him) that he can see little in Browning. And if he is blind to
Browning, what he thinks of contemporary "new" poets may easily be
imagined. With or without inspiration, he believes that hard work is
necessary, and that good workmanship ought to be rated more highly.
This idea has become an obsession; Mr. Watson writes too much about
the sweat of his brow, and vents his spleen on "modern" poets too
often. In his latest volume, _Retrogression_, published in 1917,
thirty-two of the fifty-two poems are devoted to the defence of
standards of poetic art and of purity of speech. They are all
interesting and contain some truth; but if the "new" poetry and the
"new" criticism are really balderdash, they should not require so much
attention from one of the most eminent of contemporary writers. I
think Mr. Watson is rather stiff-necked and obstinate, like an honest,
hearty country squire, in his sturdy following of tradition. Smooth
technique is a fine thing in art; but I do not care whether a poem is
written in conventional metre or in free verse, so long as it is
unmistakably poetry. And no garments yet invented or the lack of them
can conceal true poetry. Perhaps the Traditionalist might reply that
uninspired verse gracefully written is better than uninspired verse
abominably written. So it is; but why bother about either? He might
once more insist that inspired poetry gracefully written is better
than inspired poetry ungracefully written. And I should reply that it
depended altogether on the subject. I should not like to see Whitman's
_Spirit that formed this Scene_ turned into a Spenserian stanza.
I cannot forget that David Mallet tried to smoothen Hamlet's soliloquy
by jamming it into the heroic couplet. Mr. Watson thinks that the
great John Donne is dead. On the contrary, he is audibly alive; and
the only time he really approached dissolution was when Pope
"versified" him.