The questions are various; but they radiate from and enter again into
the old question whether what he is doing, and beginning to do well, is
worth while doing, or rather whether it will have been worth while doing
fifty years hence. For we have no doubt at all in our mind that, in
comparison with the bulk of contemporary poetry, such work as _Reynard
the Fox_ is valuable. We may use the old rough distinction and ask first
whether _Reynard the Fox_ is durable in virtue of its substance, and
second, whether it is durable in virtue of its form.
The glorification of England! There are some who would give their souls
to be able to glorify her as she has been glorified, by Shakespeare, by
Milton, by Wordsworth, and by Hardy. For an Englishman there is no
richer inspiration, no finer theme; to have one's speech and thought
saturated by the fragrance of this lovely and pleasant land was once
the birthright of English poets and novelists. But something has crept
between us and it, dividing. Instead of an instinctive love, there is a
conscious desire of England; instead of slow saturation, a desperate
plunge into its mystery.
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