moment there was no question of burying her, she felt justified in breaking in upon this little hoard to please her boy by such forlorn attempts at comfort as were in her power. She ventured to buy a few necessaries, and to make provision as well as she but her Flush (whom she brought to see knew how for the night-the first night me) is not to be compared to mine! - quite which she would have passed for years animal and dog-natural, and incapable of my under a roof which she could call her Flushie's hypercynical refinements. There is not such a dog in the world as he is, I must One of the chief reasons that rec-say again- and never was, except the one onciled her to this step was, that the Plato swore by. I talk to him just as I should room faced the river, and that not Dick do to the "reasoning animal on two legs alone, but the other whom she did not only difference being that he has four superknow, could be watched from the win- erogatorily. dow. Should she get to know him, perhaps to speak to him, that other?- to watch him every summer evening in his boat, floating up and down-to distinguish his voice in the crowd, and his step? But for this hope she could not, I say so because she fancied my "Pan"think, have made so great a sacrifice which you may not think worthy of such for Dick alone- a sacrifice she had praise-and which she very probably was not been able to make when the doing pleased with on account of its association of it would have been still more im- with her favourite poet Schiller — such portant than now. Perhaps it was be-associations affecting the mind beyond its cause she was growing older, and the in-cognizance. My "Pan" takes the reverse dividual had faded somewhat from her of Schiller's argument in his famous "Gods of consciousness; but the change bewil- Greece," and argues it out. dered even herself. She did it notwith-the work of a private friend," [alluding, probNo, nobody has said that "the paper was standing, and of her free will. ably, to some critique I had written about her poetry] but everybody with any sense have thought it.

own.

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I am very glad to hear of Miss Martineau and "Orion." She has a fine enthusiasm and understanding, or rather understanding and which shows a wɔnenthusiasm, for poetry, considering what she is otherwise. I do not derful and beautiful proportion of faculties,

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Ever and truly yours,

must

E. B. B.

Oh do not put me in despair about "times and seasons. The book must and shall come out this season.

The next is a fragment found in the same envelope, the first leaf having gone astray:

Fragment.

Think of my stupidity about Leigh Hunt's poem of "Godiva"! The volume I lent has

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We now come to the question of Versification -an Art quite fixed and final if we keep to the old classic system of counting feet, or syllables, and a most eel-like subject, chameleon-like, lustrous, dove's-breast-like, chromatic sprite and sylphid, when, boldly diverging from the old, well-known tracks and measurements, poets take to the spiritual guidance of "airy voices " dictating euphonious accents, pauses, beats of time, wavy lilts and pulsations, often not amenable to any laws except those of musical utterance and emotion. These varied measures, numbers, utterances, when an attempt is made to force them within the confines of special laws, are very apt, in many instances, to find their spirit evaporate, and nothing but a caput mortuum remaining in its place. Perhaps the greatest difficulty in forming a settled judgment of these new forms of versification arises from the fact that one good ear will frequently be found to differ from another good ear, with regard to the effect of the same rhythmic music. In short, one can read it musically, and another cannot. One is delighted with it the other denounces it. A remarkable instance of this will appear in the next of Miss Barrett's letters which I am about to give. It will be found interesting, as well as curious, from a peculiar circumstance. In the previous instalment of this series, a note is mentioned which had been addressed to Miss Barrett's cousin, Mr. John Kenyon,-shown to her,-lent to me, and returned referring admiringly to her bold experiments in novel rhymes. This note, which I had fancied to have been written by Landor, I have since found was written by Mr. Browning. The Letter I am now about to give has special reference to Mr. Browning's poetry. It will thus be discovered that two poets who had never seen each other at this time, were already intimate in imagination and intellectual sympathy;

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that one appreciated the other completely, while the other (viz., Miss Barrett) took a sweeping exception to a estimated in all other respects. And in special phase of the genius she so well this exception she was, as I considered, only justified in certain respects.

The note begins with an amusing reference to something outré which had been written to Miss Barrett by somebody, whose name I was endeavouring to guess; then touches briefly on the poems of Mr. Trench, and passes on to Mr. Browning with a striking commentary:

May 1st, 1843.

Your over-subtlety, my dear Mr. Horne, has ruined you! Suspecting me of man-traps and spring-guns, you shoot yourself with the which takes its place at once among hypothesis of a spring-gun "remarkable accidents." For I stated the bare fact when I said " man.' "" Man it was no woman it was!man it was, and man it ought to be. Yes, and it wasn't Leigh Hunt either, I make oath to you! I wish it had been Leigh Hunt.

