istinguished a place as Browning
has done in the estimation of the better class of readers. I do not
pretend to say absolutely that style does not exist in Browning's
work; but, if so, its 'still small voice' is utterly overwhelmed,
for me, by the din of the other elements. I think I can see, in
Browning's poetry, all that Mr. Symons sees, though not perhaps all
that he fancies he sees. But I also discern a want of which he
appears to feel nothing; and those defects of manner which he
acknowledges, but thinks little of, are to me most distressing, and
fatal to all enjoyment of the many brilliant qualities they are
mixed up with.--Yours very truly,
COVENTRY PATMORE.

Campbell, I suppose, protested in his vigorous fashion against the
criticism of Browning, and the answer to that letter, dated May 7, is
printed on p. 264 of the second volume of Mr. Basil Champneys' _Life of
Patmore_. It is a reiteration, with further explanations, such as that

When I said that manner was more important than matter in poetry, I
really meant that the true matter of poetry could only be expressed
by the manner. I find the brilliant thinking and the deep feeling
in Browning, but no true individuality--though of course his manner
is marked enough.

Another letter in the same year, to Campbell, after reading the proofs
of my first book of verse, _Days and Nights_, contained a criticism
which I thought, at the time, not less discouraging than the criticism
of my _Browning_. It seems to me now to contain the truth, the whole
truth, and nothing but the truth, about that particular book, and to
allow for whatever I may have done in verse since then. The first letter
addressed to me is a polite note, dated March 16, 1889, thanking me for
a copy of my book, and saying 'I send herewith a little volume of my
own, which I hope may please you in some of your idle moments.' The book
was a copy of _Florilegium Amantis_, a selection of his own poems,
edited by Dr. Garnett. Up to that time I had read nothing of Patmore
except fragments of _The Angel in the House_, which I had not had the
patience to read through. I dipped into these pages, and as I read for
the first time some of the odes of _The Unknown Eros_, I seemed to have
made a great discovery: here was a whole glittering and peaceful tract
of poetry which was like a new w