NE of the most welcome things in the world is to discern a probability of coming to a distinct agreement upon a disputed point. Only a few degrees less pleasant is it to see one's way to such a clear restatement of an open question that both sides may at last feel sure no corner of the subject remains unsearched, whether they can agree about it or not. In the Biographical Introduction to his Translation of the Tragedies of Eschylus, the Rev. Professor Plumptre has exhibited in such small compass an important question of criticism, that, though I have no right to discuss it except such a right as my interest in all critical questions may afford me, I feel tempted to venture upon a few sentences of comment; not without a hope that, for a good many of us, the matter may, with the help of the Professor's restatement of the old dispute, be now cleared up once for all. In making my comments I will endeavour to be exact in the use of language, and shall necessarily be brief, because the topic is one as to which I had long ago (to use the language of a distinguished lawyer) shut down the floodgates of my understanding.

When Professor Plumptre approaches the subject of the theology of the Athenian poet, he makes use of the following words :

"The question, 'What did this or that poet believe as to the will of God, the government of the universe, the destinies of mankind?' seems to a large

school of critics an almost idle inquiry. We are concerned,' they say, 'with the elements of perfection in his work, not with his opinions or beliefs. The function of the poet is that of the supreme artist, capable of sympathizing with all fixed moods and passing impulses of man's nature, so far as to gain the power of reproducing them, and therefore with his religious affections among others. His own religious affections, if he have any, are nought to us. He is called to

to be many-sided, myriad-minded, as Shakspeare and Goethe were. Strong convictions, a definite creed, may have their value in the formation of character, or in various forms of action upon men; but as regards the poet's work, they are simply detrimental, tending, at the best, to a secondrate excellence, marring the fair bloom and exquisite beauty of the artist's workmanship, bringing it down to the level of hymns, or sermons in verse, or didactic morality.'

Personally I should certainly not think the consideration of a poet's religious beliefs an irrelevant or useless one. But Professor Plumptre will, I am quite sure, agree that, to use the words he has quoted from Mr. Tennyson's "Palace of Art," it is the duty of the "supreme artist," in the exercise of his office, to "hold" (in the sense of obtrude) "no form of creed." It would assuredly be the duty of a poet to paint the anguish of Niobe as impartially as that of "Rachel weeping for her children because they were not," and that of a Huguenot mother who had lost a child in the massacre of St. Bartholomew as impartially as that of a Roman Catholic mother who might have lost a child, by some accident, at the same time. The man, indeed, cannot be indifferent; but, obviously, the artist

must.

It does not, however, follow that, in the language of the learned Professor, "strong convictions or a definite creed" must mar the poet's work; it is the poet's mistake if they do; they need not, unless by his fault, appear in his work in such a way as to spoil or injure it. In a minute or two I think we shall be able to see this more plainly.

But, again, the proposition that Art is of no creed, is surely not necessarily conterminous with that other proposition which Mr. Plumptre puts into the mouth of certain critics; namely, that "the excellence of the poet varies inversely as the strength of his religious convictions." I say not necessarily conterminous (though for the purpose of his argument it should be), in spite of the admitted fact, that the artistic or reproductive tendency is rarely found united with the dogmatic or affirmative tendency. For it is still conceivable that a poet should have "deep religious convictions;" should write his poetry religiously; and yet should not permit his beliefs to assume the place of generative or controlling conceptions in

his poems. Indeed, it will be seen, towards the close of the second extract, that the learned Professor has made a use of the name of Shakspeare, which expressly admits that a poet may write religiously, and yet that his religious belief shall not be generatively influential in his writings.

The criticisms of Professor Plumptre in the next two or three pages of his essay, we will come to in a moment, not omitting the subject of hymns. But let us first see if we cannot lay down the law of the case in terms which all parties—or at least Professor Plumptre, and a considerable public with whom I take sides in the matter—will at once agree upon.

In the first place, I will be indebted to a gentleman who has adorned this Review with some powerful writing, Mr. H. A. Page. In one of his essays he condemned those who had endeavoured to separate Religion, Art, and Morality. But, if I understand this, I should reply, that no person who had religious or moral feelings could pretend that this separation was possible, except in the symbols which are used for purposes of discussion. In the solidarity of life everything runs into everything-separation there can be none. Thus, the physical sciences osculate. Yet we can define chemistry, and can define physiology, which osculate perpetually; we know the province of the chemist, and the province of the anatomist; and we cannot dispense with classifications of the kind. Nor can we dispense with such symbols as the words Art, Religion, and Morals. Though they run into each other in life, they are as distinct in the logic of criticism as the a, b, and x in a sum in algebra. Every canon that is founded upon such distinctions is made with a subauditur to the effect that it is a "counsel of perfection:" and yet canons we must have. Nor is this reducing the whole topic to a mere logomachy; for Professor Plumptre would not deny that the point of view from which a man begins his work is of the essence of the case. He will, I am sure, allow that, though a work of art must be capable of bearing any test, either from the religious, or the philosophic, or the moral point of view, a man might look at things for ever, and go on working for ever, with a passionate eye to their truth or their goodness, and yet never produce a poem.

