and woman, and of every spirit and movement, to enjoy. The nation, however, has at last decided that in life it is better to take the risks, and to have the freedom; and poetry has similarly resolved that no portion of her inheritance shall be denied her.

This spirit of revolt against old traditions first found expression, of course, in Mr. Kipling; it discovered fertile soil in John Davidson; more and more it has animated a host of lesser minds; and its latest and consummate product is Mr. John Masefield. Tennyson, no doubt, would have looked askance at Mr. Masefield, and the new movement has not unnaturally been treated with suspicion by worshippers of the old fire. To recognize a new movement, they consider, were inevitably to betray the old. They have not yet realized the possibility, to say nothing of the imperative necessity, of keeping, and cherishing as fondly as they are able, all that is best in the old, and combining with it what is best in the new; and it was only to be expected that the advent of a poet bearing so clearly as Mr. Masefield the hall-mark of the new should be made the occasion for a fresh clamor of dissension.

And, surely enough, when Mr. Masefield's poem, "The Everlasting Mercy," appeared in the pages of a contemporary, the water in the kettle of controversy began at once to bubble uneasily. A few critics rushed forth to place Mr. Masefield upon a pedestal the height of which must have made him dizzy; but many others came armed with sword and shield against him, denying him any claim whatever to the title of poet. The eternal question as to what does and does not constitute poetry was dragged forth again into the critical marketplace, and for many weeks a none too dignified warfare was waged around it with somewhat blunt and rusty

weapons. And, as it has always happened when an analysis of the nature of poetry has been attempted by force of reasoning, the result of the warfare was nothing. It only proved that, glibly as it has often been repeated, the fact has not yet been realized that poetry can only be approached and estimated in terms of the emotions. Poetry may be best compared, perhaps, as Mr. Gilbert Chesterton has compared something or other, it matters not what, to the breeze that blows the trees. We are the trees; the leaves are our senses; and poetry is the unfettered wind which, blowing where it listeth, sweeps in upon the leaves, setting the whole forest of our emotions swaying and rustling. And yet how many of us, as Mr. Chesterton says, act upon the principle that it is the leaves that should make the wind! And, applying the metaphor, it may be taken as an impeccable rule that when it is the leaves that make the wind, then we have no genuine poetry. We have only genuine poetry when the wind does truly rush in and shake the leaves. It may come gently as a zephyr of spring, or wildly as a gale of autumn. It may come as we have seen it come a thousand times, or as we have never seen it before. But so long as it does come, then we have genuine poetry. Yet, if only it come with a smack in it a little different from what they are accustomed to, you have a whole band of critics prepared to deny the wind itself.

Once more, however, the captains and the kings of controversy have departed into the oblivion of the newspaper files, and the poetry of Mr. Masefield remains. Now, therefore, that the air is a little cleared and cooled, it may not be uninteresting to attempt a reconsideration of the three long poems with which Mr. Masefield has entered into the public eye, especially in their relation to the new

movement in poetry of which they are such admirable examples. And, to begin with, the main thing to be observed about this new movement as illustrated by Mr. Masefield's work is not the fact that poetry has succeeded in breaking away from such firmlyrooted traditions at all, but that it has completely, with one indomitable outburst of determination, so that it will never be possible again for that old bondage to reclaim it. Until recently poetry was content, as a general rule, to gather her grain where that grain was apparent and easily to be gathered. Now, however, she is wakening to the realization that it is no less her purpose to seek the grain in, and to winnow it from, the chaff. She has learnt that, the human soul being a more complicated affair than even she had suspected, the finest grain is often mingled with the coarsest chaff; and she is resolved that there is no aspect of human life or thought or emotion, there is no field, however forbidding in apperance (and how typically Victorian were the nineteenth-century poets in their attitude towards appearances!) that shall escape her threshing machine.

In a

which it is possible to apply a name) that it has already produced. But dust, like water, has a way of finding its own level; and verse in which there does not breathe the living spirit of poetry very quickly, as a rule, sinks into eternal oblivion. Unfortunately, Mr. Masefield himself, in two at least of his three poems, falls a prey now and then to the obvious temptation. He is not always content with getting to the naked heart of things, as it is of the essence of his purpose to do; and occasionally he gives us, in consequence, touches of inexcusable coarseness, which will bring the blush to modest cheeks. Such infringements of reasonable restraint are, however, rare; and the fact remains that when everything has been said that can be said in demerit of Mr. Masefield-and in passing it must be added that he sometimes falls into an unmusical slough of despond-his poetry tri. umphs over it all. and triumphs conspicuously well. To return to our metaphor of the wind and trees, it may be said to triumph over the few impurities which it contains, just as the air that blows across Hampstead Heath may be said to triumph over the London smoke and dust with which it is laden. In either case, the air is not unpolluted, but remains, nevertheless, marvellously fresh and healthy. To deny the sun because of the spot upon it were absurd, and to condemn a complete poem because you must condemn a few passages of it were equally absurd. Mr. Masefield shows us here and there the pitfalls which beset the new movement; but his work, taken as a whole, is sterling proof of what the new movement is capable of achieving.

