Here let me interrupt the course of our conversation to illustrate it by a remark on a poem which has appeared within the last twelvemonth from the pen of the greatest living poet, and one who, if I may dare to judge, will continue the greatest for many, many years to come. It is only a little song, “I stood on a tower in the wet.” I have found few men who, whether from the influence of those prints which are always on the outlook for something to ridicule, or from some other cause, did not laugh at the poem. I thought and think it a lovely poem, although I am not quite sure of the transposition of words in the last two lines. But I do not _approve_ of the poem, just because there is no hope in it. It lacks that touch or hint of _red_ which is as essential, I think, to every poem as to every picture--the life-blood--the one pure colour. In his hopeful moods, let a man put on his singing robes, and chant aloud the words of gladness--or of grief, I care not which--to his fellows; in his hours of hopelessness, let him utter his thoughts only to his inarticulate violin, or in the evanescent sounds of any his other stringed instrument; let him commune with his own heart on his bed, and be still; let him speak to God face to face if he may--only he cannot do that and continue hopeless; but let him not sing aloud in such a mood into the hearts of his fellows, for he cannot do them much good thereby. If it were a fact that there is no hope, it would not be a _truth_. No doubt, if it were a fact, it ought to be known; but who will dare be confident that there is no hope? Therefore, I say, let the hopeless moods, at least, if not the hopeless men, be silent. “He could refuse to let the one go without the other,” said Wynnie. “Now you are talking like a child, Wynnie, as indeed all partisans do at the best. He might sell them together, but the owner would part them.--If you will allow me, I will come and see both the pictures again to-morrow.” Percivale assured me of welcome, and we parted, I declining to look at any more pictures that day, but not till we had arranged that he should dine with us in the evening. CHAPTER XIII. HOME AGAIN.