friendly rivalry, and makes inevitable some sort of comparison. In each case, the poet has written in a rather lighter vein than previously, and with some view to the requirements of the stage. But neither has gone so far in his concessions as to forget that the production of pure poetry was his foremost aim, and that aim has by each notably been reached. In its exhibition of the essentially dramatic instinct, the instinct that grasps to the full the dramatic possibilities of each moment of the action, and that determines the succession of events with clear sight of the coming climax, Mr. Swinburne's work is the more successful, although this must not be interpreted to mean that it is better adapted to the requirements of the spectator. In that respect we think that "The Foresters" has the advantage, although the reader finds it dramatically less perfect. On the other hand the glamour of romantic historical association, which gives to Lord Tennyson's plays so much of its charm, is almost wholly lacking in "The Sisters." In restraint, in that simplicity of form that denotes the highest art, in the beauty of detached lines and lyrics, it would be difficult to give more praise to one play than to the other. Mr. Swinburne's poem certainly appears defective in its frequent introduction of modern colloquialisms into the dialogue. They offer a contrast to the tragic tone of the play as a whole, and detract something from its dignity. The dramatic interlude (for there is a play within the play) is consistent in key, and is a little masterpiece. It is introduced by the following lovely lyric:

"Love and Sorrow met in May
Crowned with rue and hawthorn-spray,
And Sorrow smiled.

Scarce a bird of all the spring
Durst between them pass and sing,
And scarce a child.

"Love put forth his hand to take
Sorrow's wreath for Sorrow's sake,
Her crown of rue.

Sorrow cast before her down

Even for love's sake Love's own crown,
Crowned with dew.

"Winter breathed again, and Spring
Cowered and shrank with wounded wing
Down out of sight.

May, with all her loves laid low,
Saw no flowers but flowers of snow
That mocked her flight.
"Love rose up with crownless head
Smiling down on springtime dead,
On wintry May.

Sorrow, like a cloud that flies,

Like a cloud in clearing skies,
Passed away."

Mr. Swinburne's dedications have a matchless grace well known to his readers, and the dedication of this volume, to Lady Mary Gordon, is as good as the best of those that have preceded it.

Any serious attempt to restore the blank-verse drama to its proper place in English poetry is deserving of praise, and Mr. Hosken's two tragedies, "Phaon and Sappho" and "Nimrod," are serious

But they

and carefully-planned pieces of work.
are not written in the language of poetry, as such
a passage as follows will illustrate :
"The princes of Epire and Egypt come,

Being students and companions from their youth,
In visitation to our honoured isle;

Lesbos being in the line and route of travel
That they propose to go. Come with us now,
And you will see their landing and their state;
The bustle and commotion of the day
Will help to dissipate your darker mood
By loss of individuality

Among a crowd that spurs your interest up." There is too much of this hopelessly prosaic sort of composition in Mr. Hosken's pages. Their real failure is here, and not in the anachronisms of which criticism is forestalled by the author's own preface.

Most of Mr. Kipling's "Ballads and BarrackRoom Ballads" have been published in a previous collection, but some (including the best of them) are new except to the magazines. In "The English Flag" the poet certainly touches the high-water mark of his powers. This splendid lyric gives to English patriotism such voice as its most inspired singers have rarely given it. Taking for his text a newspaper paragraph descriptive of mob-insult to the Union Jack, the poet appeals to the four winds to put the rabble to shame.

Ye have but my waves to conquer. Go forth, for it is there!" Nothing else in the volume makes quite the impression of this ringing ballad, although other poems hold the attention by their picturesque quality. "The Ballad of Boh Da Thone" gives expression to the whole of modern India, if one reads it aright, and the story of "Tomlinson" blends the qualities of imagination and irony most effectively, although the episode it describes finds its prototype in a remarkable scene of Ibsen's "Peer Gynt."