And thus Art, Religion, and Morals are separate, and must remain separate, taken as ideas. Coincident in their lines of direction, they are diverse in their beginnings. They all seek perfection as an end, but each commences the search from a different point. I confess I cannot see my way out of this.

That the religious emotions-the sense of the Divine Power in the world, the longing to communicate with it, the consciousness of wrong, the yearning after a clear vision of the moral order which

the Divine Power may be presumed to have established, the eager glance uplifted beyond the grave-that these things can by possibility be absent from the highest art, much less from the most articulate of arts, Poetry, I deny as firmly as Professor Plumptre would; for the moment the mind touches those highest peaks of human experience which are proper to the highest forms of art, it inevitably either finds religion, or else feels that religion is to seek (vainly, or otherwise, is of no consequence to our purpose). Nor, in fact, do we ever miss the religious ideas in poetry of a high order. They are always present, either in the shape of feeling consolidated into what we usually call "faith," or in the shape of yearning, more or less distinct, and more or less akin to despair. In the last of these forms we have them in the poetry of Mr. Swinburne; in the former in that of, for example, Victor Hugo. Now, wherever there is "faith," the man, if you push him, must express himself in a formula of some sort. So long as that formula does not exceed the limits of the emotions from the consolidated form of which it takes its rise, and so long as it is expressed in concrete or artistic form, the incalculable majority of mankind, myself among them, find it acceptable in poetry. All that some of us contend for is what Mr. H. A. Page actually admits in adopting a sentence of mine which scarcely deserved to be singled out for the purpose of expressing what seems to me an obvious truth. I had said elsewhere, that a novel of opinion must be a bad work of art, and must do injustice. This Mr. H. A. Page cordially adoptsand it involves every scrap of what some of us are fighting for. Carried as far as it goes, it yields this general law :

Any matter of opinion whatever, consciously introduced into a work of art in such a way that it is organically connected with the structure of that work (i.e., in such a way that it can neither be retained nor removed without interfering with the enjoyment of somebody who contemplates the work), is a flaw.

This may be stated in other terms, thus:

Each art is conterminous, or, at least, homogeneous with each other art. You cannot state an opinion in a statue, or in a picture, or in a symphony. Therefore you must not state an opinion in a poem. In poetry your vehicle of expression is more definite than in any of the other arts, but your range of topic is identical.

These, it may be repeated, are canons of perfection, and canons, too, which are only necessary for the purpose of keeping up boundary lines in epochs of self-conscious and divaricated opinion. And, though an artist, say a sculptor, cannot (and ought not if he could) state an opinion in his work, he may-and, in proportion to his greatness and range of vision, he assuredly will-do that from which an opinion may be inferred. For example, he may, without having, himself, any con

scious theory of life, put into a marble countenance an expression of triumphant faith. And this expression the philosopher or critic may draw out into a proposition which shall form an item of religious belief. The artist may do this kind of thing with intense sympathy or without it (though rarely the latter); but, except in his function of recorder or reproducer, he must not allow any sympathy to escape into his work upon points which lie outside of universal human experience. Thus, the spiritual suggestions and emotions which seek to express themselves in different creeds lie within his province. But formulated doctrines of any kind whatever, he has in strictness no right at all to express. If he attempts it, and in any degree succeeds, we invariably find that he has paid unconscious tribute to the canons by sliding into pure poetic form, and exhibiting dogma in the shape of narrative or picture. Take a verse out of Dr. Watts:

"And, lest the shadow of a spot

Should on my soul be found,

He took the robe the Saviour wrought

And cast it all around."

Here we have the dogma of imputed righteousness (which millions of even orthodox Christians reject), but it is shown to us as metaphor and picture; and so, having granted, as in the case of hymns we are expected to grant, the donnée of the work, we are not displeased. Again, take the case of Lucretius, instanced by Professor Plumptre, or the case of our own Alexander Pope. They both produced poetry, and, as we have been saying, in the solidarity of life everything runs into everything; but yet here, too, homage is done to the canons. It would not be poetry to say, even in the very best rhyme and time, "the characteristic of infinite intelligence is impartiality of observation." But it is poetry, though of a quasi-rhetorical order, to say:

He "sees with equal eye, as God of all,

A hero perish or a sparrow fall."

Again, in the "In Memoriam," it would not have been poetry to say (Canto cxxv.), "I am, at times, of opinion that the universal scheme will have a satisfactory conclusion." But it is poetry to say:

I"hear at times a sentinel

Who moves about from place to place,
And whispers to the worlds of space,
In the deep night, that all is well."

This is not the statement of an opinion, but the record of an emotion, put into story or picture. Yet, in Pope and in Lucretius, as in all such poets, there is a great deal that is not poetry; for example, a mere comment like—