is the idea connoted by them? Is it not that of wealth withdrawn by some malignant and mysterious process from "circulation"? If families "accumulate" wealth "beyond their capacity to spend," they must, we are to assume, put it away in an old stocking! But I do Mr. Hardie an injustice: there is another alternative; they may put it out to "usury"! "Trade," says Mr. Hardie, "is dependent upon the circulation of commodities, and when large sums are yearly extracted from the national income and put out to usury either at home or abroad, just to that extent is the spending power of the people crippled." There would be something pathetic in the confusion of thought revealed by such language, were it not employed by one who is sufficiently confident of his financial skill to formulate a cut and dried Labor Budget. But the real significance of such sentiments lies not in the fact that they are enunciated by Mr. Hardie, but that they are to-day accepted as economic gospel by hundreds of thousands of our fellow-citizens. One point may be gladly conceded to Mr. Hardie. We should prefer to see ten thousand men each in possession of 1000l. of capital than one man in possession of 10,000,000l. But the essential point, in the interest of the community, is that whether in the hands of one individual or of ten thousand, it should exist as "capital" or "hoard," and not be expended as revenue. This is a truth which is unfortunately hidden from many people besides Mr. Hardie. It is fortunate that his ingenuousness allows him to reveal a fallacy which lurks unsuspected in many more elaborate and sophisticated arguments. This brings us back to Canon Barnett.

IV.

Canon Barnett's article raises an issue even wider than those which I

have, thus far, discussed. "Poverty," in bis view, "is at the root of our present discontent, not the poverty which the Poor Law and Charity are to relieve, but the poverty of the great mass of the workers." Is he right?

The existence of "poverty" cannot be denied. The term itself is a relative one, but it is an undeniable and deplorable fact that a considerable section of the population-not "the great mass of the workers"-live habitually on the border line of subsistence. No one doubts that it would be an immense gain, ethical, political, and economic, if this section could be permanently lifted well above that line. Incidentally, I would remark that the significance of much statistical argument is discounted by a common and very natural error. In such statistics it is assumed that the economic unit is the individual wage-earner. One who is personally familiar with the conditions of life among the wage-earners knows that in many parts of England the real economic unit is the family. That is more particularly the case in the great districts where textile manufactures form the staple industry. At the opening of the present Session, Mr. Snowden greatly impressed the House of Commons by pointing out that "even in the greatest of manufacturing industries, the cotton trade, where trade unionism had become a tradition, 21 per cent. of the adult men for full time earned less than 11. a week, and 48 per cent. of the adult men received for full time less than 258. per week." The argument was singularly infelicitous as urged in support of a demand for a legal minimum wage. For everyone who is acquainted with Lancashire knows that there is not, in the whole world, a more highly organized industry than the Lancashire cotton trade, that in no trade are profits cut more fine, and that nowhere is the earning of the individual a less accurate index

to the income of the economic unit. But this is an incidental point.

Canon Barnett argues that poverty is the root cause of discontent, and that poverty is due to unsatisfactory legislation. "Law" (he writes), "which has determined the lines which the present distribution of the national income follows, might determine others which would make the poor richer and the rich poorer." Does he really suppose that the existing distribution of the national income depends upon the enactments of the Legislature? If so, what are the laws to which he more particularly refers? It is true that the law recognizes, within certain limits, the right of testamentary disposition and the right of inheritance. Is it seriously suggested that these laws are responsible for wealth on the one side and poverty on the other? Has he never heard of the Lancashire aphorism: "Clogs to clogs in three generations"? And it is not only in Lancashire that a fool and his money are soon parted. "Clogs to clogs" implies more than this. It means that there is no caste system in trade. Of course the inheritor of capital gets some advantage in the race; but he is frequently handicapped in other directions. It would surprise a great many people to learn how many of the successful men of business have started at the bottom, still more, how many of their grandchildren or great-grandchildren sink again to the same level. There is still in trade a career open to talent, if not absolute equality of opportunity. What Canon Barnett seems to be aiming at is a further restriction of the right of inheritance or, in plain words, an increase in the "death" duties.