The author of "The Song of the Sword" has a vocabulary of big words which he uses in so conveniently vague a sense that doubtless some one will presently discover him to be the greatest poet of the age. Most of his mouthings seem to us sound and fury, but we would hardly say that their significance is naught; rather that they have too

many possible significations. One can, with an effort, generally get their drift, but only the coöperative intellect of a club would be equal to the task of elucidating their details. Here, for example, is a characteristic passage, in which the Moon and Sea are personified:

"Flaunting, tawdry, and grim,

From cloud to cloud along her beat,

Leering her battered and inveterate leer,

She signals where he prowls in the dark alone,
Her horrible old man,

Mumbling old oaths and warming

His villainous old bones with villainous talk
The secrets of their grisly housekeeping
Since they went out upon the pad

In the first twilight of self-conscious Time :
Growling, obscene, and hoarse,

Tales of unnumbered ships,

Goodly and strong, companions of the Advance
In some vile alley of the night
Waylaid and bludgeoned -
Dead."

There is imagination enough here, and of unusually strong quality, but we question the use of epithets at many points. Some of the pieces, as wholes, remain absolute enigmas after several readings. It cannot be the poet's business to write in a way to deserve such comments. There is a good deal of the gospel according to Whitman in Mr. Henley's lines; the joy of living, the praise of deed, and the sentiment of patriotism.

"Life is worth living

Through every grain of it
From the foundations
To the last edge

Of the cornerstone, death."

As

This is about the essence of the writer's philosophy. Both the passages we have quoted illustrate his fondness for irregular metres; in fact, most of his work is nothing more than rhythmical prose. such, it does not lapse from taste, as freely or as far as Whitman's, but it lacks the American poet's distinction of phrase. Our second illustration also illustrates a metre that has never been made to work well in modern English; that no modern writer, except Goethe, seems to have been able to use effectively. If Mr. Henley would cease doing violence to style for the sake of originality and consent to the formal restraints within which much greater poets do not chafe, his imaginative and emotional qualities would carry him far, as indeed, they have done already in some of his shorter and less pretentious poems.

Some spirited and rather striking Scotch ballads, a group of "poems of phantasy," and a collection of nocturnes, inspired by Roman themesfitly named "Sospiri di Roma are the contents of Mr. William Sharp's volume of collected verse. The Roman pieces are irregular in measure and roughly rhythmical; their vocabulary is poetical, although there are not a few verbal affectations to be found in them. "The Isle of Lost Dreams" is a" poem of phantasy" which, although brief, amply illustrates the writer's mood and manner.

More fair than day;

There is a flower that blossoms sweet and white
In the sad city way.

That flower blooms not where the wide marshes gleam,
That star shines only when the skies are grey.
"For here fair peace and passionate pleasure wane
Before the light

Of radiant dreams that make our lives worth life
And turn to noon our night:

We fight for freedom and the souls of men

Here, and not there, is fought and won our fight!" Mr. Swinburne might almost have written these verses and put them among his "Songs before Sunrise." Mrs. Bland's work is very strong, as readers of her previous volumes know. There are ballads of marked dramatic power, and spiritual tragedies told in song. And the poems echo in every line a life that has been lived, not merely dreamed about. Perhaps the finest of them all is the dual song of "The Lost Soul and the Saved," of the soul that was saved because it was never tempted, and the soul that was lost because flesh was stronger than spirit. There is a subtle irony about this poem that makes it singularly impressive. Is the soul saved, after all? that can exclaim in exultation"Oh, the infinite marvels of grace,

Oh, the great atonement's cost!

Lifting my soul above

Those other souls that are lost!"

Or is the other really lost when it can thus give thanks?

"Hell is not hell lit by such consolation,

Heaven were not heaven that lacked a thought like thisThat, though my soul may never see salvation, God yet saves all these other souls of his!"

Sir Frederick Pollock's amusing parodies called "Leading Cases Done into English" were originally published in 1876. They include examples after Chaucer, Browning, Swinburne, and Tennyson, as well as several imitations of old ballad forms.

monarchy and the art of governing consist of but one thing the capacity of the principal ruler for shaking hands with any and every ragamuffin and out-of-elbows brute he meets.' . . How would it do, dad,' asks the ambitious pupil, 'if, in addition to shaking hands with them, one inquired after their health, in the second person singular-Comment vas tu, mon vieux cochon? or, better still, Comment vas tu, mon vieux citoyen?' 'It would do admirably,' says papa, but it does not matter whether you say cochon or citoyen; the terms are synonymous.'

