Address on Literature and Arts. 12S 



understood as pressing this upon your attention to the 

 exclusion of all else, but as constrained by limitations of 

 time and space to deal with but a little corner of a vast 

 area, and as wishino; to indicate, from the abundance of this, 

 what measureless wealth lies bej^ond. 



The first tiling that strikes us in connection with what we 

 may call the Victorian era of literature, is its marvellous 

 activity, the multitude of workers, and the rapidity of 

 production. We have often heard how England became, in 

 the days of Elizabeth, a nest of singing birds ; the same 

 might be said, perhaps with even more truth, of our own 

 Queen's reign. The revival which began with Cowper, and 

 which received a Titanic impulse from Scott and Byron, 

 from Wordsworth, Shelley, and Keats, is unexhausted yet. 

 The oldest poets' songs still breathe and burn with the fire 

 of youth, and a throng of others are yet in full voice. There 

 is, however, one peculiar and ominous feature. Speaking 

 generall}^, no work of any of these, produced during the last 

 ten or twelve years, has been an advance on their previous 

 work, and in some instances there has been a decided falling 

 off This is not only the case with those to whom fulness 

 of years might be expected to bring some decay of strength, 

 but with those who should now be in the full maturity of 

 their powers. In these latter, we observe a tendency to 

 work more and more artificial, where diction and ex]:)ression 

 and technical effect are more than ideas ; a tendency to 

 imitative work, reproductions of old styles, to the neglect of 

 originality. The execution is certainly wonderfully perfect, 

 not a slip or a false note anywhere ; but the lines make you 

 think of engine-turned jewellery. As you read one page, 

 you know what to expect on the next. There are no 

 surprises, and when you pause from reading two or thi'ee 

 score pages of this machine-made poetry, and try to recall 

 one thought that has lifted you out of yourself, one hint 

 that has lured you into dreamland, one touch that has 

 " oped the sacred source of sympathetic tears," and find only 

 a certain tired wonderment, as of one who has sat through 

 an evening of conjuring tricks, then it dawns upon you that 

 the wonder is nowise wonderful, nor the perfection of work 

 perfect work. The poet has but to take care of the sound ; 

 there is so little sense that it can easily take care of itself 

 Years ago the sculptor fashioned divine marble and death- 

 less bronze ; delicate cameos and dainty gems engross him 

 now, and seldom has gem or cameo borne such fairy 



