The Blue Review, 1

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Volum e I N um be r I M A Y 1913 On e Shil ling N et

T H E B L U ER E V I E WL I T E R A T U R E D R A M A A R T M U S I C

Some Contributors to this Num ber :M A X B E E R B O H MG I L B E R T G A N N A NW. H . DA VIESW A L T E R D E L A M A R EW. L . GEORGEW. W. GIBSOND. H . L A W R E N C EK A T H E R I N E M A N S F I E L DF R A N K S W I N N E R T O NH U G H W A L P O L EN O R M A N W I L K I N S O N

M A R T I NN U M B E R

S E G K E RF I V E J O H N

P U B L I S H E RS T R E E T A D E L P H I


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HA N D P R I N T E D L I N E N Schin tzes and c re tonnesi n n e w a n d a m u s i n g d e-signs by m o de rn art is ts .Gai ly co loured & quain t lypa t tern ed . T o be seen a t" T h e Sign of th e Fou rposter"H E A L A N D S O N196 e tc . To t tenham Court Rd . W .


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M A Y C O N T E N T S (cont.) n o . 1Page

Genera l Li te ra ture By Frank Sw inner ton 51Fre nch Books By J. M iddleton M urr y 56Geo rgian M usic By W . De nis Browne 63T h e Galleries By Michael T . H . Sadler 68Review of Reviews : En glish, Fr en ch , Italian 71Drawings by Ambrose McEvoy, Derwent Lees , HaroldSquire , and Norman Wilk inson

Edi tor : John Middle ton MurryAssociate Ed itor : K ath erin e MansfieldEditorial Office : 57 Chancery LaneTelephone 2132 Holborn

GEO. D U M A U R I E R :The Satirist of the Victorians.By Martin T . WoodWith Pho togra vure f ron t is p iece and m anyil lus tra t ions . Sml. f cap 4to. 7/6 net .CAMBRIDGE FROMW I T H I NBy Charles TennysonW ith 12 pla t es in Colour and Sep ia byH A R R Y M O R L E Y . Cr. 8vo, cloth. 7/6 net.Mr. A. C. Benson in the Saturday Review says :" A Charm ing volume, which exhibits symp atheticinsight and perceptive humour, and has moreover thegreat merit ot being written in a style of real dis-tinction. I t retains and recovers somethin g of thefine zest of youth.MOZART'S OPERAS

A Critical Study.By Edward J. DentWith i l lu s t ra t ions and mus ica l exam ples .De my 8vo c loth. 12/6 net .London: CHATTO & W INDUS

i n S T . M A R T I N 'S L A N E , W . C .

J. M. SYNGEA Crit ical Study byP . P . H O W EThe Pall Mall Gazette says:

" I t does not conta in a dul l page ,and once a sym path e t ic reader takesit up he will f ind i t hard to lay down.M r . H ow e ' s e n thus i a sm i s a finethin g, and his book mak es a veryde s i r ab l e c om ple m e nt t o t he vo lum e sof Syn ge ' s ow n wo rks . I t is i l lus-t r a t e d w i th a n a dm i r a b l e pho togr a vur eof one of J . B . Ye ats ' f inest p or t ra i t so f t he d r a m a t i s t . "D e m y 8 v o , 7 s . 6 d . n e t .M A R T I N S E C K E RNumber Five John St ree tA D E L P H I L O N D O N

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A Stud y in Du biety Max BeerbohmMr. Edward Marsh wondering whether he dare ask his Chief 'sleave to include in his anthology of " Geo rgian Po etry " M r.George Wyndham's famous and lovely poem : " We want eightand we won' t wait ."


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T H E S O N G O F T H E M A D P R I N C EWho said, " Peacock Pie " ;The old King to the sparrow :Who said, " Crops are ripe " ;Rust to the harrow :W ho said, " W here dreams she now ?Where rests she now her head,Bathed in eve's loveliness ? "That's what I said.Who said, " Ay, mum's the word " ;Sexton to willow :Who said, " Green dusk for dreams,Moss for a pillow " :Who said, " All Time's delightHath she for narrow bed ;Life's troubled bubble broken " :That's what I said. WALTER DE LA MARE

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T H E V I X E NThe v ixen made for Deadman 's F low,Where no t a mare bu t mine could go ;And three hounds only splashed acrossThe quaking hags of mile-wide moss ;Only three of the deadbeat packScrambled out by Lone Maid 's Slack,Bo l t e r , Tough , and Ne ' e r -d i e -Nel l :But as they broke across the fellThe tongue they gave was good to hear ,Lively music, clean and clear,Such as only l ight-coats make,Hot- t rod th rough the g i r th -deep brake.The vixen, draggled and nigh-spent ,Twis ted th rough the r imy bentTowards the Chr is thope Crags . I thoughtEve ry ear th, stopt . . . w inde d . . . caugShe 's a mask and b rus h ! W hen wh iteA squal l of snow swept al l f rom sight ;And, hoodman-b l ind , Light foo t and I ,Battled with the roaring sky.When due South the snow had sweptLight broke, as the vixen creptSl inking up the stony brae.O n a jut ting scar she lay,Pant ing, lathered, while she eyedThe hounds that took the stiff brae-sideWith yelping music, mad to ki l l .Then vixen, hounds and craggy hi l lWere smothered in a b l ind ing swir l :And when i t passed, there stood a gir lWhere the vixen late had lain,

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The VixenSmiling down, as I drew rein,Baffled, and the hounds, deadbeat,Fawning at the young girl ' s feet ,Whimpered, cowed, where her red hair ,Streaming to her ankles bare,Turned as whi te among the hea therAs the vixen's brush's feather.Flinching on my fl inching mare,I watched her, gaping and astare,As she smiled with red lips wide,White fangs, curving, either sideOf her lolling tong ue . . . My thrap pleFelt fear's fang : I strove, agrapple,Reeling . . . and again blind snowClosed like night. No man may knowHow Lightfoot won through Deadman 's Flow.And naught I knew till , in the glowOf home's wide door, my wife's kind faceSmiled welcome. And for me the chase,The las t chase, ended. Though the packThrough the bl izzard s truggled back,Gone were Bolter , Tough and Nell ,Where, the vixen's self can tell !Long we sought them, high and low,By Chris thope Crag and Deadman 's Flow,By slack and syke and hag : and foundNever bone nor hair of hound.

