the great thought which has been captured in them, we find that the great thought has escaped, or at any rate that we cannot find it. A simile is suggested to me by Browning's own words, "Fancies that broke through language and escaped." Anyone who is familiar with Browning's poems, such as "Rabbi Ben Ezra," "Abt Vogler," "Bishop Blougram's Apology," and "Paracelsus," will know what I mean when I say that Browning adds to the pleasure of poetry by bringing those who read him into contact with great thoughts.

The comment I would make on Tennyson is exactly the reverse. I do not mean by the "reverse reverse" that Tennyson's thought is small and that of Browning great. Tennyson deals with great thought too, but by his extraordinary mastery of the music of words and his wonderful lucidity of expression he sometimes makes the thought seem not so great as it really is. At times he makes something of the infinite almost finite. This comment on Tennyson is not intended to be either criticism or praise. But it is worth bearing in mind that when Tennyson seems very simple, the thought may be great, and that the difference between Tennyson and Browning is not in the greatness of the thought, but in the different ways in which the two men treat it. Take for instance the eleven opening stanzas of "In Memoriam "; they are very simple to read-so simple that, perhaps, we may read them without realizing how great the thought is. Browning treats of the same kind of thought, and when he does so we have no doubt that it is great. Sometimes he makes it even obscure, whereas Tennyson makes it so simple that

he deceives us as to its depth.

So much I would

say about that part of the pleasure of great poetry. Beyond the music of words, the rhythm, the imagery, there is the great thought which touches us with emotion. But there is more than this pleasure to be found in poetry. I once stayed in a house as a guest for a night where a terrible volume was kept. It was a volume of which every page had a series of set questions designed to draw out the opinions of those to whom the volume was presented. I was, happily, too young and too insignificant to be asked to go through that ordeal, but I was shown the volume, and one of the guests who had preceded me had been John Morley. He had not been spared the ordeal, and he had gone through it in all seriousness, and opposite the deadly question, "Who is your favourite poet?" he had written the name of "Wordsworth." I too. should have written the name of Wordsworth-certainly I should write it now. It is worth considering why John Morley wrote Wordsworth, and why many of us would name Wordsworth as our favourite poet. Of course it is impossible to account satisfactorily for this, to catch one's own thought and feeling so clearly as to justify this preference. But one reason, no doubt, is that for enduring satisfaction in poetry we want strength. Browning, of course, has splendid strength which never fails or falters; but Wordsworth, too, is strong. If he expresses, as he sometimes does, great dejection, great depression, he never rests or brings his poem to an end till he stands with both feet planted on firm ground by some thought which has pulled him up, rescued him from depression, and made him erect

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and confident. It is interesting to compare Wordsworth and Shelley in this respect. It does not add to the pleasure of reading to exalt one author at the expense of another, and I am not introducing this. comparison for the purpose of depreciating Shelley, but you will notice that Shelley is sometimes content to leave you with a cry of despair. Wordsworth, after expressing deep dejection, never ends till he has become confident and strong again. You will find instances of what I mean in Wordsworth's "Lines on the Death of Fox"; you will find it in The Leech Gatherer," and you will find it in the "Afterthought (of the Duddon sonnets)," and in many other places. There is a further pleasure in poetry which is that of intimacy. When people say Wordsworth is the poet they read most, or the poet they like best, what they really feel is that they have a certain intimacy with Wordsworth-that Wordsworth has revealed to them some of their own experience, expressed something of which they were barely conscious, and revealed to them other things which were really in them, but of which they were unconscious. In this way there has come a feeling which can best be described as that of intimacy, which, apart altogether from his merits as a poet, makes Wordsworth peculiarly attractive to the reader. Having said so much about him I would only add this that when you are quite confident that you appreciate Wordsworth's poetry, that you set it high, that you are grateful for it, even that you have some reverence for it, you are entitled to get a certain amusement out of his foibles. One form of amusement is easily found by reading the extraordinarily stiff

or trivial labels which he chose to attach as titles to

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some of his poems. "Ode to Duty" is not a title which attracted me very much. The poem attracts and holds me; but the title did not draw me to the poem. "Resolution and Independence" does not suggest poetry at all. Happily in this instance Wordsworth vouchsafes an alternative title, "The Leech Gatherer." "Lines on Hearing that the Dissolution of Mr. Fox was Hourly Expected," "Extempore Effusion on the Death of James Hogg "—neither of these titles prepares you for the beautiful things which these poems contain. Then we get Incident in the Life of a Favourite Dog," followed by "Tribute to the Memory of the same Dog," and, finally, On Seeing a Needle-case in the Form of a Harp." I have laughed often over these titles, and it is right that anyone who is quite sure of his admiration for Wordsworth and his gratitude to him should indulge in this amusement; but to people who do not appreciate Wordsworth's poetry, and who laugh at these things, I would say, be sure that your laughter is not of that kind which has been compared to the "crackling of thorns under a pot."

I would say this further: The habit of reading poetry should be acquired when people are young. What we acquire and learn to love when we are young stands by us through life. It has been difficult in all ages for people who are past middle life to appreciate the genius of new poets who have arisen in their lifetime. Wordsworth wrote his best poetry long before Queen Victoria was born. Shelley and Keats were dead before she came to the throne, but they came by their own in public estimation in

the Victorian age, and having come by their own, they have little difficulty in maintaining it as the generations go on. It is astonishing to look back and see how people of real literary ability and power have been absolutely blind to the merits of poetry written when they themselves were in middle life, which we, who have come after them, recognize at once as being of the first rank. Let us make sure of the poetry that we like while we are young; then we keep it easily through life, for it is difficult to be certain of appreciating and enjoying new poetry after we have passed middle age.

Next to poetry, I put novels the great novels of character. They must be long to be great. It needs a long book to present a character so that it can be really grasped and understood. Short stories, however vivid their presentation of character, are something like a brilliant pen-and-ink sketch. The great novel, on the other hand, makes the characters stand out as if they were sculptured. Of such great novels it is worth noting that some of the most famous depend not entirely, but to some extent upon dealing with love as passion; by this the interest is heightened and their enduring place in literature is secured. The first half of 'Pamela,' for instance, Jane Eyre,' 'Anna Karenine,' are all highly sexed novels, and much of their interest depends upon this. After reading a novel of this kind one is apt to feel that no great novel can be written unless it does introduce this element of passion. If anyone thinks this, it is worth their while reading first Jane Eyre,' and then Jane Austen's 'Emma -the one as devoid of passion as the other is