But there is this difference between
them--the faults are deliberate, and the result of much study; the
beauties have the air of fascinating impromptus. Mr. Henley's healthy,
if sometimes misapplied, confidence in the myriad suggestions of life
gives him his charm. He is made to sing along the highways, not to sit
down and write. If he took himself more seriously, his work would become
trivial.

* * * * *

Mr. William Sharp takes himself very seriously and has written a preface
to his Romantic Ballads and Poems of Phantasy, which is, on the whole,
the most interesting part of his volume. We are all, it seems, far too
cultured, and lack robustness. 'There are those amongst us,' says Mr.
Sharp, 'who would prefer a dexterously-turned triolet to such apparently
uncouth measures as Thomas the Rhymer, or the ballad of Clerk Saunders:
who would rather listen to the drawing-room music of the Villanelle than
to the wild harp-playing by the mill-dams o' Binnorie, or the sough of
the night-wind o'er drumly Annan water.' Such an expression as 'the
drawing-room music of the Villanelle' is not very happy, and I cannot
imagine any one with the smallest pretensions to culture preferring a
dexterously turned triolet to a fine imaginative ballad, as it is only
the Philistine who ever dreams of comparing works of art that are
absolutely different in motive, in treatment, and in form. If English
Poetry is in danger--and, according to Mr. Sharp, the poor nymph is in a
very critical state--what she has to fear is not the fascination of
dainty metre or delicate form, but the predominance of the intellectual
spirit over the spirit of beauty. Lord Tennyson dethroned Wordsworth as
a literary influence, and later on Mr. Swinburne filled all the mountain
valleys with echoes of his own song. The influence to-day is that of Mr.
Browning. And as for the triolets, and the rondels, and the careful
study of metrical subtleties, these things are merely the signs of a
desire for perfection in small things and of the recognition of poetry as
an art. They have had certainly one good result--they have made our
minor poets readable, and have not left us entirely at the mercy of
geniuses.

But, says Mr. Sharp, every one is far too literary; even Rossetti is too
literary. What we want is simplicity and directness of utterance; these
should be the dominant characteristics of poetry. Well, is that quite so
certain? Are simplicity and directness of utterance absolute essentials
for poetry? I think not. They may be admirable for the drama, admirable
for all those imitative forms of literature that claim to mirror life in
its externals and its accidents, admirable for quiet narrative, admirable
in their place; but their place is not everywhere. Poetry has many modes
of music; she does not blow through one pipe alone. Directness of
utterance is good, but so is the subtle recasting of thought into a new
and delightful form. Simplicity is good, but complexity, mystery,
strangeness, symbolism, obscurity even, these have their value. Indeed,
properly speaking, there is no such thing as Style; there are merely
styles, that is all.

One cannot help feeling also that everything that Mr.