10 AN EGOTISTICAL CHAPTER 



It is not health, but disease; it is not inspiration, 

 but a mortal flux. The "Saturday Review," in 

 noticing my last volume, "Signs and Seasons," 

 intimates that I might have found better specimens 

 of sea-poetry to adorn the chapter called "A Salt 

 Breeze " in Mr. Swinburne than those I have given, 

 and quotes the following stanzas from him as 

 proof: 



"Hardly we saw the high moon hanging, 



Heard hardly through the windy night, 

 Far waters ringing, low reefs clanging, 

 Under wan skies and waste white light. 



"With chafe and change of surges chiming, 

 The clashing channels rocked and rang 

 Large music, wave to wild wave timing, 

 And all the choral waters sang." 



Words, words, words ! and all struck with the lep 

 rosy of alliteration. Such poetry would turn my 

 blood to water. " Wan skies and waste white light," 

 are there ever any other skies or any other lights 

 in Swinburne ? 



But this last is an ill wind which I fear can blow 

 no good to any one. I have lived long enough to 

 know that my own private likes and dislikes do not 

 always turn out to be the decrees of the Eternal. 

 Some writers confirm one and brace him where he 

 stands ; others give him a lift forward. I am not 

 aware that more than two American writers have 