Louis Philippe-with a civil list of 750,000 pounds was always haunted by a dread of poverty. The recollection of his early misery uprose before him like a nightmare, and he one day said to Guizot, after plaintively running over a long list of domestic charges, "My dear minister, I am telling you that my children will be wanting for bread." Apropos of Louis's early poverty, the author says:

"I recollect that during my stay at Tréport and Eu, in 1843, when Queen Victoria paid her visit to Louis Philippe, the following story was told me. Lord and I were quartered in a little hostelry on the Place du Château. One morning Lord - came home laughing till he could laugh no longer. What do you think the King has done now?' he asked. I professed my inability to guess. About an hour ago, he and Queen Victoria were walking in the garden, when, with true French politeness, he offered her a peach. The Queen seemed rather embarrassed how to skin it, when Louis Philippe took a large clasp-knife from his pocket. When a man has been a poor devil like myself, obliged to live upon forty sous a day, he always carries a knife. I might have dispensed with it for the last few years; still, I do not wish to lose the habit-one does not know what may happen,' he said. Of course the tears stood in the Queen's eyes."

Personally, Louis had many estimable qualities more, certainly, than most of his predecessors could boast of. He was an amiable man, the kindest of husbands and fathers, and one of the most economical of monarchs,— a trait which betrayed him into the political sin of overlooking the craving of the Parisians, a race clamorous, like the Romans, for the panem et circences, for court pomp and display. He was a witty man, and some of his mots have become historical. When the news of Talleyrand's death was brought to him, he asked,

“But, are you sure he is dead?' Very sure, sire,' was the reply; 'did not your majesty notice yesterday that he was dying?' 'I did, but there is no judging from appearances with Talleyrand, and I have been asking myself for the last four and twenty hours what interest he could possibly have in departing at this particular

moment.'"

The author, as a young man, saw Louis several times at reviews and on popular holidays, and was always surprised that a king of whom ev

eryone spoke so well in private, and whose domestic relations were so exceptionally pleasant, should look so careworn and depressed in public. He was, as he says, then too young to grasp the irony of the king's reply to a relative, a few months before his accession to the throne:

"The crown of France is too cold in winter, too warm in summer; the sceptre is too blunt as a weapon of defense or attack, it is too short as a stick to lean upon; a good felt hat and a strong umbrella are at all times more useful.”

Louis Philippe used to say of Guizot, "He is so terribly respectable; I am afraid there is a mistake either about his nationality or his respectability, for they are badly matched," and this caustic sentence reflected pretty well the opinion of the majority of Frenchmen as to the eminent statesman. They regarded him as a rigid Puritan in private life, a sort of ambulant copy-book moral, who never unbent, and whose slightest actions were meant by him as a lesson to the rest of mankind. With true French cynicism, the Parisians even resented his kindly habit of taking his mother for a stroll in the Park of St. Cloud on Sundaysa filial attention which they maintained to be an exhibition. Guizot regretted this erroneous conception the world formed of his character,—which was really two-fold, the Guizot of public life, the imperious, combative orator of the Chamber, being sufficiently unlike the home-keeping Guizot, the tender and devoted son, the charming companion who captivated everyone with whom he came in contact.

"But what can I do?' he asked. 'In reality, I haven't the courage to be unpopular any more than other people; but neither have I the courage to prance about in my own drawing-room as if I were on wires,'- this was a slight slap at M. Thiers, nor can I write on subjects with which I have no sympathy' that was a second; "and I should cut but a sorry figure on horseback,that was a third; consequently people who, I am sure, wish me well, but who will not come and see me at home, hold me up as a misanthrope, while I know that I am nothing of the kind.'"

ity, she was, thinks our author, cruel at heart. "The woman who could indulge in sentiment about the absence of dessert in the Saint-Lazare refectory, would at the end of a hunt, deliberately jump off her horse, plunge the gleaming knife in the throat of the panting stag, and revel in the sight of blood."

Nor was this hardihood of nature a hopeful sign of courage in the hour of danger. When the storm came,

"She slunk away at the supreme hour; while the princess (Clotilde), whom she had presumed to teach the manners of a court, left like a princess in an open landau, preceded by an outrider."

