lation, and
thereby recognised something far greater. When he came to the original
he was profoundly impressed. It is strange, he says, that he has learnt
for the first time at the age of sixty what a really great poem could
be. Poor Milton's adaptation of pagan mythology to the Hebrew legends,
in order to expound Puritan theology, results in a series of solecisms,
which even the poet could not expect his readers to take seriously. The
story, taken for history, certainly breaks down sufficiently to justify
a severe remark. But Dante's poem, embodying a consistent imagery into
which was worked the whole contemporary philosophy and theology, is of
absorbing interest even to those who are comparatively indifferent to
its more purely literary merits. Fitzjames does not make any detailed
criticisms, but fittingly expresses his astonishment and admiration upon
Dante's revelation of a new world of imagination. I think that it is
possible to show fitting reverence for Dante without deposing Milton
from his much lower, though still very lofty place. But to one brought
up in the old English traditions it was difficult to avoid the rather
superfluous contrast.

With the help of such studies and frequent visits to old friends, and
minor literary tasks, Fitzjames could find ample means of filling up any
spaces left by his judicial duties. In spite of the disgust with which
he regarded the political world, he was happy in his own little world;
and his time passed in a peaceful round of satisfactory work. A few
troublesome cases, those especially of which I have spoken, gave him
occasional worry; but he could adhere to his principle of never fretting
unnecessarily. But now was to begin the painful experience which comes
to the survivors when the ranks begin to thin. He felt such losses
deeply, if with little display of feeling. I find a remark in one of his
letters which is, I think, characteristic. He says that his first
feeling upon a severe blow had been something like shame at not
suffering more. But in a few weeks the sense of loss had become deeper
and stronger; and he had to remind himself of the necessity of
conquering his depression. I have no need, I hope, to dwell upon the
strength of his affections. I can never forget one occasion when his
sympathies were deeply stirred; and when his sense of a certain
awkwardness in expressing himself, a relic of his old prejudice against
'sentimentalism,' served only to bring out most pa