feeling which, within their own little communities, bound the
several classes of society together, while full scope was left for
the development of natural character, wherein individuals differed
as conspicuously as in costume. Now, we all wear one conventional
dress, one conventional face; we have no bond of union but
pecuniary interest; we talk anything that comes uppermost for
talking's sake, and without expecting to be believed; we have no
nature, no simplicity, no picturesqueness: everything about us is
as artificial and as complicated as our steam-machinery: our
poetry is a kaleidoscope of false imagery, expressing no real
feeling, portraying no real existence. I do not see any
compensation for the poetry of the twelfth century."

MR. MAC QUEDY. I wonder to hear you, Mr. Chainmail, talking of the
religious charity of a set of lazy monks and beggarly friars, who
were much more occupied with taking than giving; of whom those who
were in earnest did nothing but make themselves and everybody about
them miserable with fastings and penances, and other such trash;
and those who were not, did nothing but guzzle and royster, and,
having no wives of their own, took very unbecoming liberties with
those of honester men. And as to your poetry of the twelfth
century, it is not good for much.

MR. CHAINMAIL. It has, at any rate, what ours wants, truth to
nature and simplicity of diction.

The poetry, which was addressed to the people of the dark ages,
pleased in proportion to the truth with which it depicted familiar
images, and to their natural connection with the time and place to
which they were assigned. In the poetry of our enlightened times,