Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (287 page)

"Not
a
ritualist,
I
suppose?"

"Oh,
no,
not
a
ritualist;
far
from
it.
A
sound,
broad
Churchman; not
too
high
and
not
too
low.
He
reads
the
lessons
on
Sunday
at Horsham,
with
much
expression
and
fervour,
although
his
voice
is
a little
shrill."

"Does
he
ever
refer
to
his
friendship
with
Lord
Byron?"
I
asked. "They
meet
sometimes
on
State
occasions." "But
isn't
Lord
Byron
dead?"

"Dead!
Dear
me,
no,
unless
he
died
last
night.
I
haven't
heard
His Eminence
was
ill."

"I
thought
he
died
at
Missolonghi
in
1824."

"Oh,
no;
he
returned
from
that
Grecian
expedition
much
shattered in
health,
and
after
a
period
of
solitary
reflection,
which
he
spent
in the
Channel
Islands,
he
joined
the
Church
of
Rome.
He
is
now,
of course,
a
Cardinal,
and
lives
at
Birmingham."

"But
his
works?"
I
asked.
"Did
he
suppress
them?"

"Oh
dear,
no,
sir.
He
wrote
a
great
deal,
and
the
last
cantos
of
Don Juan,
which
tell
of
the
Don's
conversion
and
bona
mors,
are
reckoned to
be
among
the
most
pious
and
edifying
books
of
the
century,
by men
of
all
religious
denominations.
He
wrote,
too,
a
fine
sequel
to Cain,
called
The
Death
of
Cain,
which
is
even
more
edifying,
and even
now
he
still
writes
hymns,
some
of
which
are
popular
both
in
the Roman,
Anglican,
and
Evangelical
Churches.
Notably
one
which begins:

The
Assyrian
came
down
like
a
wolf
on
the
fold.

"But
Cardinal
Byron
is
better
known
now
for
his
sermons
than
for his
lyrics.
He
preaches
most
eloquently,
and
it
is
worth
a
journey
to Birmingham
to
hear
him."

"But
who,"
I
asked,
"are
the
greatest
contemporary
poets?"

"Well,"
said
my
guide,
"undoubtedly
the
greatest
living
poet
is
a woman,
a
portentous
star
of
the
first
magnitude;
I
am
talking
of
the fiery,
volcanic,
incandescent
genius
of
Felicia
Hemans,
the
author
of that
burning
rhapsody
Casa
Bianca.
She
is
undoubtedly
the
greatest woman
poet
since
the
days
of
Sappho,
and
perhaps
even
more
passionate.
We
have
just
lost
one
great
poet,
James
Montgomery.
He
was
the greatest,
in
fact
the
only,
epic
poet
since
the
days
of
Gray.
Then
there is
Benjamin
Disraeli,
author
of
so
many
beautiful
poetical
dramas. Then
you
have
the
sombre
and
tortured
broodings
of
Adelaide
Proctor,
and
the
fierce,
bitter,
biting
etchings
of
Jean
Ingelow;
in
fact,
it
is an
age
of
poetesses
more
than
of
poets."

"And
what
about
Alfred
Tennyson?"
I
asked.

"The
brother
of
the
poet,
Frederick?"
said
my
guide.
"Poor
fellow, he
was
killed
in
the
war
a
few
months
ago
at
Balaclava;
a
very
gallant soldier."

"And
the
poet
Keats,"
I
said.
"Have
you
heard
of
him?"