ity of the Peak in
Derbyshire. Of the correspondence which ensued I venture to quote only
one sentence:

'I was brought up to love beauty; my home was more than cultured; it
was refined; we took in the _Art Journal_ regularly.'

Of all modern artists, I suppose that Sir Edward Burne-Jones has inspired
more poetry than any other. A whole school of Oxford poets emerged from
his fascinating palette, and he is the subject of perhaps the most
exquisite of all the _Poems and Ballads_--the '_Dedication_'--which forms
the colophon to that revel of rhymes. I sometimes think that is why his
art is out of fashion with modern painters, who may inspire dealers, but
would never inspire poets. For who could write a sonnet on some
uncompromising pieces of realism by Mr. Rothenstein, Mr. John, or Mr.
Orpen? Theirs is an art which speaks for itself. But Sir Edward Burne-
Jones seems to have dazzled the undergrowth of Parnassus no less than the
higher slopes. In a long and serious epic called 'The Pageant of Life,'
dealing with every conceivable subject, I found:--

With some the mention of Burne-Jones
Elicits merely howls and groans;
But those who know each inch of art
Believe that he can bear his part.

I don't remember what he could bear. Perhaps it referred to his election
at the Royal Academy. Then, again, in a 'Vision' of the next world, a
poet described how--

Byron, Burne-Jones, and Beethoven,
Charlotte Bronte and Chopin are there.

I wonder if this has escaped the eagle eye of Mr. Clement Shorter. Though
perhaps the most delightful nonsense, for which, I fear, this great
painter is partly responsible, may be found in a recent poem addressed to
the memory of my old friend, Simeon Solomon:--

More of Rossetti? Yes:
You follow'd than Burne-Jones,
Your depth of colour his
than that of monochromes!
Yes; amber lilies poured, I say,
A joy for thee, than poet's bay.

But while true art refines
and often stimulates,
ART does, at times, I say,
sit grief within our gates!
Art causes men to weep at times--
If you may heed these falt'ring rhymes.

A small volume of lyrics once sent to me for review afforded another
flower for my garland:--

Where in the spring-time leaves are wet,
Oh, lay my love beneath the shades,
Where men remember to forget,
And are forgot in Hades.

But I have given enough examples for what would form Part