When the fourth volume of this series was published three years ago,many of the critics who had up till then, as Horace Walpole said of God,been the dearest creatures in the world to me, took another turn. Notonly did they very properly disapprove my choice of poems: they went onto write as if the Editor of 'Georgian Poetry' were a kind of publicfunctionary, like the President of the Royal Academy; and theyasked--again, on this assumption, very properly--who was E.M. that heshould bestow and withhold crowns and sceptres, and decide that this orthat poet was or was not to count.This, in the words of Pirate Smee, was 'a kind of a compliment', but itwas also, to quote the same hero, 'galling'; and I have wished for anopportunity of disowning the pretension which I found attributed to meof setting up as a pundit, or a pontiff, or a Petronius Arbiter; for Ihave neither the sure taste, nor the exhaustive reading, nor the ampleleisure which would be necessary in any such role.The origin of these books, which is set forth in the memoir of RupertBrooke, was simple and humble. I found, ten years ago, that there were anumber of writers doing work which appeared to me extremely good, butwhich was narrowly known; and I thought that anyone, howeverunprofessional and meagrely gifted, who presented a conspectus of it ina challenging and manageable form might be doing a good turn both to thepoets and to the reading public. So, I think I may claim, it proved tobe. The first volume seemed to supply a want. It was eagerly bought; the