Letters on Literature | Page 8

small boys and girls. Ne quid
nimis, that is the golden rule which he constantly spurns, being too
luxuriant, too emphatic, and as fond of repeating himself as Professor
Freeman. Such are the defects of so noble a genius; thus perverse
Nature has decided that it shall be, Nature which makes no ruby
without a flaw.
The name of Mr. Robert Bridges is probably strange to many lovers of
poetry who would like nothing better than to make acquaintance with
his verse. But his verse is not so easily found. This poet never writes in
magazines; his books have not appealed to the public by any sort of
advertisement, only two or three of them have come forth in the regular
way. The first was "Poems, by Robert Bridges, Batchelor of Arts in the
University of Oxford. Parva seges satis est. London: Pickering, 1873."
This volume was presently, I fancy, withdrawn, and the author has
distributed some portions of it in succeeding pamphlets, or in books
printed at Mr. Daniel's private press in Oxford. In these, as in all Mr.
Bridges's poems, there is a certain austere and indifferent beauty of
diction and a memory of the old English poets, Milton and the earlier
lyrists. I remember being greatly pleased with the "Elegy on a Lady
whom Grief for the Death of Her Betrothed Killed."
"Let the priests go before, arrayed in white, And let the dark-stoled
minstrels follow slow Next they that bear her, honoured on this night,
And then the maidens in a double row, Each singing soft and low, And
each on high a torch upstaying: Unto her lover lead her forth with light,
With music and with singing, and with praying."
This is a stately stanza.
In his first volume Mr. Bridges offered a few rondeaux and triolets,
turning his back on all these things as soon as they became popular. In
spite of their popularity I have the audacity to like them still, in their
humble twittering way. Much more in his true vein were the lines,
"Clear and Gentle Stream," and all the other verses in which, like a true
Etonian, he celebrates the beautiful Thames:
"There is a hill beside the silver Thames, Shady with birch and beech
and odorous pine, And brilliant under foot with thousand gems Steeply
the thickets to his floods decline. Straight trees in every place Their
thick tops interlace, And pendent branches trail their foliage fine Upon
his watery face.

* * *
A reedy island guards the sacred bower And hides it from the meadow,
where in peace The lazy cows wrench many a scented flower, Robbing
the golden market of the bees. And laden branches float By banks of
myosote; And scented flag and golden fleur-de-lys Delay the loitering
boat."
I cannot say how often I have read that poem, and how delightfully it
carries the breath of our River through the London smoke. Nor less
welcome are the two poems on spring, the "Invitation to the Country,"
and the "Reply." In these, besides their verbal beauty and their
charming pictures, is a manly philosophy of Life, which animates Mr.
Bridges's more important pieces--his "Prometheus the Firebringer," and
his "Nero," a tragedy remarkable for the representation of Nero himself,
the luxurious human tiger. From "Prometheus" I make a short extract,
to show the quality of Mr. Bridges's blank verse:
"Nor is there any spirit on earth astir, Nor 'neath the airy vault, nor yet
beyond In any dweller in far-reaching space Nobler or dearer than the
spirit of man: That spirit which lives in each and will not die, That
wooeth beauty, and for all good things Urgeth a voice, or still in
passion sigheth, And where he loveth, draweth the heart with him."
Mr. Bridges's latest book is his "Eros and Psyche" (Bell & Sons, who
publish the "Prometheus"). It is the old story very closely followed, and
beautifully retold, with a hundred memories of ancient poets: Homer,
Dante, Theocritus, as well as of Apuleius.
I have named Mr. Bridges here because his poems are probably all but
unknown to readers well acquainted with many other English writers of
late days. On them, especially on actual contemporaries or juniors in
age, it would be almost impertinent for me to speak to you; but, even at
that risk, I take the chance of directing you to the poetry of Mr. Bridges.
I owe so much pleasure to its delicate air, that, if speech be
impertinence, silence were ingratitude. {2}

FIELDING

To Mrs. Goodhart, in the Upper Mississippi Valley.
Dear Madam,--Many thanks for the New York newspaper you have
kindly sent me, with the statistics of book-buying in the Upper

Mississippi Valley. Those are interesting particulars which tell one so
much about the taste of a community.