21 July 1884 – 27 July 1884

Aldworth. About eleven T. and I came out to walk, first to the stables, where he unchained a Deerhound, a black Setter and two smaller dogs, then with these on Blackdown — along road, returning by Chase Farm uphill through planta- tions. Poetry — Browning : ' one is constantly aware of the greatness of the man, yet somehow baulked of satis- faction. ' He offered me the subject of The Ring and the Book. " My Last Duchess " is very fine.' As he stood looking at the pond by Chase Farm, I spoke of Ruskin's essay on versification, and his selection of Coleridge as the exemplar of a bad Versifier, and of these lines from 'Christabel ' as an example of bad verse — But vainly thou warrest, For this is alone in Thy power to declare, That in the dim forest Thou heard'st a low moaning, And found'st a bright lady, surpassingly fair ; And did'st bring her home with thee in love and in charity, To shield her and shelter her from the damp air. * Nobody,' I said, ' but a true and heaven-born Metrist could have written that — 'twas like a legato passage on the violin, flowing through from beginning to end with one bow.' T. did not entirely agree. He objected to — Did'st bring her home with thee in love and in charity. I said the whole passage had an air of spontaneous- ness, of naivety, and this to me was the last perfection of poetry. T. — * The last perfection is the wild and wonder- ful— Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam, Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.' W. A. — ' Coleridge was a great poet. — Well, he was an endless talker, but not a bothering one ; 'twas like a fountain running, you went away from it when you pleased. He did not care about convincing or converting or convicting you.' T. — * Ruskin's dictum is not to be relied on.' W. A. — ' Especially on poetry. He printed a volume of poems of his own ; but that (he wrote to me once) is " the disgrace of whatever faculty I possess." — Recently he has republished his Oxford Prize Poem on the *' Caves of Elephanta " — entirely worthless.' When on the upper road, looking over the gate where you see the Valewood ponds below, we still spoke of poetry. ' One believes in a poet,' I said, ' whose lines are perpetually coming into one's mind. Yours do with me.' T. — ' Repeat a line.' W. A. — ' Dozens, if you like.' T. — ' I was praising one of Rogers's poems to him once and he said, " Repeat a passage — ha, you can't," and I couldn't at the moment.' W. A. — ' Well, that's barley, not wheat, but here's a line it brings to my mind — And waves of shadow went over the wheat. ' After the thunder-storm the other day, as many a time before, I repeated to myself — Sweet after showers, ambrosial air, That rollest from the gorgeous gloom Of evening ' T. interrupted me and, as he spoke, stood still and faced me (a custom of his) — ' You can't say it so sweetly as I can "! ' and repeated the whole stanza, and on, to ' the round of space.' I always rejoice to hear him recite. * It all goes together,' said he. ' Yes,' said I, ' especially when you sit down to the organ. You won't listen to me and so I hurry.' As we turned down Pack Horse Lane, T. spoke of Eternal Punishment as an obsolete belief. I said, ' At Witley Station hangs on the wall a large book of Bible Texts, one page for each day of the month. To-day I read — " All the dead shall arise, the righteous to eternal life, the wicked to everlasting damnation." ' T. — ' It's not a right translation.' W. A. — ' But it's the authoritative teaching of the Church.' T. — ' Have you read Farrar's book } ' W. A. — ' I never read such books.' T. — ' Oh, but here he proves from original sources that no such doctrine existed in the early days of Christianity.' I told T. that Bishop Wilberforce was very proud of having saved the Athanasian Creed when the Arch- bishop of Canterbury was for giving it up, which interested him. ' Did he ? My father (I think it was his father) would never read the Athanasian Creed.' As we entered the back wicket and went along the shady little walk to the house T. said, ' You're not orthodox, and I can't call myself orthodox. Two things however I have always been firmly convinced of,- — God, — and that death will not end my existence.' W. A.—' So I believe.' T. (stopping and turning round) — ' Do you hold these ? ' W. A.—' I do.' He was going up for his usual sleep, and asked me not to go till he came down again about half-past three. So I sat and read in the middle parlour. Then went up and found him just after wakening. He came out, unloosed the dogs again, and walked with me along the road till we met Mrs. Hodgson coming to call. T. asked me to turn back, but I took leave and walked off to Witley, glad to have seen so much of the dear man, and sad not to see more.