And meanwhile the sea-and-slaughter school have been doing an excellent work these last few weeks in demonstrating how entirely absurd the sea-and-slaughter school is.  Mr. Alfred Noyes has been very prominent, not only in his native page, Blackwood’s, but also in the Fortnightly Review.  Mr. Noyes is, I believe, the only living versifier whose books are, in the words of an American editor, “a commercial proposition.”  He is by many thought to be a poet.  Personally, I have always classed him with Alfred Austin, not yet having come across one single stanza of his which would fall within my definition of poetry.  Here is an extract from his “A Salute from the Fleet”: 

    Mother, O grey sea-mother, thine is the crowning cry!—­

I am bound to interrupt the quotation here in order to vent my feelings of extreme irritation caused by the mere phrase.  “O grey sea-mother.”  Why should this phrase drive me to fury?  It does.  Well, to recommence: 

Mother, O grey sea-mother, thine is the crowning cry! Thine the glory for ever in the nation born of thy womb! Thine is the Sword and the Shield and the shout that Salamis heard, Surging in AEschylean splendour, earth-shaking acclaim! Ocean-mother of England, thine is the throne of her fame!

Fancy standing on the shore to-day and addressing the real sea in these words and accents!  Fancy the poet doing it!  The mood and the mentality are prehistoric.  I would not mind Mr. Noyes putting himself lyrically into the woaded skin of our ancestors.  But I do think he might have got a little nearer the mark in indicating the “throne of her fame.”  Because I expect Mr. Noyes knows as well as anybody that the real throne of England’s fame is not in the sea at all.  England’s true fame springs from the few acts of national justice which she has accomplished, and from the generous impulses which as a nation she has had—­as, for example, in her relations with Italy; as, for example, in the Factory Acts which prevented children from working eighteen hours a day six or seven days a week.  The patriotic versifiers of this country will, if they persist, end by making the sea impossible for a plain man to sail on.  I have long felt that I want never again to read anything about the sea, except the advertisements of auxiliary yawls and cutters in the Yachting World.  I recommend these advertisements as a balm for sores caused by rhymed marine Jingoism.

A BOOK IN A RAILWAY ACCIDENT

[20 July ’11]