WILFRID WILSON GIBSON

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T O H I S F R I E N D T O T R Y A N O T H E R T A V E R NThey tell me my friend no transient fitHas held and holds you whereThe muddled mir th and hogshead wi tPervade the smoke-filled air ;But that you sit amid largesseInsis t ing on puncti l iousness .Pandemian joys should be confinedTo those whose bodies lack the mindThat darkens through your eyes .The t ime for s trenuous things is r ipe !Leave Davus to his greasy tr ipeAnd consequent suppl ies ,Til l Euphuis t ic cal ls of " Time "Cut short the l ingering pantomime.Goodbye to the loose thought that bluntsThe insight , and corrodes the soul .Goodbye to the too f requent bowl:A long goodbye to Delahunt ' s .I know a pub beneath a hill :Nine barmaids keep i t s bar se lec t ;And keep your corner dusted s t i l l .I ts chucker-out demands respect :Of those he chucks out everyoneIs locked up by Oblivion.You've travelled further, friend, than I,

You ' re to the Muses be t te r known.Go confidently in and tryIf they'll serve both or you alone.I ' l l ta lk to him who peeps outs ide. HeWill tell me if I 'm bona-fide.

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To his Friend to Try Another TavernThe Past is ours : butwhat's far moreThe Future can be catered for,It's Spirit's in the Still.

Give it some rare etherial tasteSo men may, when we're gone to waste,Exclaim : He mixed it well !OLIVER GOGARTY

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The Soiled Roseinto the wood. He started. A keeper was standing a few yards infront , barring the way." W here m ight you be going this road , sir ? " asked the k eep er.The man was inclined to be offensive. Syson looked at him withan art is t 's imperson al , observant gaze. T h e keeper was a young m anof four or five and twenty, ruddy and comely. He had large, darkblue eyes, which now stared aggressively. His black moustache,very thick, was cropped short over a small, rather self-conscious,almost feminine mouth. In every other respect the man was unusually virile . H e was jus t above middle h ei gh t; the s trong forwardth ru st of his chest, and th e perfect ease of his erect, prou d carriagegave one the feeling that he was taut with life, like the thick jet ofa fountain balanced at ease. He stood with the butt of his gun onthe ground, staring insolently and questioningly at Syson. Thedark, restless eyes of the trespasser, examining the man as if hewere a tree or a flower, troubled the keeper and made him angry.

" W her e's Na ylor, an d his velveteen skirts ? H e c an 't b edead ? " Syson im plore d." Yo u're not from the Ho use, are you ? " inquired th e k eeper.It could not be, since everyone was away.Syson's mobile mouth broke into a laugh." No , I 'm notfrom the H ou se ," he said. I t seemed to amuse him ." T h en are you going to answer m y question ? " said thekeeper disagreeably." W hich ? O h, certainly I beg you r pard on ! " Syson waslaughing al l the t ime. " I am going to Willey Water Farm."" This isn ' t the road." The man was certainly a bully." I think so. Down this path, paddle through the water fromthe well, and out by the white gate. I could go blindfold."

" Happen so, but you'd be trespassing all the same, did youknow that ? "" D id I ? I say, how strange ! I am sorry. N o , I use d tocome so often, in Naylor's time, I had forgotten. Where is he,by the way ? ' '7


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The Blue Review" Crippled with rheumatism," the keeper answered reluctantly." I say ! " Syson exclaimed in pa in." Y ou'd hap pen tel l me what your nam e is ? " asked the keeper,

with a new intonation." John Adderley Syson, la te of Cordy Lane."" As used to court Hilda Millership ? "Syson's eyes opened with a curious smile . He nodded. Therewas a very awkward silence." And you will introduce yourself ? " asked Syson." Arthur PilbeamNaylor 's my uncle," said the other." You live here in Nuttall ? "" I 'm lodgin ' a t my uncle 'sat Naylor 's ."" I see ! "" D id yo u say you was go in' dow n to W illey W ater ? " askedthe keeper." Yes . "" Well, at that rate I should like you to knowas I 'm cour t in 'Hi lda Mil le rship ."The keeper looked at the intruder with a blaze of defiance,almost pitiful. Syson open ed new eyes of aston ishm ent." N o-o ? " he cried, with incredu lous irony. Th e keeper w entscarlet to the ears. But :" And she," he said, huffed, " is keeping company with me."" Go od Go d ! " exclaimed Syson. T h e other m an waiteduncomfortably ." A nd is it a fixed th ing be twee n you ? " asked the int ru de r." W hat do you mean by that ? " retorted the other, sulki ly." W ell does shedo you think of getting m arried beforelong ? "It was evidently a sore point. The keeper kicked at a sod." W e sh 'd ha ' been m arried afore now , if " Pilbea m wasfull of resentment." A h ! " Syson expressed his und erstan ding in th e m on osyllable. 8


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The Soiled Rose" I ' m m a r r i e d myself," he added, after a t ime." You a re ! " said the oth er, inc redulous ly, with a touch ofcon tempt .Syson laughed in his bril l iant, quick way." This last fifteen months," he said.The keeper gazed at him with heavy, sulky, inscrutable gaze,apparent ly thinking back, and making connect ion." W hy, wh at of i t ? " asked Syson ." Nothing," said the other sulki ly , turning away.There was si lence for a moment ." Ah well ! " said S yson, " I w ill leave you . I supp ose youdon' t in tend to turn me back." The keeper paid no at tent ion.