Such duties have doubtless taken a permanent place in our financial system, but it is not impertinent to ask how the manual workers are to be benefited by a transformation of capital into revenue? All classes of

the community are vitally interested in the abundance of cheap capital: most of all the classes who live by manual labor. But how will capital be cheapened by treating large lumps of it as revenue? If the revenue derived from the death duties were consistently applied to the extinction of debt, there would be nothing to be said against them on economic grounds. To treat accumulated capital as income can only lead, in the long run, to financial confusion, if not disaster. The value of capital has appreciated to the extent of something like 25 per cent. in the last fifteen years, and that in spite of a rapid increase in its aggregate amount. Many explanations of this appreciation have been suggested. Has sufficient account been taken of the gradual but continuous attrition of capital by contemporary methods of taxation?

I have ventured to question the accuracy of Canon Barnett's assertion that "the great mass of the workers" are living in a condition of poverty. But poverty is a relative term, and I admit that it is as difficult to disprove as to prove the statement. Even were it proved, however, I should nevertheless dispute the force of the argument which is founded upon it. Is it true to say that it is "the poverty of the great multitude of work-people . . which is the chief source of the pres ent discontent"? To those who hold that it is I venture to submit the following questions:

Is it not the case that discontent is most noticeable to-day in the best-paid occupations, and among workers who are admittedly well above the povertyline? I do not, of course, suggest that during the last few years "unrest" has been confined to these classes. The phenomenon has been well-nigh universal in the ranks of "labor." But no one who has any intimate knowledge of those ranks can doubt that the discontent has been and is most deep-rooted

an old woman who earns a precarious livelihood by stitching shrouds for the big undertaker of a Shropshire country-town, and who sacrifices her very food and clothing for her only son. The son comes under evil influences, and is brought through sensuality and jealousy to murder and the gallows, leaving the widow a harmless, pathetic lunatic. Mr. Masefield has, let it be admitted, a slight tendency to caricature; but in its essence his story is true, and is one of no uncommon occurrence. It is one, however, which the Victorian poets would have regarded with dismay, and would have relegated to a place quite outside the pale of art. They might have been a little

more generously disposed towards "Dauber," which relates the history of a farmer's son, who, seized with a passionate ambition to paint the sea, embarks upon a vessel as ship's painter with a view to study the ocean "from the inside." Exiled as he is, of course, among common sailors, his ambition is early nipped in the bud; his canvases are destroyed by ruthless hands; ridicule and abuse are lavished upon him; and, being wholly unfit for the rough work of the ship, he is taunted for being a coward. Against the gibes that are showered upon him his manhood revolts; he makes one desperate effort to prove his courage, and falling from the masthead during the height of a storm, he perishes upon the deck below. But if the poets of an earlier generation might have regarded the story with a more lenient eye, they would certainly have shrunk from such treatment of it as this:

"Just by the round-house door as it grew dark

The boatswain caught the Dauber

with 'Now, you.

Till now I've spared you, damn you,

now you hark

I've just had hell for what you didn't do.

William Heinemann, 3s. 6d. net.

I'll have you broke and sent among the crew

If you get me more trouble by a particle.

Don't you forget, you daubing useless article.

'You thing, you twice-laid thing from Port Mahon.'

Then came the cook's 'Is that the Dauber there?

Why don't you leave them stinking paints alone?

They stink the house out, poisoning all the air,

Just take them out.' 'Where to?' 'I don't care where.

I won't have stinking paints here.' From their plates

"That's right; wet paint breeds fever,' growled his mates.

He took his still wet drawings from the berth

And climbed the ladder to the deckhouse top,

Beneath, the noisy half-deck rang with mirth,

For two ship's boys were putting on the strop.

One, clambering up to let the skylight drop,

Saw him and scuttled down and whispered 'Sammy,

Here's Dauber mooning on the deckhouse, dammy.'"

And no less certainly would they have protested against the following passage from "The Widow in the ByeStreet," which describes the visit of mother and son to the village fair, where the son first falls into the snare of Eve, beautiful, licentious, sensual, eager as a tigress for prey:

"All of the side shows of the fair are lighted,

Flares and bright lights, and brassy cymbals clanging,

'Beginning now' and 'Everyone's invited,'

Shatter the pauses of the organ's