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sufficient importance and dignity, and that the style should be of 
a corresponding solidity and severity. The dignity of the subject 
matter in turn requires that it should be dealt with in a fulness 
of detail which entails considerable length, and the severity of 
the style is best associated with the blank or historic metre, which 
usually disdains the meretricious ornaments of rhyme and stanza, 
rarely descends even to the aid of alliteration, and almost wholly 
depends for effect on the solemn and stately flow of its rhythm. 
It is these characteristics which cause the epic to be ranked 
amongst the highest flights of poetic genius. To select and 
appreciate a topic of sufficient grandeur to be worthy of such 
treatment—to grasp it in the widest aspect and master its 
minutest details, to preserve the sense of proportion, the perspec- 
tive, the ‘‘chiaroscuro” of the design throughout never unduly 
magnifying any of the minor, or dwarfing any of the main 
incidents to develope the profound thoughts which must cluster 
round such a narrative; all this requires a mind of no ordinary 
powers. No less does it need a master of language, skilled in all 
the resources of poetic art, and deeply imbued with the music of 
words, to clothe such thoughts and such narratives with fitting 
parts of speech, so using the limited form and style at his disposal, 
that in spite of great length its simplicity shall never degenerate 
into wearisome monotony. 
‘«« Yesterday, to-day, and for ever,” a poem in twelve books, 
by Edward Henry Bickersteth, M.A., is a composition which 
claims, by its form and subject matter, if not by its title, to be 
considered an epic. It fulfils the mechanical conditions of form 
and magnitude, comprising altogether more than 10,000 lines. 
Its style is lofty, and the topic is not inadequate, being an attempt 
to unveil the mysteries both of bygone ages and of those to come. 
As the title indicates, its subject is the records of time, past, 
present, and future. Whether the author’s ambition has exceeded 
his powers—whether he has produced as a work worthy to rank 
with or near the great masterpieces of epic poetry—whether it will 
render his name famous in the days to come, are questions I have 
not ventured to discuss. ‘There must be decidedly a higher and 
more authoritive tribune than even that before which I have the 
honour of appearing. Not even the unanimous verdict of contem- 
porary opinion can finally determine sucha career. An appeal 
lies to the judgment of posterity, and only a ‘‘ plebiscitum ” of 
successive generation, can confer the coveted dignity of a ‘“ great 
poet.’ This decision, like that of an ecclesiastical council, only 
becomes final when it has been accepted ‘‘always in all places, and 
by all.” For works of art like lofty mountains require distance, 
not to lend ‘‘enchantment to the view,” but to enable one to 
estimate aright their true grandeur. 
Commencing where narratives usually end, the first book 
