There were two quite distinct veins of poetry in Henley, each the very extreme from the other.  The one was heroic, gigantic, running to large sweeping images and thundering words.  Such are the “Song of the Sword” and much more that he has written, like the wild singing of some Northern scald.  The other, and to my mind both the more characteristic and the finer side of his work, is delicate, precise, finely etched, with extraordinarily vivid little pictures drawn in carefully phrased and balanced English.  Such are the “Hospital Verses,” while the “London Voluntaries” stand midway between the two styles.  What! you have not read the “Hospital Verses!” Then get the “Book of Verses” and read them without delay.  You will surely find something there which, for good or ill, is unique.  You can name—­or at least I can name—­nothing to compare it with.  Goldsmith and Crabbe have written of indoor themes; but their monotonous, if majestic metre, wearies the modern reader.  But this is so varied, so flexible, so dramatic.  It stands by itself.  Confound the weekly journals and all the other lightning conductors which caused such a man to pass away, and to leave a total output of about five booklets behind him!

However, all this is an absolute digression, for the books had no business in this shelf at all.  This corner is meant for chronicles of various sorts.  Here are three in a line, which carry you over a splendid stretch of French (which usually means European) history, each, as luck would have it, beginning just about the time when the other leaves off.  The first is Froissart, the second de Monstrelet, and the third de Comines.  When you have read the three you have the best contemporary account first hand of considerably more than a century—­a fair slice out of the total written record of the human race.

Froissart is always splendid.  If you desire to avoid the mediaeval French, which only a specialist can read with pleasure, you can get Lord Berners’ almost equally mediaeval, but very charming English, or you can turn to a modern translation, such as this one of Johnes.  A single page of Lord Berners is delightful; but it is a strain, I think, to read bulky volumes in an archaic style.  Personally, I prefer the modern, and even with that you have shown some patience before you have reached the end of that big second tome.

I wonder whether, at the time, the old Hainault Canon had any idea of what he was doing—­whether it ever flashed across his mind that the day might come when his book would be the one great authority, not only about the times in which he lived, but about the whole institution of chivalry?  I fear that it is far more likely that his whole object was to gain some mundane advantage from the various barons and knights whose names and deeds be recounts.  He has left it on record, for example, that when he visited the Court of England he took with him a handsomely-bound copy of his work; and, doubtless, if one could follow the good Canon one would find his journeys littered with similar copies which were probably expensive gifts to the recipient, for what return would a knightly soul make for a book which enshrined his own valour?