Page:Notes by the Way.djvu/54

xxx JOSEPH KNIGHT. of verse—epic, lyric, dramatic, what not—possessing every attraction and quality except the essential, could seriously challenge the verdict of the ages upon their presumption. To do so would show a lack of the sense of humour, with which I hesitate to credit them. Among our fledgeling bards, I find none who has, as yet, beaten out his music, or whose young wings have carried him near the higher peaks of Parnassus. There is abundance of excellent verse. Almost everybody, nowadays, writes it. Poetry in these days is the blossom of most intelligent minds. Only when it becomes fruit is the world concerned with it. A single lyric in 'Atalanta' or 'Songs and Ballads' outweighs all the remaining verse issued in the United Kingdom. These opinions will, I know, if read, be distasteful to many worthy gentlemen whom I greatly respect. It is not my fault. It was not I who wrote:—

Mediocribus esse poetis, Non homines, non Di, non concessere columnæ.

As this is a popular magazine, I give Conington's translation:

But gods and men and booksellers agree To place their ban on middling poetry.

If I were one of our minor bards, whom somebody approached on the subject of my claim to the Laureateship, I should look for the tongue in the cheek, or wonder whether I had incurred some concealed animosity. If Mr. Swinburne may not have the post, and I know there are some difficulties, let it be abolished. I do not wish to reduce the meagre recognition awarded to letters, but to fall from the height it has attained to its former level would be a dangerous experiment even for the Laureateship."

It would be pleasant to dwell upon the friendships formed by Knight, but these were so numerous that I find it impossible even to give the names of those by whom he was surrounded. It could truly be said of him:—

O well for him that finds a friend, Or makes a friend, where'er he come; And loves the world from end to end, And wanders on from home to home.

At the Sunday evening gatherings at the house of his dearest of all friends, John Westland Marston, he met hosts of literary and interesting people, and for years Knight and his wife would dine at Marston's on Christmas Day. In later years, when Dr. Marston and his son Philip Bourke were alone left, they would dine at Knight's house and keep Christmas there. Mrs. Knight tells me: "I was very intimate with them all. There is not one of them left; even Dr. Garnett and his wife are gone. Miss Purnell was a special friend of mine, but she died soon after her brother."