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of irony for that outcast poet to die amid the trappings
of vulgar respectability; it reminded Leonard Upjohn of
Christ among the Pharisees, and the analogy gave him op-
portunity for an exquisite passage. And then he told how
a friend—his good taste did not suffer him more than to
hint subtly who the friend was with such gracious fancies—
had laid a laurel wreath on the dead poet’s heart; and the
beautiful dead hands had seemed to rest with a voluptuous
passion upon Apollo’s leaves, fragrant with the fragrance of
art, and more green than jade brought by swart mariners
from the manifold, inexplicable China. And, an admirable
contrast, the article ended with a description of the mid-
dle-class, ordinary, prosaic funeral of him who should have
been buried like a prince or like a pauper. It was the crown-
ing buffet, the final victory of Philistia over art, beauty, and
immaterial things.
Leonard Upjohn had never written anything better.
It was a miracle of charm, grace, and pity. He printed all
Cronshaw’s best poems in the course of the article, so that
when the volume appeared much of its point was gone; but
he advanced his own position a good deal. He was thence-
forth a critic to be reckoned with. He had seemed before a
little aloof; but there was a warm humanity about this ar-
ticle which was infinitely attractive.