The two men stood high in an open space, grassy, set round withsmall sheaves of stur dy blueb ells ; a l i tt le ope n platform on thebrow of the hill . Syson took a few indecisive steps forward, thens topped ." I say, how lovely ! " he c ried .He had come in ful l v iew of the downslope. The wide path ranfrom his feet like a river, and it was full of bluebells, save for agreen winding thread down the centre, where the keeper walked.Like a stream the path opened into azure shallows at the levels,and there were pools of bluebells, with sti l l the green thread winding through, l ike a thin current of ice-water through blue lakes.And from under the twig-purple of the bushes swam the shadowedblue, as if the flowers lay in flood water over the woodland." A h, isn 't it lovely ! " Sys on ex claim ed, a world of regre t inhis tones ; for this was his past , the country he had abandoned,in which h e was now only a visi tor . W ood pigeons cooed overhead,and the air was full of the brightness of myriad birds singing." If you're married, as you reckon you are, what do you keepwriting to her for, and sending her all them poetry books andthings ? " asked the keeper . Syson stared at him in astonishm entfor a t ime, then he began to smile :" You see ," he sa id ," I was not aware that she that you . . ."

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The Blue ReviewAgain the keeper flushed scarlet." Bu t if you reckon to be m arried " he cha rged ." W ell ? " querie d the othe r mo ckingly.But, looking down the blue, beautiful path, Syson felt he hadbeen w rong . " I have been keeping hera sort of d og-in -the-manger," he said to himself. Aloud :" She knows I 'm married and al l that ," he said." What do you keep on with her for, the n ? " urge d the k eeper." But why should n' t I ? " Syson return ed. H e knew quite well .Th er e was s i lence. Syson suddenly s truck his thigh with hisgloves, and drew himself up." Good-day," he said, bowing, very poli te and dis tant . He

strode off downhill. Now, everything seemed to him ironic : thetwo sallows, one all gold and perfume and murmur, one silvergreen and bris t ly, reminded him that here he had taught her aboutpollination. And now, in the paths sacred to their youth, he waswalking under a smart of condemnation from a game-keeper, forinterfering with the latter 's girl ." Ah well," he said to himself; " the p oor ch ap seem s tohave a grudg e against m e because she w on' t m arry him . I ' l l

do my best on his behalf." He grinned to himself, being in a verybad temper .The farm was less than a hundred yards from the wood's edge.Almost, the wall of trees seemed to form the fourth side to theopen quadrangle. The house faced the wood. With many pangs,Syson noted the plum-blossom falling on the daffodils and on theprofuse, coloured primroses , which he himself had brought hereand set. How they had increased ! There were thick tufts of scarlet,and pink, and pale purple primroses , under the plum-trees . He

saw som ebody glance at him th rou gh the ki tchen windo w, heardmen's voices .T h e door opened suddenly : very wom anly she had grow n !He felt himself going pale." You ?Addy ! " she exclaimed, and stood m otionless .

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The Soiled Rose" W ho ? " cal led the farmer 's voice. M en's low voices answ ered.Those low voices, curious, and almost sneering, roused the ironicspirit in the visitor. Smiling bril l iantly at her he bowed low :" Myselfin all humility," he said.The f lush burned very deep on her cheek and throat ." W e are ju st finishing d in ne r," she said." Then I wil l s tay outside." He made a motion to show thathe would sit on the red earthenware pipkin that stood near thedoor among the daffodils, and contained the drinking water." O h no , come in ," she said hurr iedly. H e en tered withreluctance. In the doorway, he glanced swiftly over the family,and bowed. Everyone was confused. The farmer, his wife, and the

four sons sat at the coarsely laid dinner-table, the men with armsbare to the elbows." I am sorry I in terrupt your lunch," said Syson." D on ' t me ntion i t . Si t down and have a bi t ," said the farmer,trying to be free and easy." It 's early for me," said Syson.He not iced the women were uncomfortable, and would ratherhe did not accept." Why, what t ime do you reckon to have your din ner ? " askedFrank, the second son, insolently." Dinner ?usually at half-past seven."" Oh ah ! " sneered the sons altogethe r.They had once been int imate fr iends with this young man." We' l l g ive Addy something when we've f inished," said themother , an inval id ." D o not let me be any t rouble . Lunc h does no t mat ter to m e ."" He allus could live on fresh air an' scenery," laughed the

youngest son, a lad of nineteen.Syson went round the bui ldings, and into the orchard at theback of the house, where daffodils all along the hedgerow swunglike yellow, ruffled birds on their perches. He loved the placeextraordinarily , the hi lls ranging round , with bear-skin wood s11


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The Blue Reviewcovering their giant shoulders, and small red farms like broochesclasping their garments ; the blue streak of water in the valley,the bareness of the pasture on the hom e-hil ls , the soun d of m yriad-threaded bird-song, which went mostly unheard. To his las t day,he would dream of this place, when he felt the sun on his face,or saw the small handfuls of snow between the winter twigs.Hilda was very womanly. In her presence, he felt boyish. Shewas twe nty-n ine, as he was, bu t she seemed to him m uch older.As he was fingering some shed plum-blossom on a low bough,she came to the back door to shake the tablecloth. Fowls racedfrom the s tackyard, birds rust led from the trees . Her dark auburnhair was gathered up in a coil like a crown on her head. She wasvery straight, imperious in her bearing. As she folded the cloth,she looked away over the hills .

