ENGLISH LANDSCAPE.*

WE are delighted, and so will be all lovers of good verse, with Captain Maurice Baring's charming little anthology, English Landscape. It was compiled, he tells us, without the help of libraries, out of reach of books and bookshops ; in other words, it was compiled at the front, and therefore must have been largely an effort of memory. This mental tour de force would naturally have attracted attention to the book, but it needs no such external support, -and can stand quite well by itself. It passes triumphantly all the tests which ought to be applied to an anthology of this description. Its central motive, that of recalling to our soldiers at the front and to all wanderers and exiles the beauties and delights of the English landscape, is never lost sight of. Every poem contributes to the end of calling up before the eyes of the man away from England the glories and delights of "the woods, waters, wastes," as the old legal recitals aver, the blowing downs and the flower-starred fields of England. Also, and this is perhaps the most difficult test, it contains no rubbish. Captain Baring shows that his taste is armour of proof. He does not, as no often happens with anthology-makers, suddenly let one down with a piece of vulgarity or ineptitude, which for some special or private reason happens to delight the compiler but is anathema to all true lovers of English poetry. When we say this we do not mean that we like all the poems selected by Captain Baring equally well. Though none are bad, some are of course less good than others. The third teat of the goodness of an anthology (though we admit it is not a very scientific one) is that it should contain surprises—poems even for those who in their pride of soul thought they knew every flower that grows in the spacious garden of our song. The first poem comes under this head, at any rate as far as the present writer is concerned. It is Kingsley's elegy, entitled " September 21st, 1870." Though they are not unfamiliar, we are delighted to see that Captain Baring makes so good a use of quotations from Crabbe. When all is said and done, Crabbe is one of the very best describers of certain aspects of English landscape.

Now we are going to do what it is the duty of every reviewer of an anthology to do—make one or two suggestions for a second edition, which is certain to come, some of which will perhaps shock Captain Baring. In the first place, why has he excluded Keats's sonnet, "Happy is England: I could be content to see no other verdure than its own" ? No doubt there is only a touch of English landscape in it, but all the same that touch is imperishable. Besides, the poem is wonderful because it is the first piece of verse in which Keats's Muse soared to its full height, both as regards style and metri. cal accomplishment. Next we must ask, why has Pope been excluded ? Pope was, of course, not an explorer in the best fields of English land- scape. Still, lie does bring before us in a wonderful way what we all know, and many of us love—the stately eighteenth-century formal garden and park, equipped with all that classical architecture can do, as Pope himself might have said, to enrich the landscape. The best way to treat Pope, we think, would have been to have had a string of episodes dealing with what the old landscape gardeners called " Nature Improved." Since Captain Baring has refused the task, we will try our own hand at it :-- " To build, to plant, whatever you intend, To rear the Column, or the Arch to bend, To swell the Terrace, or to sink the Grot, In all, let Nature never be forgot. But treat the Goddess like a modest Fair, Nor over-dress, nor leave her wholly bare ; Let not each beauty everywhere be apy'd, Where half the skill is decently to hide.

Ho gains all points, who pleasingly confounds, Surprises, varies, and conceals the bounds.

Consult the Genius of the Place in all ; That tells the Waters or to rise, or fall ; Or helps the ambitious Hill the heav'ns to scale, Or scoops in circling theatres the Vale ; Calls in the Country, catches op'ning glades, Joins willing woods, and varies shades from shades; Now breaks or now directs th' intending Lines ; Paints as you plant, and, as you work, designs.

• • • Behold Villario's ten-years toil complete His Quincunx darkens, his Espaliers meet ; The Wood supports the Plain, the parts unite, The strength of Shade contends with strength of Light; A waving Glow the bloomy beds display, Blushing in bright diversities of day,

With silver-quiv'ring rills meander'd o'er—

Enjoy them, you ! Villario can no more ; Tied of the scene Parterres and Fountains yield, He finds at last he better likes a Field.

• • • Bid Harbours open, public Ways extend, Bid Temples; worthier of the God, ascend ; Bid the broad Arch the dangerous Flood contain, The Mole projected break the roaring Main;

net• English Landscape. By Maurice Haring. London: Humphrey Milford.nt. .)

Back to his bounds their subject Sea command, And roll obedient Rivers through the Land ; These honours, Peace to happy Britain brings, These are Imperial Works, and worthy Kings.

• • • • • • What are the falling rills, the pendent shades, The morning bowers, the evening colonnades, But soft recesses for the uneasy mind To sigh unheard in to the passing wind ? So the struck deer, in some sequesteed part, Lies down to die (the arrow in his heart) ; There hid in shades, and wasting day by day, Inly he bleeds, and pants his soul away.

Another age shall see the golden Ear Embrown the Slope, and nod on the Parterre, Deep Harvests bury all his pride hm planned, And laughing Ceres re-assume the land."

