obstinate, no mere complacent optimism-but a living energizing faith in the fact that all this unintelligible tangle of the natural world is in very truth working together for good; a faith stronger far than the faint-hearted "trust" taught us by Tennyson.

Behold, we know not anything;

I can but trust that good shall fall

At last-far off-at last, to all,

And every winter change to spring."

We want some of that grand restraint and repose that we see in the Greeks, before we can produce great works of art. With us it is not to be that Promethean sublimity of defiance, that self-reliance of a self-collected soul, but the calm strong faith in the 'final goal of ill." Without this motive we either fritter away our lives with toys and inanities; or else struggle in our inability to stem the stream, and sink with a cry of despair or a cynical defiance.

We have, I think, at present* a writer, and one who has secured a powerful grasp on the public attention, who is an instance of the last type. I cannot but think that the highest teaching of all the writings of George Eliot amounts to nothing more than a lofty and mournful agnosticism. The mysterious web of life is woven for us, perhaps more deftly and in more

* 1878.

vivid colours than by any other writer, with the sole exception of Shakespeare. But we are left gazing at the tangled maze of things, while the writer seems to smile at us with sad lips, and to say, "This is all. The rest is silence."

He

The poet, the novelist, the playwright, has yet to be born who will tell us what life means. will teach us to have that faith in the deep inner harmony of things, in the good that is to be the final goal of ill, which he himself possesses. He will love to exhibit all the nobler diviner tendencies of man struggling victoriously upwards through the perplexities and trials of earthly things. In this way alone will he secure that form which is necessary for art. Abandoning the defiant attitude of Shelley, he will assume his faith-and a still stronger and deeper faith than his—in the unseen, and his works will possess a majesty and a repose far more grand than even that of ancient art.

CHAPTER IV.

THE MEDIEVAL SPIRIT AND THE REVIVAL.

IN order that we may have some rough and temporary stepping-stone across the ages that separate ancient literature from the poetry of which I wish especially to treat-namely that which arose towards the end of the eighteenth century,—I must now offer a slight sketch of the fundamental characteristics of these ages. In doing this I must, though most unwillingly, leave almost untouched many deeply interesting subjects, such as the rise of early romantic poetry, the marvellous phenomenon of the "Divine Comedy" of Dante, and the origins of our English literature. These subjects, if treated at all, must be treated fully, and to do this does not lie within the scope of my present scheme. I shall therefore, without any attempt to trace the movement in chronological order, speak in general terms of the spirit that (as it appears to me) characterizes the intervening age, and then of the chief reasons to which we may ascribe that wonderful new-birth of natural feeling which we call the Renaissance, or Revival.

After this, we shall have but one more steppingstone, namely the Classical School as exemplified by Pope. Then I shall hope to speak more in detail of the poetry to which it is my object to direct special attention.

Now we must seek to learn an age not by petty facts, but by tracing the great influences at work among humanity. Let us consider what were some of these influences that led to the Revival.

None will, I suppose, dissent from me when I say that in man, and more especially in the highest developments of the human race, there exist two strong tendencies, which we may call the religious and the natural. The disturbances in the balance of these two powers, the temporary supremacy of one or the other, the certain rebellion of the conquered against the conqueror, constitute, perhaps, the most important of those influences by which human history is shaped.

I may be addressing some who will not entirely agree with me, but I think it is generally admitted nowadays that the true state of things is when religion and nature are in alliance; when the elevating, purifying power of religion guides and influences our natural tendencies, but does not tyrannize over its natural consort. Such an alliance is brought about by the law of love, bringing, as its result, freedom. This law of love was first given to man by Christianity. But it was not long before the principle was mis

understood, and in course of time the real meaning of the revelation was entirely lost. Meanwhile the new form of religion had gained a vast authority and temporal power. Not only did the Popes, supported by their Guelph allies, grasp at earthly possessions and an earthly sceptre, but they and their subordinates assumed an authority utterly beyond their right in spiritual matters. What was the result?

Even those who opposed her temporal power, as the Ghibellines, conceded to the Church unlimited power in spiritual things-over matters of conscience. Their allegiance to religion consisted in certain formal acts. Men began to draw a distinct boundary between the authority of religion and the dominion of the natural man. In the latter they claimed unfettered license, and the result was a life of indescribable riot and sensuality in obedience to the natural inclinations, combined with a formal homage to the spiritual authority of the Church which satisfied the demands of conscience-such as they possessed.

But among many of the higher and more earnest minds there was an intense desire to live up to the demands of true conscience. Under the circumstances, only one way seemed open to them, and they chose it. Seeing the seemingly hopeless enmity between the two, and the uselessness of compromise, they renounced all allegiance to nature. All natural desires, affections, and objects were looked upon as "earthly,