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No man would have ventured to say such a thing? Ventured!-why, you are quite innocent, Mr. Horne. I won't tell you the name; but I affirm to you that those words, as I quoted them, were written by a man, and to me. And, by no means in jest or lightness of heart, as a woman would have written them nor in arch-mock at the infirmities of our nature, as Leigh Hunt might have written them, but in grave naïveté, in sincere earnestness, and without the consciousness of saying anything out of the way. [My last guess was that it came from America.] Now, I wouldn't tell you the name for the world.

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impossible application of a quotation which At the end of your last note you attempt an won't be applied in such a manner for two separate reasons. "I prythee do not mock me.' You are quite right. "Anybody can be severe." As to Mr. Trench, I have only such knowledge of him as extracts in your article and other reviews can give; and although he facile and copious, he seems to be dry and has probably more faculty than many who are and meets, I should think, with liberal justice limited, and without impulse in the use of it, high with me. at your hands. I want very much to know what you mean by his worst fault, which you have not touched upon? Will you tell me in confidence, and I will promise never to divulge it, if you make a condition of secrecy? Mr. Browning knows thoroughly what a poet's - he is learned, not only in protrue work is; fane learning, but in the conduct of his genius; scurities have an oracular nobleness about he is original in common things; his very obthem which pleases me.

Browning, however, stands

I cannot help pausing an instant to remind the reader that the above critique

was written in 1843, when only a very special class had made similar discoveries, and that the writer had never seen the poet; so that we may fairly regard this as a striking proof of her genius in discerning, and her generosity in the full admission of what she recognized. Miss Barrett thus continues:

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His passion burns the paper. But I will guess at the worst fault at least, I will tell you what has always seemed to me the worst faultwant of harmony. I mean in the two senses spiritual and physical. There is a want of softening power in thoughts and in feelings, as well as words; everything is trenchant - black and white, without intermediate colours nothing is tender; there is little room in all this passion, for pathos. And the versethe lyrics-where is the ear? Inspired spirits should not speak so harshly; and, in good sooth, they seldom do. What?-from "Paracelsus" down to the "Bells and Pome granates"— a whole band of angels-whiterobed and crowned angel-thoughts, with palms

in their hands and no music!

opsis of such an Essay would occupy several pages, and, so far, interrupt the course of the Letters, it has been considered advisable to postpone the discussion till the close of these papers. We will therefore do no more at present than touch upon the question of Versification with reference chiefly to Miss Barrett, and incidentally to the Laureate and one or two other poets, commencing, of necessity, with Chaucer.

It has been seen that Miss Barrett was

a true admirer and student of the Father of English Poetry; but from the influence of early habit, it seems probable that his admirable variations of the euphony of heroic couplets, so as to correct the monotony of their ten-syllable regularity, and systematic pauses, were not especially noticed by her, unless, in some cases, as objectionable. The method adopted by Chaucer to obtain variety of harmony in this measure was not, however, so much with respect to the position of pauses and accents in the line, as in The too sweeping assertion of the last the rhythmical embodiment of an eleventh words I distinctly remember contesting syllable. He also, on special occasions, in my next note. Admitting all the fair breaks up the couplet-system, by ending critic had said as to the frequent obscuri-a poetical paragraph with the first word of ties of meaning, and involutions, or the rhyme and a full stop. And then harshness of style, I reminded her that takes it up again, with its proper rhyme almost any schoolboy without select-in the first line of the next poetical diviing Lord Macaulay's model one who sion or paragraph. Two or three examhad some natural faculty and a good ples of the former will make the princischolastic drilling, could write "smooth ple clear enough: verses," and where this was not done by He mote be dedde -a king as well as a page, those who were evidently masters of the &c.- The Knight's Tale. Art of Poetry, there was a reason for it. Nobody should regard it as attributable I speake of many an hundred year ago, &c. to carelessness, or even indifference. Wife of Bath's Tale. On the other hand, the lady was referred Thy temple in Delphos wol I barfote seke, &c. to several striking instances of rhythmic The Frankelin's Tale. music, and particularly among the "Bells and Pomegranates." It was difficult to resist a dancing emotion as one read how all the children and townspeople went dancing after the "Pied Piper of Hamelin," while every horseman must have accompanied the riders in the ride with "the good news" to Ghent. I was With these, and similar variations, the so impressed with this at the time and poems of Chaucer abound. Read in acnever having known what could be done cordance with the early training of most in that way, as I subsequently experi- of us, the reader will exclaim "It won't enced in the Australian bush-that I come in!" Of course it will not; but the remember asking the poet if he could foregoing lines will all be found perfectly "tighten his girths while at full speed," harmonious if the words which cause the as I had felt while doing this, with his difficulty are treated like a turn in music, poem, that I had more than once just lost so that they come "trippingly" off the my balance. In short, I only partially tongue. Thus, "as well as," being read agreed with the fair critic about the mu-as well's "many an," man'y'n, -"temsic. And this question directly brings ple in," templ'in, "studie a," studi'a, us to Versification; but, as the mere syn--"pitie, O people," piti-'a-'-peopl',·

At Orliaunce in studie a booke he seie, &c.