Presently Syson returned indoors . She had prepared eggs andcurd cheese, stewed gooseberries and cream." Since you will dine to-night," she said, " I have only givenyou a l ight lunch."" It is perfectly arcadian and deligh tful," he said. " I almostlook for your belt of straw and ivy buds."Still they mocked each other with irony. He knew it hurt her.But she was court ing the gam e-keeper and she should m arry h im .In his private heart he was thinking, " What a woman she isw ha t a lot older she is ! " H e was afraid of he r now , seeing her somuch al tered. Her curt , sure speech, her proud, hard bearing, herreserve, were unfamiliar to him. He admired again her grey-blackeyebrows, and her lashes ; he quarrelled with her set mouth, withthe expressionless composure of her face. Their eyes met. He saw,in the beautiful grey and black of her glance, tears and bitterness,

and at the back of all , calm acceptance of sorrow." She 's much older than I ," he said to himself. With an efforthe kept up the ironic manner.She sent him into the parlour while she washed the dishes .The long low room was refurnished from the Abbey sale, with

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The Soiled Rosechairs upholstered in claret-coloured rep, many years old, and anoval table of polished walnut, and a fresh piano, handsome, thoughstill antique. In spite of the strangeness, he was pleased. Openinga high cupboard let into the thickness of the wall, he found it fullof his books, his old lesson-books, and volumes of verse he hadsent her, English and G erm an. T h e daffodils in the white window -bottoms, shone across the room, he could almost feel their rays.The old glamour caught him again. His youthful watercolours onthe walls no longer made him grin ; he remembered how ferventlyhe had tried to paint for her, twelve years before.

She entered, wiping a dish, and he saw again the bright, kernel-white beauty of her arms." You are quite aristocratic here," he said, and their eyes met." D o you like it ? " she asked. It w as th e old, low, hu skytone of intimacy. He felt a quick change beginning in his blood." Ay," he nodded, smiling at her like a boy again. She bowedher head." This was the countess 's chair," she said in low tones. " Ifound her scissors down here between the padding."" A y ! S how m e . "Quickly, with a lilt in her movement, she fetched her work-basket, and together they examined the long-shanked old scissors." W hat a ballad of dead ladies ! " h e said, laugh ing, as he fittedhis fingers into the round loops of the countess's scissors." You are the only man who could use them," she said, witha little thrill. He looked at his fingers, and at the scissors :" The only one of your men, perhaps," he said, putt ing thescissors aside with a sudden darkening in his soul. She turned tothe window. He noticed the fine, fair down on her cheek and her

upper lip, and her soft, white neck, like the throat of a nettleflower, and her fore-arms, bright as newly blanched kernels. Shewas being discovered afresh to him, who thought he knew her sothoroughly ." Sh all we go ou t awh ile ? " sh e asked softly.

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The Blue Review" A y ! " he answered. But the predom inant em otion, that f loodedover the daring and the ecstasy in his heart, was fear. Somethingbig was going to hap pen to him and to her , unless he took care ,

his soul warned him.She put no covering on her head, merely took off her apron,saying : " W e will go by the lar ch es." As they passed the oldorchard, she called him in to show him a blue-tit 's nest in one ofthe apple-trees, and a sycock's in the hedge. He rather wonderedat her surety, for she had been one to go dreamily unobservant." Look at the apple buds," she said, and he then perceivedm yriads of litt le scarlet balls amo ng the droo ping bo ug hs . Watch inghis face, she laughed. H e was du m b and s tupid, and at the bo ttom ,

afraid. If he were going to fall in love with this old lover, whoseyouth had marched with his as stately, religious nights marchbeside reckless days, then it would be a love that would invademany lives and lay them waste. His soul realised this, not hisreason. His mind was almost paralysed.For her part, she was brilliant as he had not known her. Sheshowed him nests : a jenn y wre n's in a low b us h." See this jinty 's ! " she exclaimed.He was surprised to hear her use the local name. She reachedcarefully through the thorns, and put her finger in the nest 'sround door ." Five ! " she said. " Te en ty little thin gs ."She showed him nests of robins, and chaffinches, and linnets,and buntings ; of a wagtail beside the water :" And if we go down, nearer the lake, I will show you a kingfisher's . . . ."" Among the young fir- trees ," she said, " there 's a throst le 's

or a blackie's on nearly every shelfhundreds. The first day,when I had seen them all, I felt as if I mustn't go in the wood.It seem ed a city of bird s : and in th e mo rnin g, hearing th em all,I thought of the clamour of early markets. I was afraid to go inmy own wood . "14