GEORGE MASON OF VIRGINIA.*

The South seems again to have entered the field of letters. A survey of the past two years will show a surprising list of works written by authors on the southern side of Mason and Dixon's line. It is an encouraging sign of actual reconstruction, even when, as is often the case, the author seems to be personally one of the unreconstructed. Two of the great Virginia Anti-federalists have been presented to the world almost simultaneously. Patrick Henry's life and works † were lately published in three sumptuous volumes prepared with much care and good sense. Now we have two volumes covering the life and public services of one whose career largely paralleled that of Henry. George Mason, from the Stamp Act to the adoption of the Constitution, was Henry's

"This time, however, M. Hyrvoix kept silent for a

fiery eloquence of the one was almost equalled by the shrewd sense and acute argument of the other. Both were vigorous friends of Inde

sire.' Napoleon must have noticed the hesitating manner; for he said at once, 'You are not telling me the truth. What do the people say?' 'Well, sire, if you wish to know, not only the people, but everyone is deeply indignant and disgusted with the consequences of this unfortunate war. It is commented upon everywhere in the self-same spirit. They say it is the fault of The fault of whom?' repeated Napoleon. 'Sire,' stammered M. Hyrvoix, in the time of Louis XVI., people said, "It is the fault of the Austrian woman.' 'Yes, on.' Under Napoleon III. people say, "It is the

go

fault of the Spanish woman.' The words had scarcely

left M. Hyrvoix's lips, when a door leading to the inner apartments opened, and the Empress appeared on the threshold. 'She looked like a beautiful fury,' said M. Hyrvoix to his friend, from whom I have got the story. She wore a white dressing-gown, her hair was waving on her shoulders, and her eyes shot flames. She hissed rather than spoke, as she bounded towards me; and, ridiculous as it may seem, I felt afraid for the moment. You will please repeat what you just now said, M. Hyrvoix,' she said in a voice hoarse with passion. M. Hyrvoix obeyed. The Spanish woman! The Spanish woman!' she jerked out three or four times—and I could see that her hands were clenched; 'I have become French, but I will show my enemies that I can be Spanish when occasion demands it.' . . . Next day M. Hyrvoix was appointed Receiver-General for one of the departments-that is exiled to the provinces."

The author holds Eugenie responsible for the German war and the humiliation it brought upon the French; and there is no better comment upon the then social and political régime than the fact that it placed a great nation at the mercy of trivial woman who held her position by the tenure of her attractiveness to a single member of it.

a

E. G. J.

stitution as it came fresh from the Philadelphia Convention. Henry lived to become a Federalist. Mason remained a consistent Antifederalist to the end. Their chief objection to the Constitution was the omission from it of a bill of rights that special pride of a true Virginian's heart; together they demanded amendments, and held up dire and dreadful portents of the destruction that would ensue were the instrument adopted without further guaranties of liberty.

George Mason played a very prominent part in the history of Virginia during the twentyfive years subsequent to the Stamp Act. Possibly his greatest claim to fame is his authorship of the Virginia Bill of Rights. In fact, . the Constitution of the State was largely of his framing. Henry has been often given the credit of writing two sections of the Bill of Rights, and there has been a special controversy over the celebrated clause guaranteeing religious liberty. It must be said that the author of these volumes makes out a very strong case for Mason. Henry's latest biographers have accepted as conclusive certain statements of Randolph, which the author of these volumes attempts to explain away. The argument for Mason is based almost en

*THE LIFE OF GEORGE MASON, 1725-1792. By Kate Mason Rowland. Including his Speeches, Public Papers, etc., with Introduction by General Fitzhugh Lee. In two volumes, with portrait. New York: G. P. Putnam's Sons. † Reviewed in THE DIAL for June, 1892.-[EDR.]

Here is a bit of the version according to Browning of the case of Scott v. Shepherd (1 Sm. L. C. 480): "Now, you're my pupil!

On the good ancient plan I shall do what I can
For your hundred guineas to give my law's blue pill.
(Let high jurisprudence which thinks me and you dense,
Set posse of cooks to stir new Roman soup ill),
First volume of Smith shall give you the pith
Of leading decision that shows the division

Of action on case from plain action of trespass, Where to count in assault law benignantly says 'Pass!'"' Mr. Swinburne has never been better parodied (not even by himself) than in the dedication of these "leading cases to the mythical J. S. of the old law-books. Here is the last stanza:

"Though the Courts that were manifold dwindle
To divers Divisions of one,

And no fire from your face may rekindle
The light of old learning undone,
We have suitors and briefs for our payment,
While, so long as a Court shall hold pleas,
We talk moonshine with wigs for our raiment,
Not sinking the fees."

