February 24, 1894. Samuel Daniel.

The writings of Samuel Daniel and the circumstances of his life are of
course well enough known to all serious students of English poetry.
And, though I cannot speak on this point with any certainty, I imagine
that our younger singers hold to the tradition of all their fathers,
and that Daniel still

_renidet in angulo_

of their affections, as one who in his day did very much, though
quietly, to train the growth of English verse; and proved himself, in
everything he wrote, an artist to the bottom of his conscience. As
certainly as Spenser, he was a "poet's poet" while he lived. A couple
of pages might be filled almost offhand with the genuine compliments
of his contemporaries, and he will probably remain a "poet's poet" as
long as poets write in English. But the average reader of culture--the
person who is honestly moved by good poetry and goes from time to
time to his bookshelves for an antidote to the common cares and
trivialities of this life--seems to neglect Daniel almost utterly. I
judge from the wretched insufficiency of his editions. It is very hard
to obtain anything beyond the two small volumes published in 1718 (an
imperfect collection), and a volume of selections edited by Mr. John
Morris and published by a Bath bookseller in 1855; and even these are
only to be picked up here and there. I find it significant, too, that
in Mr. Palgrave's _Golden Treasury_ Daniel is represented by one
sonnet only, and that by no means his best. This neglect will appear
the more singular to anyone who has observed how apt is the person
whom I have called the "average reader of culture" to be drawn to the
perusal of an author's works by some attractive idiosyncrasy in the