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The Soiled RoseT h e wasted poe t in him did ho no ur to her. H e felt weak aswater in her hands. She did not mind his silence, but was alwaysa bri l l iant hostess entertaining him in her wood. As they came

along a m arshy path where forget-me-nots w ere opening in arich blue drift :" We know all the birds, but there are many flowers we can'tfind out,"" I can't find out," she quickly corrected herself." W e ? " he quest ioned .She looked dreamily across to the open fields that slept in thesun :" I have a lover as well, you know," she gently reprimandedhim, dropping again into the int imate tone.This woke in him the spirit of combat." I think I met him . H e is very bonny also in Arc ady ."Without answering, she turned into a dark path that led uphil l , where the trees and undergrowth were very thick." They did well," she said at length, " to have various altarsto various gods, in old days."" A h yes ! " he agreed. " A nd wh ich have you turne d to now ? "" D o you think I have left the old one ? " she asked, pathetically." No, not really. It was your highest, the one you kneeled atwith me "" But you have left it ," she said. He caught his breath, with aquick, painful frown." Aybut the man doesn' t matter so much," he said. Therewas a pause." And you are mistaken. I have turned away," she admitted,in a low, husky to ne, averting her face from hi m .There was s i lence, during which he pondered. The path was

almost flowerless, gloomy. At the side, his heels sank into softclay." No," she said, very slowly, " I was married the same nightas you."He looked at her a quick question.

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The Blue Review" N ot legally, of co ur se," she rep lied, in the sam e grav e,deliberate manner. " Butactually."" ' Tandaradei , ' " he mocked.She turned to him brightly." You th ou gh t I could not ? " she said. Bu t th e flush was dee pin her cheek and throat, for all her seeming assurance.Still he would not say anything." You see,"she was making an effort to explain" / had tounderstand also, to keep pace."To keep pace, she meant, with Syson, whom she loved withthe deepest part of her nature." And does i t amount to much, this understanding ? " he asked,

cynically. She was shocked." A very great dealdoes it not to you ? " she replied." And you are not disappointed ? "" Fa r from it ! " H er ton e was deep and sincere ." Then you love him ? "" Yes, I love him." She was tender, and gentle , in her thoughtof the keeper." Go od ! " he said.This silenced her for a while." Here, among his things, I do love him truly," she said.His conceit would not let him be silent." A nd m e ? " he asked, bitingly ." So different! " she cried.He laughed short ly." You turn ed O ppo rtunis t ? " he said." 'Tis your doing," she replied.For a moment the hearts of these two idealists stood still with

despair .They came to a place where the undergrowth shrank away,leaving a bare, brown space, pillared with the brick-red andpurp lish tru nks of pine trees . O n the fr inge, was the som bre g reenof elder trees, with flat flowers in bud, and bright, unfurling16


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The Soiled Rosepennons of fern. In the midst of the bare space stood a keeper'slog hu t. Phe asant-co ops w ere lying about, some occup ied by aclucking hen, some empty.

Hilda walked over the brown pine needles to the hut, took akey from among the eaves and opened the door. It was a barewood en place with a carpen ter 's bench and form , carpen ter 's tools ,an axe, snares, traps, some skins pegged down, everything in order.Hilda closed the door. Syson examined the weird flat coats of wildanimals, that were pegged down to be cured. She pressed someknots of wood in the side wall, and an opening appeared in theba re logs, disclosing a second, small ap artm en t." Is he a rom antic, then ? " asked Syson, p ond ering ly." Per hap s so ! H e is very curious up to a certain poin t,cunn ing in a nice sense and inventive, and so thoug htful butnot beyond a certain point ."She pulled back a dark green curtain. The apartment wasoccupied almost entirely by a large couch of heather and bracken,on which was spread an ample rabbit-skin rug. On the floor werepatchwork rugs of cat-skin, and a red calf-skin, while hangingfrom the wall were other furs. Hilda took down one, which shepu t on. It was a cloak of rabbit-sk in edged w ith white fur, and witha hood, apparently of the skins of stoats. She laughed at Sysonfrom out of this barbaric mantle, saying :" W hat do you t hin k of it ? "" Ah ! I congratulate you on your m an ," he replied." A nd look ! " she said.In a little jar on a shelf were some sprays, frail and white, ofthe first honeysuckle." They will scent the place at night," she said.He looked round curiously." T he n where does your keeper come short ? " he asked.She gazed at him for a few moments . Then, turning aside" The s tars aren ' t the same with him," she said, intensely," nor the forget-me-nots . You could make them flash and quiver,

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The Blue Reviewand the forget-me-nots come up at m e l ike phosp horescence.I have found it outit is true."He laughed, saying :

" After all , stars and forget-me-nots are only luxuries."" Ay," she assented sadly. " It is a pity."Again he laughed quickly at her." W hy ? " h e asked, m ockingly.She turned swiftly. He was leaning against the small window ofthe t iny obscure room, and was watching her, who s tood in thedoorway, still cloaked in her mantle. His cap was removed, soshe saw his face and head distinctly in the dim room. His black,straight, glossy hair was brushed clean back from his brow. Hisblack eyes were playing a polite game with her, and his face, thatwas clear and cream, and perfectly smooth and healthy, wasflickering with polite irony.

" You are very different," she said bitterly.Again he laughed." I see you disapprove of me," he said." I disapprove of what you are becoming," she said." But you have still hop es of m e ! T h e n wha t m ust I do tobe " he checked himself" to avoid this calamity ? "She saw that he was always laughing at her." If your own soul doesn't tell you, I cannot."" I say," he cried, m ock-serio us, " wh ere have I heard tha tbefore ? Be sides," he con tinued politely, " one can not live inRome without being Romanisedunless one is fanatically patrioticand real ly, you know, I am of no country."

" N o ? " she said bitterly ." Unless I have been adopted unaware." That , he fel t , wasinsulting, and his spirit turned in shame." You are a Roman of the Romans," she said sarcastically." Of the emasculated pe rio d," he laugh ed. " Bu t ' twas youwould have i t so."" I ! " she exclaim ed.

