Poetry. Of course there is to-day a great deal of rant and twaddle
published under the name of verse in magazines; yet I could point to
scores and scores of poems that have thus appeared during the last ten
years,[5] which half a century ago would have made--and deservedly have
made--a high reputation for their authors. Such phrases as 'universal
necessity for practical exertion,' 'prosaic character of the age,' etc.,
are, of course, common enough; but those who are acquainted with such
matters will, I am sure, corroborate my assertion that there was never
so much good poetry in our general literature as exists at present.
Persons of intelligence do not look for such things perhaps, and
certainly not in magazines, while persons of 'culture' are too much
occupied with old china and high art; but to humble folks, who take an
interest in their fellow-creatures, it is very pleasant to observe what
high thoughts, and how poetically expressed, are now to be found about
our feet, and, as it were, in the literary gutter. I don't compare these
writers with Byrons and Shelleys; I don't speak of them as born poets at
all. On the contrary, my argument is that second nature (cultivation,
opportunities of publication, etc.) has made them what they are; and it
is immensely creditable to her.

[5] I take up a half-yearly volume of a magazine (price 1-1/2d.
weekly) addressed to the middle classes, and find in it, at
haphazard, the five following pieces, the authors of which are
anonymous:

AGATHA.

'From under the shade of her simple straw hat
She smiles at you, only a little shamefaced:
Her gold-tinted hair m a long-braided plait