note on the dialogue of which I have already spoken, between the saint and the angel, are these:  “What follows is exquisitely beautiful....  I am persuaded that this also was written by Dekker.”  And seeing that no mortal critic but Kingsley ever dreamed of such absurdity as Kingsley rushes forward to refute, his controversial capacity will probably be regarded by all serious students of poetry or criticism as measurable by the level of his capacity for accurate report of fact or accurate citation of evidence.

There are times when we are tempted to denounce the Muse of Dekker as the most shiftless and shameless of slovens or of sluts; but when we consider the quantity of work which she managed to struggle or shuffle through with such occasionally admirable and memorable results, we are once more inclined to reclaim for her a place of honor among her more generally respectable or reputable sisters.  I am loath to believe what I see no reason to suppose, that she was responsible for the dismal drivel of a poem on the fall of Jerusalem, which is assigned, on the surely dangerous ground of initials subscribed under the dedication, to a writer who had the misfortune to share these initials with Thomas Deloney.  The ballad-writing hack may have been capable of sinking so far below the level of a penny ballad as to perpetrate this monstrous outrage on human patience and on English verse; but the most conclusive evidence would be necessary to persuade a jury of competent readers that a poet must be found guilty of its authorship.  And we know that a pamphlet or novelette of Deloney’s called “Thomas of Reading; or, the Six Worthy Yeomen of the West,” was ascribed to Dekker until the actual author was discovered.[1] Dr. Grosart, to whom we owe the first collected edition of Dekker’s pamphlets, says in the introduction to the fifth of his beautiful volumes that he should have doubted the responsibility of Dekker for a poem with which it may perhaps be unfair to saddle even so humble a hackney on the poetic highway as the jaded Pegasus of Deloney, had he not been detected as the author of another religious book.  But this latter is a book of the finest and rarest quality—­one of its author’s most unquestionable claims to immortality in the affection and admiration of all but the most unworthy readers; and “Canaan’s Calamity” is one of the worst metrical samples extant of religious rubbish.  As far as such inferential evidence can be allowed to attest anything, the fact of Dekker’s having written one of the most beautiful and simple of religious books in prose tends surely rather to disprove than to prove his authorship of one of the feeblest and most pretentious of semi-sacred rhapsodies in verse.

[Footnote 1:  It would be a very notable addition to Dekker’s claims on our remembrance if he had indeed written the admirable narrative, worthy of Defoe at his very best, which describes with such impressive simplicity of tragic effect the presageful or premonitory anguish of a man on his unconscious way to a sudden and a secret death of unimaginable horror.  Had Deloney done more such work as this, and abjured the ineffectual service of an inauspicious Muse, his name would now be famous among the founders and the masters of realistic fiction.]