Another writer who should, in our opinion, have been drawn upon— though he is not " the fancy " just now—is Macaulay. " The Armada," for instance, with its splendid list of place-names, and its insight into the wider geographical aspects of English scenery, would certainly have stirred the heart of many an exile. He might voyage in it, as Stevenson voyaged in the Atlas :—

" From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn to Milford Bay, That time of slumber was as bright and busy as the day ; For swift to east and swift to west the ghastly war-flame spread, High on St. Michael's Mount it shone it shone on Beachy Head. Far on the deep the Spaniard saw, along each southern shire, Cape beyond cape, in endless range, those twinkling points of fire. The fisher left his skiff to rock on Tamar's glittering waves : The rugged miners poured to war from Mendip's sunless eaves : O'er Longleat'a towers, o'er Cranbourne's oaks, the fiery herald flow ; He roused the shepherds of Stonehenge, the rangers of Beaulieu. Right sharp and quick the bells all night rang out from Bristol town, And ere the day three hundred horse had met on Clifton down ; The sentinel on Whitehall gate looked forth into the night, And saw o'er hanging Richmond Hill the streak of blood-red light.

And eastward straight from wild Blackheath the warlike errand went, And roused in many an ancient hall the gallant squires of Kent ; Southward from Surrey's pleasant hills flew those bright couriers forth ; High on bleak Hampstead's swarthy moor they started for the north ; And on, and on, without a pause, untirod they bounded still : All night from tower to tower they sprang ; they sprang from hill to hill : Till the proud Peak unfurled the flag o'er Darwin's rocky dales, Till like volcanoes flared to heaven the stormy hills of Wales, Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on Malvern's lcinely height, Till streamed in crimson on the wind the Wrekin'a crest of light, Till broad and fierce the star came forth on Ely's stately fane, And tower and hamlet rose in arms o'er all the boundless plain ; Till Belvoies lordly terraces the sign to Lincoln sent, And Lincoln sped the message on o'er the wide vale of Trent ; Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burned on Gaunt's embattled pile, And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the burghers of Carlisle."

We would also include in a landscape anthology Macaulay's " Epitaph on a Jacobite." The description of scenery is exiguous, but it is poignant :- " To my true king, I offered free from stain Courage and faith • vain faith, and courage vain. For him, I threw lands, honours, wealth, away, And one dear hope, that was more prized than they. For him I languished in a foreign clime, Grey-haired with sorrow in my manhood's prime ; Heard on Lavornia, Seargilfs whispering trees, And pined by Arno for my lovelier Toes ; Beheld each night my home in fevered sleep, Each morning started from the dream to weep ; Till God, who saw me tried too sorely, gave The resting-place I asked, an early grave. Oh thou, whom chance lends to this nameless stone, From that proud country which was onto mine own, By those white cliffs I never more must ace, By that dear language which I spako like thee, Forget all feuds and shed one English tear O'er English dust. A broken heart lies here."

Another source of landscape poetry which, curiously enough, remains absolutely untouched is Barnes, the Dorset poet, who, in spite of the repellent barriers which the inspirilliphilological expert throw around his verse, is the most easily read of Mialect poets. " Lwow- some woodlands, sunny woodlands," ought certainly to be in every collection of landscape poetry. But in truth with Barnes landscape is ever the predominant note—all his poetry " calls in the country."

Finally, why are Chaucer and the school of Chaucer left out ? The famous passage about the oaks is perhaps tho most appealing description of English woodland in the whole of our literature. We cannot resist quotation, and, after all, what could prove a better peroration in an article dealing with English landscape? The verses in question are to be found in " The Flower and the Leaf," a poem upon which the critics only agree in one respect—namely, that it was not, as our forefathers believed, written by Chaucer :— " And to a pleasant grove I gan passe, Long er the bright Surma up risen was ;

In which wore okes grove, Etreight as a line. Under the which the grassc, so freak of helve, Was newly sprong ; and an eight foot or -ale Every tree wel fro his fellow grew,

With branches brode, laden with levee news, That sprongen out ayen the rune shene, Some very redde, and some a glad light grime; And, at the last, a path of little bredee I found, that greatly had not used be ; For it forgrowen was with grease and weeds, That wel unneth a wighte might it se : Thought ` This path some whider goth, parde 1 ' And so I followed, till it me brought To a right pleasaunt herber,t well ywrought, That benohed was, and with turfes news Freshly turved, whereof the grene gras, So smale, so thicke, so short, so fresh of hews, That most like unto grene wool, wot I, it was : The heggo also that yede in oompas, And closed in al the green° herbere, With sicamour was set and eglatere."

But we must not go on quoting after this fashion. After all, what we started out to do was not to make a new anthology, but to express our great gratitude to Captain Maurice Baring for his delightful little book, and our hope that he will get not only many readers, but also many buyers, and so enrich the British Fund for the relief of Russian Prisoners of War in Germany, to which admirable object the profits are to go. Captain Baring has done his part excellently. It is " up to " the lovers of English landscape and of English verse to make his venture a success.