k's art. As we set ourselves a
similar task so recently as February last, when reviewing Dr. Young's
edition of the plays, we feel no call to restate our estimate or pit it
against that of this new critic. It need only be said that he realizes,
as does Mr. Van Doren, the singularity of Peacock's genius; that, though
neither has succeeded in showing precisely why it is unique, the English
critic has brought forward some highly illuminating suggestions; and
that reduction by a half would be the greatest improvement that either
book could undergo.

In the circumstances, our interest tends to centre on the biographical
parts of both works. For both are biographical: only Mr. Freeman, who
claims attention for judgment rather than for learning, has been at less
pains to sift and record the minute evidence that contemporary
literature and journalism afford. Fresh evidence, in the shape of
letters and memoirs, may, of course, be brought forward; until then
these two volumes will be final. So far as external evidence goes, the
student is now in possession of all that is known about the author of
"Headlong Hall."

It is surprising that Mr. Freeman's tact did not rescue him from the
temptation into which Mr. Van Doren's industry led him inevitably--the
temptation of finding in Peacock's mature work definable traces of
childish memories and impressions. Still more surprising is it that,
when both have quoted much that is worthless, neither should have
printed the one significant document amongst the surviving fragments of
his boyhood. This is a letter in verse to his mother, which not only
gives promise of the songs that, above all else, have made their author
famous, but is also worth quoting for its peculiar charm and fancy.
Unless we mistake, it has only once been printed, and is hardly known to
the literary public, so here it is:

Dear Mother,

I attempt to write you a letter
In verse, tho' in prose I could do it much better;
The Muse, this cold weather, sleeps up at Parnassus,
And leaves us poor poets as stupid as asses.
She'll tarry still longer, if she has a warm chamber,
A store of old massie, ambrosia, and amber.
Dear mother, don't laugh, you may think she is tipsy
And I, if a poet, must drink like a gipsy.
Suppose I should borrow the horse of Jack Stenton--
A finer ridden beast no muse ever went on--
Pegasus' fleet wings perhaps now are frozen,