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The Soiled Rose" You would have me take the Grammar School scholarshipand you would have me foster poor little Botell 's fervent attachment to me, till he couldn't l ive without meand because Botell

was rich and influential. You insisted on my accepting the wine-merchant 's offer to send me to Cambridge, there to chaperon hisonly child. Then you bade me go into the business unti l I hadmoney and then and then ; w el l , ' No w ' is the realisation.I have done exceedingly well, for an orphan son of a village schoolmas te r . "" A nd I am respo nsible ? " she asked, w ith sarcasm ." I was a most plas t ic youth," he laughed." Ah," she cried, " I sent you away too young."" But I am a great successand really, I enjoy it. You keeppreac hing m e the ' To ng ue s in trees ' busin ess, and ' good ineverything ' that is not London. But I assure you, there's quite alot to be said for my side. ' I would not change it. ' "" You are too glib," she said, in very cutting tones." I always had that defect," he said, bowing.Th er e was a rat t ling at the ou ter la tch, and the keeper entere d.The woman glanced round, but remained s tanding, fur-cloaked,in the inner doorway. Syson, quite indifferent, did not move.The keeper entered, saw, and turned away without speaking.The others also were silent.Pilbeam attended to his skins ." Ha ve we finished our d uel ? " asked Syso n." I have nothing more to say," she replied." T h en I give you ' T o our vast and varying fortu nes. ' " H elifted his hand in pledge." ' To our vast and varying fortunes, ' " she answered, bowing

gravely, and speaking in cold tones." A rth ur ! " she said.The keeper pretended not to hear. Syson, watching keenly,began to smile . The woman drew herself up." A rth ur ! " she said again, with a curious upw ard inflection,19


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The Blue Reviewwhich warned the two men that her soul was trembling on one ofthose sudden changes that are so striking in women ; as when adrop of acid suddenly throws out a black, turbid precipitate in aclear liquid.The keeper slowly put down his tool and came to her." Yes," he said." I wanted to introduce you," she said, cold and deliberate." I know himI've met him before," growled the keeper." Ne ver m ind I wa nt to introduce you formally. Ad dy,Mr. Pilbeam, to whom I am engaged to be married. ArthurMr. Syson, who was an old fr iend of ours ." Syson bowed, butthe other mechanically held out his hand. The two men shookh an d s ." Allow me to congratulate you heartily," said Syson. In hisheart he was saying bit terly, " Mr s. Pilbeam Goo d Go d ! "

He bade the woman good-bye ." W hich w ay will you go ? " she asked." Over Foster 's ," he replied." Arthur, you wil l go with Mr. Syson to the gate ," she said.They went al l three together down the gloomy path." Ah les beaux jours de bonheur indicibleO u n o us jo ig nio ns n os b ou ch es . . . "quoted Syson, half-sincere, half-mocking." C'e st po ssible ! " she replied , in th e same spir it." Go od ! " h e cried. " W e mig ht have rehearsed it . I nevercould help being sentimental. How does it go on ?' Qu'il etait bleu, le ciel, et grand l'espoir. ' "" I nev er liked farce," she replied, c uttingly . " Besides, wecannot walk in our wild oats. You were too modest and good to

sow any at that t ime."Syson looked at her. He was shocked that she could sneer attheir young love, which had b een the greatest thing he had kn ow n.Certainly he had killed her love at last, as he had often wished hecould. Now he felt a great sense of desolation.2 0


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The Soiled RoseAt the bottom of the path she left him. As he went along withthe keeper, towards the open, he said :" You will let me know when you are going to be married, willyou ? "" W hy ? " asked th e keeper." Because she will no t w rite to me at least till afterI kn ow ."" Well ! " said the keeper, disagreeably, bu t hesitating." I shan't be in Nuttall again for yearsperhaps never. I shallwant to know your news, for all that. So if you'll write to me, Iwill write to you. All the correspo nden ce shall be betwe en us t w o. "He handed the young keeper his card." All right thenwe'll let it stand at that."They were at the gate . Syson held out his hand. When he wasa dozen yards across the field, the other called :" I say, I s ' l l only write when there's something definite."" Qu ite so ! " said Syson, and each tur ne d his several way.Instead of going straight to the high road gate, Syson wentalong the wood's edge, where the brook spread out in a litt le bog,and under the alder trees, among the reeds, great yellow stools andbosses of marigolds shone. Threads of brown water trickled by,

touc hed with gold from the flowers. Su dde nly, there was a blueflash in th e air, as a kingfisher passe d.Syson was extraordinari ly wretched. He cl imbed the bank tothe gorse bushes, whose sparks of blossom had not yet gatheredinto a flame. Lying on the dry brown turf, he discovered sprigsof tiny purple milkwort and pink spots of lousewort. He beganto count his losses. In spite of himself, he was unutterably miser-able, though not regretful . He would not al ter what he had done.Yet he was drearily, hopelessly wretched. After a while he had

got it clear." She always knew the best of me, and believed in the bestI might be. Whilst she kept her ideal ' Me ' living, I was sort ofresponsible to her : I must live somewhere up to standard. Now21


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The Blue ReviewI have destroyed Myself in her, and I am alone, my star is goneout. I have destroyed the beautiful ' Me ' who was always aheadof me, nearer the realities. And I have struck the topmost flowerfrom off her faith. And yet it was the only thing to do, consideringall t he o th er folk . . . "

