Indeed, it is precisely because Ronsard lends himself so superbly as an
amateur to treatment by the amateur, that any attempt to approach him
more closely seems to be tinged with rancour or ingratitude. There is
something churlish in the determination to be most on one's guard
against the engaging graces of the amateur, a sense that one is behaving
like the hero of a Gissing novel; but the choice is not large. One must
regard Ronsard either as a charming country gentleman, or as a great
historical figure in the development of French poetry, or as a poet; and
the third aspect has a chance of being the most important.
Ronsard is pre-eminently the poet of a simple mind. There is nothing
mysterious about him or his poetry; there is not even a perceptible
thread of development in either. They are equable, constant
imperturbable, like the bag of a much invited gun, or the innings of a
safe batsman. The accomplishment is akin to an animal endowment. The
nerves, instead of being, if only for a moment, tense and agitated, are
steady to a degree that can produce an exasperation in a less
well-appointed spectator.
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