their unbelief.

These arguments could be, and always

were met; and often indeed the foe was wounded with his own weapons. But now the method of the infidel's madness is altogether changed. Historical evidence is ignored, facts are treated as myths, the inspiration of poet and of apostle are confusedly blended, and the terms which once belonged exclusively to theological writers are now used by men who are the veritable apostles of unbelief. Amidst all this discord and gloom, Mrs. Browning kept the happy tenour of her way, and expressed-sometimes in simple. language, sometimes in a strain of the loftiest poetryher firm trust in the atonement of the God-man as the mainspring of all hope and consolation-the one unfailing source of life and joy.

"And now, having turned over once more the well-conned volumes which contain, as in a storehouse, the harvest of Mrs. Browning's poetic life, it saddens me to think that we can no longer look wistfully and hopefully for some work from her pen, more perfect in execution if not more noble in aim, than any hitherto achieved. I had unbounded faith in her power to produce such a work, since the finest poems she has written speak rather of growth than of perfection. What remains now but to lament the loss which English literature has sustained by the death of one so gifted-what remains but to express the gratitude each of us must feel, that although dying in the prime of life, Mrs. Browning has left behind her so much that is of enduring worth."

STANLEY. Thanks for your essay, HARTLEY. On the score of brevity it is unimpeachable. Your defence-more

rhapsodical than critical-of Mrs. Browning's poetry has been fairly conducted; but it does not shake my belief in the immeasurable superiority of Tennyson.

HARTLEY. To compare two such poets is but unfruitful criticism. Mrs. Browning occupies her own niche in the temple of fame, and the high praise due to her great contemporary cannot detract from the honour to which she And now, brother critics, I must bid you a

is entitled. hearty adieu.

Life has few greater pleasures than the meeting of old friends; and to this meeting a special interest attaches. We have done much in a short space of time; but how much also have we omitted! Strange to think that our wise discourse and comprehensive criticism, has closed without even a reference to Allan Ramsay and to Burns, to Grahame and to Ferguson.

STANLEY. Have you forgotten, then, how on the first evening of our meeting, I suggested, with the silent assent of both of you, that we should confine our attention to the rural poets of England. To this rule we have kept, for Thomson, like Blair and Campbell, although born north of the Tweed, is essentially an English poet.* Scotland is indeed so rich a field for pastoral poetry, that we should need much leisure and patience to explore it thoroughly. HARTLEY. Let us then meet next summer, if we are

* "Thomson, with all his defects, deserves to be called, as an enthusiastic lady denominated Mr. Kean, 'Nature Restored.' He is a true, warm-hearted, British-ay, spite of topography, we will call him an English gentleman. He is a perfect reservoir of natural images; a man with Thomson in his pockets, may write pastorals and georgics within the rules of the Bench."-Hartley Coleridge's Essays and Marginalia, vol. i. p. 12.

still well and happy (alas, that every proposal of this kind must be qualified by a peradventure!); and then we will surround ourselves with Scotch poets, and give the Land of Cakes the benefit of our criticism.

TALBOT. Thanks for your invitation; but, even were it possible to accept it, I should scarcely like to venture on the repetition of a pleasure like this.

STANLEY. Neither should I. Better that our visit to Lynton and to HARTLEY should pass into "the domains of tender memory." The choicest pleasures are apt to lose their charm, if you attempt the enjoyment of them a second time. Slightly as we have touched the broad domain of English Rural Poetry, it has been pleasant thus to shake hands with our poets, and to snatch a few ripe sheaves from their harvest stores. Thanks to you, HARTLEY, and to them. Thanks, also, to the lovely scenery in which we have pursued our discussions. cannot but believe that our sojourn amidst such beauty has stimulated and strengthened our minds as muchnay, far more--than the bracing air has strengthened our bodies.

I

TALBOT. Perhaps our minds needed such a tonic the most. Black care has not followed us into Devonshire. We have escaped for awhile from the petty annoyances of life-we have enjoyed some of its purest pleasures-in our poets we have had good instructors, and from them we may have learnt some of the wisest lessons. And we have had better Masters still.

“Our daily teachers have been woods and rills,
The silence that is in the starry sky,

The peace that sleeps upon the dewy hills."

EPILOGUE.

My task is concluded. In recalling, as far as it has been possible, these summer evening conversations with STANLEY and HARTLEY, I seem to have lived the pleasant hours over again. So much, however, of the interest I feel in them is of a personal nature, that I fear lest, while recounting what was said in sportive gaiety or sober earnest, all the aroma may be dissipated, and that, although whatever was beautiful lives still in my memory, I may have produced only the skeleton of the leaf and the stalk of the flower.

It has been comparatively easy to record in these pages some of the views expressed by my two friends and myself with regard to Rural Poetry; but mere criticism is of all literary provender the most unsavoury, and I do not like to think that, after enjoying a "feast of reason," I should have little beyond the fragments of the banquet to present to my readers. Notwithstanding this drawback, the object for which these conversations have been recorded will, I trust, in some degree, be attained. "There are a

hundred faults in this thing," said dear Oliver Goldsmith of his exquisite novelette; and, truly, if I were seated in a reviewer's arm-chair, I could easily point out as many faults in this book, without being able to add, as Goldsmith could, that "a hundred things might be said to prove them beauties."

Any reader who is conversant with our Rural Poetry will be keenly sensible of manifold omissions as he peruses these pages. He will be surprised to find that the names of several rural poets are omitted altogether, that others are only mentioned in passing, and that some of those who receive a considerable share of attention are by no means duly criticised. If he look for any connected history of our Rural Poetry, he will be utterly disappointed; if he seek for accurate definitions, and that careful criticism which makes its headway on the back of a syllogism, he will be equally so. For this volume, be it remembered, is a simple record of conversations; and from such a record it would be vain to expect the completeness of a critical or historical study. Such a study would, perhaps, have been of service, and some day I may attempt it; at present I have chosen the humbler office of an honest chronicler, and have therefore put upon paper, not all that might be said on this fertile topic, but as much as I could recall of what we in our familiar intercourse did actually say.

But I shall have attained a higher end than any which could be reached by a critical survey of Rural Poetry, if I have expressed, however faintly, the high sense entertained by my friends and myself of the worth and glory of the poet's art, and of the exceeding value of his noble calling. The theme is an old one, and of old it was wisely treated. Of late, however, there has been so much fanatical raving on this subject, so much foolish cant and so many assertions that are worse than foolish, especially with regard to poetic inspiration, that there is a danger lest sober-minded and truth-loving people should become