"
"But surely, papa, Mr. Percivale has _some_ sense of duty," said Wynnie in
an almost angry tone.
"Assuredly my love. Therefore I argue that he has some hope, and therefore,
again, that he has no right to publish such a picture."
At the word _publish_ Percivale smiled. But Wynnie went on with her
defence:
"But you see, papa, that Mr. Percivale does not paint such pictures only.
Look at the other."
"Yes, my dear. But pictures are not like poems, lying side by side in the
same book, so that the one can counteract the other. The one of these might
go to the stormy Hebrides, and the other to the Vale of Avalon; but even
then I should be strongly inclined to criticise the poem, whatever position
it stood in, that had _nothing_--positively nothing--of the aurora in it."
Here let me interrupt the course of our conversation to illustrate it by a
remark on a poem which has appeared within the last twelvemonth from the
pen of the greatest living poet, and one who, if I may dare to judge, will
continue the greatest for many, many years to come.
Pages:
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259