He lay quite still, feeling a kind of death.Presently he heard voices : the keeper was coming down thepath, with his wife." Say w hat ails thee ? " Syson heard the keeper ask ge ntly,bu t with a touch of resentm ent." I am a b i t upse t don' t bother m e, " p leaded the wom an.Syson turned over. The air was full of the sound of larks, asif the sunshine above were condensing and falling in a shower.Amid this bright sound, the voices sounded l ike horn-music." Yes, but what upsets thee," pers is ted the man." Go home now, Arthur. I wil l ta lk to you to-night ."Syson looked through the bushes. Hilda was leaning on thegate, tears running down her face. The man was in the f ield,loitering by the hedge, and, Syson at last made out, was catchingthe bees as they settled on the white bramble flowers, crushing

them in his palm, and letting them fall, not aware what he wasdoing.There was silence for a while, in which Syson imagined hertears among the brightness of the larks . Suddenly the keeperexclaimed " A h ! " and sw ore loudly. He was grip pin g at th e sleeveof his coat, near the sho uld er. Th e n h e pulled off his jack et,threw it on the ground, and absorbedly rolled up his shirt sleeveright to the shoulder." Ah ! " he said vind ictively, as he picked ou t th e bee and flung

it away. He twisted his fine, bright arm, peering awkwardly overhis shoulder." W hat is it ? " asked H ilda quietly ." A beecrawled up my s leeve and s tung me," he answered." Come here to me," she said.

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The Soiled RoseThe keeper went to her, l ike a sulky boy. She took his hand-some arm in her hands." H er e it isand th e sting left in poor bee ! "She picked out the s t ing, pu t her m ou th to his arm , and suckedaway the drop of poison. As she looked at the red mark her mouthhad m ad e, and at his arm , she said, laugh ing winsomely out ofher tears :" That is the reddest kiss you will ever have."He put his arms round her, and was kiss ing her. When Sysonnext looked up, at the sound of voices, he saw the keeper withhis mouth on the throat of his beloved, whose head was thrownback, and whose hair had fallen, so that one rough rope of dark

brown hair hung across his bare arm." No," the woman answered. " I am not upset because he 'sgone. You w on' t und erstand "Syson could not distinguish what the man said. Hilda replied,clear and distinct :" You know I love you. He has gone quite out of my lifeIdon' t know what I should do without you . . . . " She endedplaint ively. He kissed her warmly, murmuring. She laughedquickly." Yes," she said indulgent, but slightly bitter. " We will bemarried, we will be married. You can tell people, and makearrangements ." He embraced her again. Syson heard nothing fora time. Then she said :" You must go home, now, dearyou wil l get no s leep."" Shall we be m arrie d at ch urc h, or chapel or wh at ? "" We wil l be married at church."It was the first time she had used the plural pronoun in thatway, which moved the keeper to embrace her fervently. At last

he pulled on his coat and departed. She stood at the gate, notwatching him, but looking south over the sunny counties towardsLondon, far away.When at last she had gone, Syson also departed, going south.23


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T H E B E G G A R ' S H U N T B y W . H . D A V I E S

WE have no mind to reach that PoleWhere monarchs keep their icy courts ;Where lords and ladies , proud and cold,

May do no more than smile at sports ;Nay, laughing, lying at our ease,We keep our court beneath green trees .Kings' beds are soft and silvery white,

But ours are golden straw or hay ;So let kings lie while gentle sleepAttends our harder beds, when theyInside their soft, white bedclothes yellThat nightmares r ide them down to hell .Poor lords and ladies , what tame sportTo hunt a fox or stag, while weSit on a green bank in the sun,And chase for hours a faster flea ;Which blesses us from day to day,With all our faculties in play.

I had been resting for a litt le time and, as I was about to con-t inue my journey, I looked back and saw a man in the dis tance,coming towards me. Seeing that he was going my way, I settleddown again, to wait for him, watching his movements as he camealong. I noticed at once that he was walking at a fast pace, butwhat surprised me was that he often came to a halt and made hishands feel various parts of his clothes. My first impression wastha t he had lost som ething and was searching for it . I saw h im haltquite a number of t imes and make these quick movements , feel ingdown both his legs , then in his bosom, and sometimes up both hissleeves. " The poor fellow is in a terrible state of worry," thoughtI ; " perhaps he has lost silver, or even gold, which has been hissavings. Such a loss would be almost madness to a poor looking

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The Begga r ' s Hun tman like that." However, these thoughts did not last long, for Isoon came to the conclusion that the man was scratching himself,owing to the attack of fleas.

When he reached my side, I saw at once that he was inclinedto pass on without saying a word, but I brought him to a halt byinquiring his destination for the day. He did not answer for sometime, for he had put his hand down the back of his neck to scratchhis shoulder blade, and this action choked his utterance. As soonas he was able to speak he answered that he was on his way toHungerford. " Let us walk together for a li t t le way," I said, " forI am going there too. But I am not able to walk very fast." Sayingthis I gave him twopence, knowing that he would be in no hurryafter that, as he would hope for further kindness before we partedfor good. To encourage him in this belief, I offered him tobacco,at the sam e time saying " I shall be glad w hen we come to an in n ."He began to scratch more than ever now, as much from delightas from fleas.

" Are you out of work ? " I asked, as we went along. " I a m ,"he answered ; " there is no work to be had anywhere. Curse it ."Saying this he began to scratch his left shoulder, and I knew atonce that it was a flea, and not the lack of work, that was the objectof his curse . " Ha ve you been out of work long ? " I inq uir ed ." Two months," he answered ; " and I never expect to be in workagain. Curse it! " This time he began to scratch his left thigh, andI again came to the conclusion that a flea, and not the lack of work,was the reason why he swore. Of course, I could see plainly thatthis man w as a t ram p of a very long standing, who did not t roublehis head about work, but would not le t me know the truth.We went on like this for about half a mile, talking of the diffi

culties of a man out of work, which my ragged companion saidwere " hea rt-bre akin g." " Y es ," he said, coming to a hal t , andbeginning to scratch under his right arm" Yes, this kind of lifeis heart-breaking . C urse i t ! "At last I saw a signboard not far away, and knew it was an inn.