Ibid.

Where was your pitie, O people mercilesse,
&c.-Lamentation of Mary Magdaleine.
Her nose directed straight, and even as line,
The Court of Love.

&c.

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was

Kensington, November 24.

MY DEAR HORNE, - I should have written by return of post, but had something to finish by tea-time which I could not delay.

"even as," ev'nas, &c. For such expla-, of her future Letters), I yet feel sure she nations, to all those who do not in the would have been highly gratified had she least need them, the writer begs to ten- known that her views on the Art of Engder every proper apology. The desire to lish Poetry had been so specially conmake this matter perfectly clear must be served for so many years, even in literary his excuse. These harmonious varia- entombment, with one of the most actions were dropped by nearly all the complished and elegant of the illuminati poets during many years after Chaucer. (using the term in its best sense) of his In lyrical verse, and more especially in time. the octo-syllabic measure, the first great innovator not precisely the discoverer, but certainly the first great master Coleridge. In the Vision of Pierce Ploughman," in Lidgate's and several other old English and Scottish Ballads, similar musical variations occur, but apparently without intention, and by happy inspiration, though not with the numerous forms of variety introduced by Coleridge. It is said that he once exclaimed with glee"They all think they are reading eight syllables, and every now and then they read nine, eleven, and thirteen, without being aware of it.”

But to take a general and broad view of English versification, I find the following Letters from Leigh Hunt carefully fastened to the Letter from Miss Barrett upon the same subjeet. Although they bear no date of the year upon them, the allusions show that they were written mainly in comment, with a mild infusion of controversy, on a certain paragraph in my Introduction to the volume of "Chaucer Modernized," and also in reply to some comments I had made upon the versification of his "Legend of Fiorence." Differing with Mr. Leigh Hunt so widely on certain points of theology and social ethics as did Miss Barrett (which will be displayed fully and "argued out" in one

As a somewhat extreme illustration, I hope the following anecdote will be pardoned. "I notice," said Tennyson (this was long before he became Poet Laureate), "that you have a number of lines in Orion' which are not amenable to the usual scanning." "True; but they can all be scanned by the same number of beats of time." "Well; how then do you scan - mind, I don't object to it - but how do you scan — The long, grey, horizontal wall of the dead-calm sea?" Now, as this was the only instance of such a line, the engineer fancied he was about to be "hoist with his own petard;" however, he proposed to do it thus

Ine long grey | hori | zont'l | wall o' the dead |
calm sea.

It could easily be put into an Alexandrine line: and,
by a different arrangement of the beats of time, the line
might even be brought into eight beats: -
The long grey | hōri | zōnt'l | wäll-o' the | dead-calm

sea.

The poet smiled, and apparently accepted the scanning at any rate, the first one. Some of the variations, however, subsequently introduced by Leigh Hunt in his beautiful play of "The Legend of Florence," would have to be tried, like those of Beaumont and Fletcher, by yet more unorthodox principles of harmony.

The English prosodists have generally proceeded, I believe, upon the assumption that their heroic measure is a particular mode of iambics, with a variation of spondees, trochees, &c. I therefore, if I distinctly see the drift of it, doubt whether your paragraph can for us now to exchange talk on this subject by stand exactly as it does; but it is impossible letter, and as I am coming to Montague Street, to-morrow (Wednesday), would it not be as well for us to have our Bosterisms out at once viva voce? For then, you see, we can have as many as we please in a good long chat, and so do what we can with this perplexing matter finally; for in truth, it is a very perplexing one, and has scratched the fingers of everybody another book, expressly on the subject that has approached it. I will also bring you least comprising it.

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The "Ancient Mariner" did much, no doubt, in the poetical circles in which it was almost exclusively known [How sad is this record of neglect of living genius, which thus incidentally drops from the pen of one of the poet's contemporaries! ], and Coleridge, I should say, is unquestionably the great modern master of lyrical harmony. But what the Percy Reliques achieved in the gross, was a the return to faith in nature and passion. general simplification of the poetic style, and We will have a good set-to upon these matters to-morrow, if you think fit; and you shall have, in the course of a good plump half-hour, all I have to say about them.

