a in Mayfair or an absinthe session in a Bohemian cafe.
It was, in Dr. Johnson's phrase, "an unnecessary deviation from the
usual modes of the world" which struck the world dumb.

The poetry of Francis Thompson appeared in three small volumes:
"Poems," published in 1893; "Sister Songs," in 1895; and "New Poems,"
in 1897. The first of these volumes contained the "Hound of Heaven";
though it staggered reviewers at large, they yielded dubious and
carefully measured praise and waited for developments. The pack was
unleashed and the hue-and-cry raised on the coming of "Sister Songs"
and "New Poems." Andrew Lang and Mr. Arthur Symons led the chorus of
disapproval. It is amusing to read now that Francis Thompson's "faults
are fundamental. Though he uses the treasure of the Temple, he is not
a religious poet. The note of a true spiritual passion never once
sounds in his book." Another critic of the poet declares that "nothing
could be stronger than his language, nothing weaker than the impression
it leaves on the mind. It is like a dictionary of obsolete English
suffering from a severe fit of delirium tremens." A prominent literary
periodical saw, in the attempt to foist Thompson on the public as a
genuine poet, a sectarian effort to undermine the literary press of
England. In the course of a year the sale of "Sister Songs" amounted
to 349 copies. The "New Poems" fared worse; its sale, never large,
practically ceased a few years after its appearance, three copies being
sold during the first six months of 1902.

[Illustration: Across the margent of the world I fled _Page 47_]

And all this despite strong recommendations from fastidious quarters.
George Meredith's recognition was instantaneous and unreserved.
Henley's was accompanied by reproofs. Mr. Richard LeGallienne was
enthusiastic. Mr. William Archer said to a friend, "This is not work
which can possibly be _popular_ in the wide sense; but it is work that
will be read and treasured centuries hence by those who really care for
poetry." And he wrote to Thompson, "I assure you no conceivable
reaction can wipe out or overlay such work as yours. It is firm-based
on the rock of absolute beauty; and this I say all the more confidently
because it does not happen to appeal to my own speculative, or even my
own literary, prejudices." The most extravagant admirer of all, and
the one who will probably turn out to have come nearer the mark than
any of Francis Thompson