The "other diversions," now first collected, consist
of Greek, Latin, French, and German verses and
translations, together with two or three English
pieces. We must extract some lines from the poem
upon the young man who has gone in for the "higher
criticism" of the Old Testament and who says:
"J'ai crânement lavé

La tête à messire Iahvé."

The poet may not be sound, but he is surely amusing when he remarks:

"Car m'est avis que l'Eternel,

Juge à nous tous et sans appel,
Ayant au fond, soit dit sans schisme,
Pas mal de pantagruélisme,
Ne s'occupe de telle gent

Que pour en rire énormément."

Mr. Lang's "Helen of Troy: Her Life and Translation," was well deserving of reproduction in the tasteful and very inexpensive edition before us. It is a charming piece of work; perhaps the best of the author's essays in versemaking. As most readers know, Mr. Lang tells the story of Helen from the standpoint of the legend that leaves her blameless for her desertion of Menelaus, making her but the blind instrument of the will of Aphrodite. It is needless to add that no one not saturated with the spirit of Greek poetry and myth could have written this lovely poem.

The new and authorized edition of Mr. Eric Mackay's "Love Letters of a Violinist and Other Poems contains a considerable amount of matter not included in the earlier editions. Perhaps the best of the added poems is "A Choral Ode to Liberty," from which we extract these stanzas:

"A thousand times, O Freedom! have I turned

To thy rapt face, and wished that, martyr-wise,
I might achieve some glory, such as burned
Within the depths of Gordon's azure eyes.
Ah God! how sweet it were to give thee life,
To aid thy cause, self-sinking in the strife,
Loving thee best, O Freedom! and in tears
Giving thee thanks for death-accepted years.

"For thou art fearful, though so grand of soul, Fearful and fearless and the friend of men. The haughtiest kings shall bow to thy control, And rich and poor shall take thy guidance then. Who doubts the daylight when he sees afar The fading lamp of some night-weary star, Which prophet-like, has heard amid the dark The first faint prelude of the nested lark?" Mr. Mackay's briefer lyrics are often sweet and true, while the "Love Letters of a Violinist" throb with a passion whose sincerity none may question. Many of the poems sound a high note of patriotism, and some of them pay such tribute to Shakespeare as few poets have found words for. We note with surprise that these poems have been overlooked by Mrs. Silsby in her recent anthology of verse dedicated to the greatest of poets. "Mary Arden" and "The King's Rest" are poems that certainly should not be missed in that collection. Mr. Mackay's sonnets are not always regular in form, but they include some fine examples of workmanship. Three pretty Italian songs close Mr. Mackay's volume. The exquisite poem, "I Miei Saluti," after greeting the daisy, the nightingale, and the May sun, thus ends:

Mr. Saintsbury's anthology of "Seventeenth Century Lyrics" includes nearly two hundred numbers, beginning with Dekker, Jonson, Campion, and the other later Elizabethans, and ending very naturally with Dryden. "In this seventeenth century of ours," remarks the editor, England was a mere nest of singing birds, a nightingale's haunt in a centennial May." Mr. Saintsbury has the advantage of a wide range of reading and of Mr. Bullen's labors as a collector of lyrics. He has included almost all sorts of things that could possibly be called lyrics, sonnets alone excepted, has given his pieces whole, and has quite needlessly mixed them up in his arrangement. Shakespeare and Milton are not here, "for the stars look best when both sun and moon are away."

The lesson of "The Arrow and the Song" seems to have been taken to heart by Mr. George Horton, to judge from the prelude to his volume of verse. "I plucked a song from out my heart one day, And tossed it on the noisy stream of rhyme. Sadly I watched it slowly float away

'Mongst thistles, weeds, and sprigs of fragrant thyme. "Tis lost,' I said, 't is lost for evermore

Although within my heart of hearts it grew.'
And yet, far down beside the reedy shore
It taught one soul its lesson sweet and true.
And I, I never knew."

Much of Mr. Horton's work is so good, that we cannot help wishing it were better. It is easy to see that it might be better, and that it generally fails from carelessness rather than from lack of gift. It is the old story of fatal facility over again. There are some pretty translations, one of them from Gautier (here called Gauthier), and it is pre