popular in England lately, but thirty years agone it was somewhat
neglected. There does seem to be something in French poetry which fails
to please "the German paste in our composition." Mr. Matthew Arnold, a
disciple of Sainte-Beuve, never could appreciate French poetry. A poet-
critic has even remarked that the French language is nearly incapable of
poetry! We cannot argue in such matters, where all depends on the taste
and the ear.

Our ancestors, like the author of the "Faery Queen," translated and
admired Du Bellay and Ronsard; to some critics of our own time this taste
seems a modish affectation. For one, I have ever found an original charm
in the lyrics of the Pleiad, and have taken great delight in Hugo's
amazing variety of music, in the romance of Alfred de Musset, in the
beautiful cameos of Gautier. What is poetical, if not the "Song of
Roland," the only true national epic since Homer? What is frank, natural
verse, if not that of the old _Pastourelles_? Where is there _naivete_
of narrative and unconscious charm, if not in _Aucassin et Nicolette_? In
the long normally developed literature of France, so variously rich, we
find the nearest analogy to the literature of Greece, though that of
England contains greater masterpieces, and her verse falls more winningly
on the ear. France has no Shakespeare and no Milton; we have no Moliere
and no "Song of Roland." One star differs from another in glory, but it
is a fortunate moment when this planet of France swims into our ken. Many
of our generation saw it first through Mr. Swinburne's telescope, heard
of it in his criticisms, and are grateful to that watcher of the skies,
even if we do not share all his transports. There then arose at Oxford,
out of old French, and old oak, and old china, a "school" or "movement."
It was aesthetic, and an early purchaser of Mr. William Morris's wall
papers. It existed ten or twelve years before the public "caught on," as
they say, to these delights. But, except one or two of the masters, the