Ever heartily,

LEIGH HUNT. Unfortunately, something prevented the proposed conversation, but here is another note on the same subject written during the same month:

Kensington, November. MY DEAR HORNE,- This is merely one or two more marginalia which, on recollection, I intended to have scribbled. The fact is, that as to "spectacle" [to which, apparently, I had demurred, as being too harsh a word in a certain line] it is "harsh," uttered by a harsh man; but what if Chaucer had said it, thou Horne! To this I suppose you will say, possible." Well, but suppose you find it in him some day? or something equivalent? [The logic of this is exquisite, and so like

Im

like's he was the dust under their feet. Ain't we their fellow-creatures all the same? It ain't much you makes at the rafts, missis, even if you gains a lot in the season. For after all, look how short the season is you may say just the summer half. It's too cold in March, and it's too cold in October-nothing to speak of but the summer half. You makes a good deal while it lasts, I don't say nothing to the contrary but what's that to good steady work all round the year?"

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Maybe her lad isn't one for steady work," said another. "It is work, I can tell you is this, as long as it lasts; from early morning to lockup, never a moment to draw your breath, but school-hours, and holidays, and half-holidays without end. Then there's the regular boating gents as come and go, not constant like the Eton gentlemen. They give a deal of trouble they do; and as particular with their boats as if they were babies, I tell you what, missis, if you want him to have an easy place, I wouldn't send him here."

"He's not one that's afraid of work," said the woman, "and it's what he's set his heart on. I wonder if you could tell me now where this Mr. Ross comes from? -if he's west-country now, down Devonshire way?"

"Bless you, no," said the older man, who was great in genealogies; "he's from the north, he is Scotland or thereabouts. His grandfather came with him when he first came to college Lord something or other. About as like a lord as I am. But the nobility ain't much to look at," added this functionary, with whom familiarity had bred contempt. They're a poor lot them Scotch and Irish lords. Give me a good railway man, or that sort; they're the ones for spending their money. Lord—I can't think on the old un's name."

"Was it - Eskside?"

"You're a nice sort of body to know about the haristocracy," said the man; "in course it was Eskside. Now, missis, if you knowed, what was the good of coming asking me, taking a fellow in?" "I didn't know," said the woman, humbly; "I only wanted to know. young days, long ago, I knew -a family

of that name."

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were

In my

Ay, ay, in your young days. You a handsome lass then, I'll be bound," said the old man, with a grin. "Look here," said one of the others "here's old Harry coming, if you like to

speak to him about your lad. Speak up and don't be frightened. He ain't at all a bad sort, and if you tell him as the boy's spry and handy, and don't mind a hard day's work-speak up! only don't say I told you." And the benevolent adviser disappeared hastily, and began to pull about some old gigs which were ranged on the rafts, as if much too busily occupied to spare a word. The woman went up to the master with a heart beating so strongly that she could scarcely hear her own voice. On any other occasion she would have been shy and reluctant. Asking favours was not in her way-she did not know how to do it. She could not feign or compliment, or do anything to ingratiate herself with a patron. But her internal agitation was so strong that she was quite uplifted beyond all sense of the effort which would have been so trying to her on any other occasion. She went up to him sustained by her excitement, which at the same time blunted her feelings, and made her almost unaware of the very words she uttered.

"Master," she said, going straight to the point, as the excited mind naturally does-"I have a boy that is very anxious for work. He is a good lad, and very kind to me. We've been tramping about the country-nothing better, for all my folks was in that way; but he don't take after me and my folks. He thinks steady work is better, and to stay still in one place." "He is in the right of it there," was the reply.

"Maybe he is in the right," she said; "I'm not the one to say, for I'm fond of my freedom and moving about. But, master, you'll have one in your place that is not afraid of hard work if you'll have my son."

"Who is your son? do I know him?" said the master, who was a man with a mobile and clean-shaven countenance, like an actor, with a twinkling eye and a suave manner, the father of an athletic band of river worthies who were regarded generally with much admiration by "the college gentlemen," to whom their prowess was well known, "who is your son?"

The woman grew sick and giddy with the tumult of feeling in her. The words were simple enough in straightforward meaning; but they bore another sense, which made her heart flutter, and took the very light from her eyes. "Who was her son?" It was all she could do to keep from betraying herself, from claim

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