The San Francisco call., 1896-10-04


teresting clew to the personality of its author.
One unfamiliar with Alice MeyweI happening
upon her volume, 1.-The Color of Life,'' and
seeing 1t inscribed to Coventry Patmore might
easily place her among that literary set so
greatly prevailing just now in London. This
surmise would be still further confirmed by
observing that the dedication of Francis
Thompson's end of the century volume OF
verses is to "Wilfred and Alice Meywell." The
mark OF the Vigo-street publishers on the
title page of Mrs. WeywelIs little crushed
raspberry covered booklet US hope that
is not the "color of life' - in itself con-
Veys sort OF distinction. A goodly COM
pany are those writers OF "The Bodley
Head" who are conjured up by the very men,
tion of the name. lie Caffeine comes first by
virtue of his being the earliest books sent out
by the firm, which has evolved from the little
second hand bookshop established in Vigo
street by Elkin Mathews and named "The Bod
ley Head" in honor of the founder of 0xford's
library, into the now distinguished publishers
who ave achieved the difficult art of making
poetry pay. This has been chiefly accom-
plished by choice and limited editions and the
en- suing fad for owning or speculating in the
same.
Norman Gale has been particularly fortu-
nate in this respect. Great prices have been
paid for some of his early editions He has
been called the 'Watteau of poetry" In spite
of which fact he is said to be over six feet
tall and mighty football player at Rugby
where he is master. His personality seems
strangely at variance with the artificial dainti-
ness of his verse.
Lord de Taoley, through The BodleY Head,
gained the fame he had been cheated of in
youth. Before his death he had the gratlfca-
ton Of seeing his hitherto unheeded poems
read and talked of on every side.
That sweet Frances Wynne, whose slender,
girls volume. ''Whisper." LIE Gallienne tells us
OF so charmingly in "Sandra Bellonis Pine.
wood" also made her entrance into
w. B. Yeats, John Davidson, Cosmo
Monkhouse Richard Garnett and many more
belong to the same good fellowship. Francis
Thompson has, perhaps won more fame than
any other with his strangely powerful poems;
like Rossetti's, spiritual, yet tinged with a
sort of earthiness. Theirs is not only heaven
of continued identity" but heaven of con-
unued-if sublimated-senses as well.
Francis Thompson he's made-with the ex-
ception OF his poems-s miserable failure of
his life on earth. He has taken what remains
of wreck to q remote monastery in Wales.
His Hound of Reaven,' written from his own
deepest experience, haunts the reader with q
strange insisteney.
The name of Francis Thompson brings us
back to our starting-point, for observing his
dedication we Learn with interest that Mrs.
Meyweil herself once bore the name. We are
led TO wonder whether the regard that
prompted the inscription was brotherly rather
than literary. However that may be, it was as
Alice Thompson that Mrs MeyweH first gave
her poems to the world, very unheeding and
inattentivee world, as it proved.
Nearly all readers of books are familiar with
the great picture, entitled "The Rollcall,"
which so touched the heart of England that
its young painter, Elizabeth Thompson. was
followed by a mob of people thronging to
catch glimpse of her face whenever she went
upon the street The grim pathos of the COM
Iosition-that struggling row of men answer
ing the namecalI after the battle-is known
TO all. The sincerity of the treatment. the
terribly suggested tragedy of war, compel in
the spectator that ache in the throat which
comes from feelings profoundly moved.
The same year, 1875, that was filed with
the furor for this picture, saw the birth of
slender and modest volume of poems by the
painters sister. Her work, reserved, recluse
in style, never appealed TO the general public
and was quite lost sight of in the others
brilliant success. For all this Alice Thomp-
son, who short time after this became Alice
Meywen, was still the "poets' poet" A few
years ago, when that general outflowing of
English minor poetry began, new edition of
Alice Meywelps poems was issued by the Vigo-
street publishers, together with a volume of
essays called 1.-THE Rhythm of Life.'
These were followed only few months ago
by second volume of essays called "The
Color of Life" Now, the critics have told US
so much in praise of these two books that we
approach their reading with some trepida-
ton. When one is informed by no unweighty
authority that these deserve to be ranked
with the Essays in Criticism" and the Stud
les of the Renaissance" one, as an admirer of
Mathew Arnold and lover of Walter Pater,
feels inclined to argue the point beforehand.
When one has for long found much mental
sustenanee in the vigorous thought and fine
irony of MI Arnold, and pored with an ever
increasing affection over the subtieties and
the beauties of Mr.. Paters style, one does not
so easily put a stranger cheek-by-jowl on the
shelf with them. Excessive praise is almost
as blighting TO the fresh enjoyment of book
as excessive disparagement Tine former antag-
onizes, while the latter may lead to pleasant
voyage of original discovery
Still we listen with respect when Mr. Pa..
more tells US that Mrs. Meywen has gained in
her writings that singularly rare attribute of
her sex-true distinction. and aiter-not the
first reading but the second or third-we come
very nearly to agree with what Mr. Patmore and
all the others have said in her honor. She dis
tinguishes proudly in the use of words, as one
VINO ISels Inc uODlesSe ODIlge OF q DlrJhrlght of
letters. We find no turgid utterance here, no
exaggeration. Instead, q calmness which
reveals latent power, dignity of reserve
which shrinks from over emphasis. After
reading her we almost hesitate to quote Mr..
Sharp's high praise Of her sonnet, "Renounce-
ment," or his mention of Dante Gabriel
Rossetti's opinion that 1t is zone of the three
finest sonnets ever written by women" She
has herself made US feel that superlative ap-
proach vulgarity. We are quite certain
that she would herself never indulge in
sweeping generalities. One feels curiosity,
by the way, as to whose Mr.. kosset ttPs two
other sonnets were. One his sister Christmas
and the other Elizabeth Barrett Browning's
one would hazard a guess.
question whether most of US would care 70
exchange any of the finest of the sonnets
''from the Portuguese" for this OF Alice
Meywell's, beautiful as it is.
1 must not think of thee; and tired, yet
strong,
shun the thought that turks in all delight,
The thought of thee, and in the blue heav-
ems height
And IN the sweetest passage of a song
oh. Just beyond the fairest thoughts that
throng
5his breast. the thought of thee waits. hid