ABSTRACT
Whither shall a reader turn in these days who longs to escape for a while from all the toil and clamour and strife of the world, and to roam at will in pleasant places, where nothing shall remind him of the doubtful battle-field where after a short breathing-space he must again bear his part? There are great masters who strengthen our sight to look at doubt and danger with steadfast eyes, and arm us for the fight with exalted hope and renewed faith in good: whether they speak to us in articulate words, or in parables of deathless music deeper than speech, or in the visible beauty of painting or sculpture. Their task is indeed the noblest of all; they are the mighty men of whom Mr. Morris has said that they slay the ravening monsters of the sea that beats around us. But we are not always in a mood to receive their gifts; there C0111e times when we desire not their full light, but some cooler shadow; when we would learn not how to face cares, but how to forget them. And yet we must enjoy our short oblivion only so that after it we may the better remember; we shall gain no sweet or refreshing repose if we stupefy ourselves with scorn or indifference. He who can teach us the right and innocent forgetfulness has surely attained high praise, though not the supreme eminence of those others. Such an one is Mr. Morris, and though he has called himself 'the poor singer of an empty day,' his office is no idle nor empty one. His position is singular amongst our living writers; this new part of the Earthly Paradise has appeared almost at the same time with Mr. Tennyson's last pOe111S, but no competition or comparison is possible. They belong to different worlds of thought, and the one cannot interfere with the other.
