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II.

A LETTER TO THE EDITOR OF The Spectator,
JUNE 7, 1862.

MR. GEORGE MEREDITH’S “MODERN LOVE.”

SIR, — I cannot resist asking the favour of admission for my protest against the article on Mr. Meredith’s last volume of poems in the Spectator of May 24th. That I personally have for the writings, whether verse or prose of Mr. Meredith, a most sincere and deep admiration is no doubt a matter of infinitely small moment. I wish only, in default of a better, to appeal seriously on general grounds against this sort of criticism as applied to one of the leaders of English literature. To any fair attack Mr. Meredith’s books of course lie as much open as another man’s; indeed, standing where he does, the very eminence of his post makes him perhaps more liable than a man of less well-earned fame to the periodical slings and arrows of publicity. Against such criticism no one would have a right to appeal, whether for his own work or for another’s. But the writer of the article in question blinks at stating the fact that he is 206 dealing with no unfledged pretender. Any work of a man who has won his spurs and fought his way to a foremost place among the men of his time, must claim at least a grave consideration of respect. It would hardly be less absurd, in remarking on a poem by Mr. Meredith, to omit all reference to his previous work, and treat the present book as if its author had never tried his hand at such writing before, than to criticise the Légende des Siècles, or (coming to a nearer instance) the Idyls of the King, without taking into account the relative position of the great English or the greater French poet. On such a tone of criticism as this any one who may chance to see or hear of it has a right to comment.

But even if the case were different, and the author were now at his starting-point, such a review of such a book is surely out of date. Praise or blame should be thoughtful, serious, careful, when applied to a work of such subtle strength, such depth of delicate power, such passionate and various beauty, as the leading poem of Mr. Meredith’s volume: in some points, as it seems to me (and in this opinion I know that I have 207 weightier judgments than my own to back me) a poem above the aim and beyond the reach of any but its author. Mr. Meredith is one of the three or four poets now alive whose work, perfect or imperfect, is always as noble in design, as it is often faultless in result. The present critic falls foul of him for dealing with “a deep and painful subject on which he has no conviction to express.” There are pulpits enough for all preachers in prose; the business of verse-writing is hardly to express convictions; and if some poetry, not without merit of its kind, has at times dealt in dogmatic morality, it is all the worse and all the weaker for that. As to subject, it is too much to expect that all schools of poetry are to be for ever subordinate to the one just now so much in request with us, whose scope of sight is bounded by the nursery walls; that all Muses are to bow down before her who babbles, with lips yet warm from their pristine pap, after the dangling delights of a child’s coral; and jingles with flaccid fingers one knows not whether a jester or a baby’s bells. We have not too many writers capable of duly handling a subject worth the serious interest 208 of men. As to execution, take almost any sonnet at random out of this series, and let any man qualified to judge for himself of metre, choice of expression, and splendid language, decide on its claims. And, after all, the test will be unfair, except as regards metrical or pictorial merit; every section of this great progressive poem being connected with the other by links of the finest and most studied workmanship. Take, for example, that noble sonnet, beginning

“We saw the swallows gathering in the skies,”

a more perfect piece of writing no man alive has ever turned out; witness these three lines, the grandest perhaps in all the book:

“And in the largeness of the evening earth,
Our spirit grew as we walked side by side;
The hour became her husband, and my bride;”

but in transcription it must lose the colour and effect given it by its place in the series; the grave and tender beauty, which makes it at once a bridge and a resting-place between the admirable poems of passion it falls among. As specimens of pure power, and depth of imagination at once intricate and vigorous, take the two sonnets on a false 209 passing reunion of wife and husband; the sonnet on the rose; that other beginning:

“I am not of those miserable males
Who snip at vice, and daring not to snap
Do therefore hope for Heaven.”

And, again, that earlier one:

“All other joys of life he strove to warm.”

Of the shorter poems which give character to the book I have not space to speak here; and as the critic has omitted noticing the most valuable and important (such as the “Beggar’s Soliloquy,” and the “Old Chartist,” equal to Béranger for completeness of effect and exquisite justice of style, but noticeable for a thorough dramatic insight, which Béranger missed through his personal passions and partialities), there is no present need to go into the matter. I ask you to admit this protest simply out of justice to the book in hand, believing as I do that it expresses the deliberate unbiased opinion of a sufficient number of readers to warrant the insertion of it, and leaving to your consideration rather their claims to a fair hearing than those of the book’s author 210 to a revised judgment. A poet of Mr. Meredith’s rank can no more be profited by the advocacy of his admirers than injured by the rash or partial attack of his critics.

A. C. SWINBURNE.