AN EGOTISTICAL CHAPTER 9 



the least embarrassed by anything false or foreign, 

 of that of any writer living. His page is as clear as 

 science and as vital and flexible as poetry. Indeed, 

 he affords a notable instance of the cool, impartial 

 scientific spirit wedded to, or working through, the 

 finest poetic delicacy and sensibility. 



I have not been deeply touched or moved by 

 any English poet of this century save Wordsworth. 

 Nearly all other poetry of nature is tame and insin 

 cere compared with his. But my poetic sympathies 

 are probably pretty narrow. I cannot, for instance, 

 read Robert Browning, except here and there a 

 short poem. The sheer mechanical effort of read 

 ing him, of leaping and dodging and turning sharp 

 corners to overtake his meaning, is too much for 

 me. It makes my mental bones ache. It is not 

 that he is so subtile and profound, for he is less in 

 both these respects than Shakespeare, but that he 

 is so abrupt and elliptical and plays such fantastic 

 tricks with syntax. His verse is like a springless 

 wagon on a rough road. He is full of bounce and 

 vigor, but it is of the kind that bruises the flesh 

 and makes one bite his tongue. Swinburne has lilt 

 and flow enough, certainly, and yet I cannot read 

 him. He sickens me from the opposite cause : I am 

 adrift in a sea of melodious words, with never an 

 idea to cling to. There is to me something grew- 

 some and uncanny about Swinburne's poetry, like 

 the clammy and rapidly-growing fungi in nature. 



