As to London we must console ourselves with the thought that if

Hear the words of Goldwin Smith, historian and moral thinker, who declared: “As to London we must console ourselves with the thought that if life outside is less poetic than it was in the days of old, inwardly its poetry is much deeper.” In this reflection lies both lament and consolation. He looks upon the modern city, crowded with smoke and industry, no longer adorned with the grandeur and romance of earlier ages. Outwardly, the streets may seem stripped of mystery, the pageantry of knights and poets replaced by the clamor of machines. Yet, Smith counsels us, the flame of poetry has not died—it has moved inward, into the soul, where it burns more profoundly than before.

The meaning is profound. In the “days of old,” the poetry of life was visible—castles against the horizon, kings in procession, battles sung by bards, rituals clothed in splendor. The outward world seemed charged with wonder. But as centuries turned, progress and modernity swept away much of this external beauty. The London of Smith’s age was not the London of Shakespeare’s stage or Chaucer’s pilgrims; it was a metropolis of commerce, where steam and soot clouded the air. And yet, within this stark reality, he found a deeper inwardness: the poetry of thought, of reflection, of private vision.

History bears witness to this transformation. Consider William Wordsworth, who looked upon the changing landscapes of England and mourned the loss of rural beauty to the march of industry. Yet he turned inward, finding poetry not only in meadows and streams but in the recesses of the heart, in memory and spiritual vision. Likewise, Charles Dickens walked the crowded streets of London, not filled with knights and pageantry, but with orphans, beggars, and clerks. Out of their hardship he drew forth stories of pathos, humor, and humanity. Outward life grew less “poetic” in grandeur, yet inwardly it became deeper, more compassionate, more real.

Smith’s insight is heroic because it challenges us not to despair at the loss of external beauty. The outward world may change—castles may fall, rituals may fade, cities may lose their romance—but the inward flame of the human spirit cannot be extinguished. Indeed, as the external grows less adorned, the internal grows more profound. The poetry of old may have been spectacle, but the poetry of the modern age is intimacy: the struggle of conscience, the quiet heroism of daily life, the hidden strength of the human heart.

This truth is also a consolation. Many mourn the loss of wonder in our own time, when technology, speed, and distraction seem to strip life of mystery. Yet Smith reminds us: the poetry has not vanished—it has gone deeper. It dwells now in our capacity for empathy, in the imagination that transcends machines, in the interior landscapes of the soul. The task of the modern seeker is not to long for the past, but to cultivate the inward vision that perceives beauty even in what seems unpoetic.

The lesson is clear: do not measure poetry only by outward signs. Seek it within. When the world feels grey and mechanical, remember that the heart still dreams, still creates, still sees with eyes of wonder. A factory worker may have as much poetry in his thoughts as a knight in shining armor; a mother in a crowded street may live with a grandeur greater than that of queens. Outwardly life may appear common, but inwardly it can be majestic.

Practical steps follow. Walk the modern city not with despair, but with attentive eyes. Look for the hidden stories in the faces you pass, the silent dramas unfolding in ordinary lives. Read and write, for literature keeps alive the inward poetry that the outer world may lack. In your own life, cultivate reflection, memory, and imagination, for these are the gardens where the flame of poetry thrives. And when you mourn what has been lost, console yourself—as Smith did—that the poetry of our age is deeper, though less visible.

Thus his words endure: “If life outside is less poetic than it was in the days of old, inwardly its poetry is much deeper.” Let us take them as both warning and hope. The outward world will always change, but the inward world, if tended, will always yield its song. And those who nurture that inward poetry will find themselves not impoverished by modernity, but enriched—keepers of a beauty no smoke, no noise, no progress can ever destroy.