ABSTRACT
Disposed, as we are, to recognize all who cultivate poetry honestly, whatever be the style;-and admitting that Mr. Morris may be counted among that choir,-we must call attention to his book of Pre-Raphaelite minstrelsy as to a curiosity which shows how far affectation may mislead an earnest man towards the fog-land of Art. Of course, in rejoinder, we may be reminded how Wordsworth was misunderstood, how Keats was misprized, when they set forth on their original paths. We shall once more be invited to accept, wrapped round with some delicate rose-leaf of sophistry, or locked up in some casket of curious device, the fallacy that-
-What matter? Truth is the same, poetry undying, from all time and in all ages,-but masquing is not truth, and the galvanism of old legend is not poetry. The justice ofwhat has been said could be proved from every page of this provoking volume, to the satisfaction of the most enthusiastic lover of our Laureate's 'Lady of Shalott.' T'hat strange dream, which, however beautiful, quaint, and touching it be, quivers on the furthest verge of Dream-land to which sane Fancy can penetrate, has been 'the point of departure' for Mr. Morris. While we were looking, a day or two since, at Mr. Egley's skilful, minute, yet barely intelligible, presentment of that magical ballad-something of sympathy, something of sadness, something of wonder, came over us, in consideration of time wasted and effort ill bestowed. This, however, the Pre-Raphaelite poets, apparently, do not perceive; otherwise, we should never have been bidden to look on so astounding a picture as Mr. Morris's 'Rapunzel.' How to express or make the subject of this clear, is not an easy task. The tale is one ofenchantment. There is a Prince who is haunted by some mysterious desire. There is an enchanted damsel, whose 'web' (those familiar with 'The Lady of Shalott' will understand us) is her head of hair. This 'fair one of the golden locks' is under the power of wicked creatures. So much explained, let the Prince speak:-
[quotes from 'Rapunzel', ending with the Prince's song] If it would please God to make you sing again,
I think that I might very sweetly die, My soul somehow reach heaven in joyous pain,
My heavy body on the beech-nuts lie.
