, and we readily accord to him all
the distinction of the position. Even where Mr. Rossetti seeks to
praise, he spoils what he praises. To speak of Hyperion as 'a monument
of Cyclopean architecture in verse' is bad enough, but to call it 'a
Stonehenge of reverberance' is absolutely detestable; nor do we learn
much about The Eve of St. Mark by being told that its 'simplicity is full-
blooded as well as quaint.' What is the meaning, also, of stating that
Keats's Notes on Shakespeare are 'somewhat strained and _bloated_'? and
is there nothing better to be said of Madeline in The Eve of St. Agnes
than that 'she is made a very charming and loveable figure, _although she
does nothing very particular except to undress without looking behind
her, and to elope_'? There is no necessity to follow Mr. Rossetti any
further as he flounders about through the quagmire that he has made for
his own feet. A critic who can say that 'not many of Keats's poems are
highly admirable' need not be too seriously treated. Mr. Rossetti is an
industrious man and a painstaking writer, but he entirely lacks the
temper necessary for the interpretation of such poetry as was written by
John Keats.

It is pleasant to turn again to Mr. Colvin, who criticises always with
modesty and often with acumen. We do not agree with him when he accepts
Mrs. Owens's theory of a symbolic and allegoric meaning underlying
Endymion, his final judgment on Keats as 'the most Shaksperean spirit
that has lived since Shakspere' is not very fortunate, and we are
surprised to find him suggesting, on the evidence of a rather silly story
of Severn's, that Sir Walter Scott was privy to the Blackwood article.
There is nothing, however, about his estimate of the poet's work that is
harsh, irritating or uncouth. The true Marcellus of English song has not
yet found his Virgil, but Mr. Colvin makes a tolerable Statius.

(1) Keats. By Sidney Colvin. 'English Men of Letters' Series.
(Macmillan and Co.)

(2) Life of John Keats. By William Michael Rossetti. 'Great Writers'
Series. (Walter Scott.)

A SCOTCHMAN ON SCOTTISH POETRY

(Pall Mall Gazette, October 24, 1887.)

A distinguished living critic, born south of the Tweed, once whispered in
confidence to a friend that he believed that the Scotch knew really very
little about their own national literature. He quite admitted that they
love their 'Robbie Burns' and their 'Sir Walter' with a patriotic
enthusiasm that