It was lately rumoured that Mr. Ruskin was about to issue a volume of
poems, consisting mainly of pieces already published. The statement was
probably the first intimation received by many that the author of
'Modern Painters' had ever written anything in the shape of verse. That
he has always been, like Sidney, a 'warbler of poetic prose,' has lately
been emphasized by a magazine-writer; but it is not at all universally
known that between the years 1835 and 1845 Mr. Ruskin figured somewhat
largely as a poet, in the popular sense of that much abused word. During
that time he produced a good deal of verse, in addition to the prize
poem which has always been readily accessible by his admirers.
Even if one had not known, it would not have been difficult to have
assumed, from the rhythmic character of Mr. Ruskin's prose, that he had
at one time 'dropped into poetry.' Such a master of rhetoric could
hardly have gone through life without wooing the Muse of Song, however
temporarily or unsuccessfully. It would not have been natural for him to
have done so. And, indeed, it is probable that no great prose
rhetorician has failed to pay the same homage to the charm of verbal
melody and cadence. In all the most sonorous prose turned out by English
authors there will be found a lilt and a swing which would without
difficulty translate themselves into verse. 'Most wretched men,' says
Shelley, 'are cradled into poetry by wrong.' Most literary men have been
cradled into it by their irresistible feeling and aptitude for rhythm,
together with that general poetic sensibility which is rarely absent
from the nature of the literary artist. Certain it is that practice in
verse has always been recognised as the best of all preparation for work
in prose, and no doubt much of Mr. Ruskin's success as prose-producer
has been owing to his early devotion to the Muse.
He himself tells us, in the course of his tribute to his 'first editor'
(W. H. Harrison), that
'A certain capacity for rhythmic cadence (visible enough in all my
later writings), and the cheerfulness of a much-protected but not
foolishly-indulged childhood, made me early a rhymester.'