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The Blue ReviewBut by this t ime I began to have my doubts as to the wisdom ofhaving this man's company, even in the very lowest kind of atavern ; where the landlord or his customers would be certain toobject to his com pan y. H ow ever, I did not like to let him go witho utfirst giving him a glass of beer. So I came to a halt and said, " Wewill go into this inn, but while we are there, can you stop scratching ? " " Of course I ca n, " he answered readily, as tho ug h no thin gin the world was easier . " You m ust un de rst an d," I continu ed," that the landlord, or his wife, or his daughter, whichever servesu s , would not care to have a customer that kept on scratchinghimself. So, drink and laugh, but, for God's sake, don't scratch ! "When my ragged companion heard this he laughed heart i ly andbegan to scratch himself all over. When I saw his delight, I couldnot help laughing as heartily myself. However, after his glee wasover, I said kindly, so as not to hurt his feelings, " You'll try notto scratch, wo n' t you ? " W hen I had done speaking, m y com panion, who had been motionless for quite half a minute, said inslow, distinct tones" If I say I won' t scratch, I won't scratch.And if I do, may the devil pickle and purge me ! "

With this understanding we made our way towards the inn.But we had scarcely gone ten s teps when my companion wavedhis ha nd w ith a wide sweep , saying " T hi s is a beautiful cou nty !"When I heard this, I at once had a suspicion that something waswrong. So, although I looked away from him for a moment, Itur ne d q uickly in his direction and w as jus t in tim e to catch hi min the act of scratching his righ t leg. Seeing this I m ade up m ymind to enter the inn alone. So I took threepence out of mypocket and said" Do what you like now, for I shall probablybe at this inn for a couple of hours . Good-bye." " Thank you,"he answered, grasping my hand, " you're a true gentleman. Goodbye and good luck." Saying this he went off with all speed.

W hen I entered the inn , which was called the Waggon andHorses , I saw my late companion s i t t ing in the taproom, with aglass of beer in his hand. Whether the landlady had been civil to26


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The Beggar ' s Hunthim or not, I cannot say, but it was most certain that when Ientered she cast several cold glances at her other customer.Ho we ver, the latter app eared to take little heed of this, and satwith his two arms leaning on the table. It must not be inferredfrom this attitude that he was not scratching. There he sat, hisarm s motionless, it is tru e, bu t wh at abo ut his feet ? If the landlad y,who had now retired, could have seen those feet, as they were seenby me, she would have ordered him out of her house at once.For there he sat, resting on one leg at a time, while the foot of theother leg was kept busy scratching. But this secret method was notsatisfying for long, for in a few moments he gave his feet a restand set his hands to work on the upper parts of his body. Afterdoing this for a short time, he suddenly got up, finished his beerand ran headlong out of the house.

After having had som e bread an d cheese and pickles, some beer,and a rest of half an hour, I left the Waggon and Horses and con-t inued m y journ ey towards Hu ngerford . B ut I had not been walkingmore than twenty minutes when I heard a voice hail me frombehind a steep bank. When I looked, I saw my late companion." W ait a m in u te ," he cried, " for I am now ready to trav el." " Ha veyou bee n sleeping ? " I asked, whe n h e had reached m y sid e." No," he answered with a laugh, " I have been having a livelytime at hunting and killing fleas. I shall sleep well after thisexci tement . "As we walked along he talked of noth ing b ut h un tin g an d killingfleas, saying that hunting hares, foxes or stags was but poor sportcompared with that . The subject seemed to interest him so muchthat he could not change to another and was still at it when wewere within a short dis tance of Hungerford.

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T H E E S P E R A N T O O F A R T B y W . L . G E O R G E

I T is established and accepted to-day that a painter may notlike m usic, tha t a writer m ay yaw n in a picture-gallery :though we proclaim that art is universal, i t certainly isnot universal for the univ erse. T hi s shou ld no t surpr iseus who know that van Go gh wrote : " T o paint and tolove wo m en is incom patible " ; van G og h was rig htfor himself, which does not mean that he was right foreverybody, and I will not draw from his dictum the probablyincorrect conclusion that " T o p aint an d to love literature isincom patible ." But van Go gh, who h ad not read Bergson, wasindicating clearly enough th at he knew he mu st canalise his powe rs,therefore exclude from his emotional purview all things whichdid not appertain directly to his own form of art.Fo rm of a r t! Th os e thre e wo rds hold th e difficulty of m utu alunderstanding among art is ts . While sympathis ing with van Goghin his xenophobia, I cannot accept that because certain artistscould not appreciate certain forms of art, no artist can understandanother whose form is alien to him. There is , there must be a linkbetween the painter, the sculptor, the writer, the musician, theactor, between th e poet in word s and the one, to-day most com m on,who wishes to express himself in the deeds of his own life. Forart is, we are assured thereof, all of one stuff. A symphony and apoem m ay be allotropic forms of the sam e ma tter : to use acommon simile, there is red phosphorus and there is yellow,but both are phosphorus. Likewise there are different forms of art,as there are three Incomprehensibles , but there is only one art ,as there is but one Incomprehensible .

I t is important that art is ts should understand one anotherso that conflict may arise from their impressions, so that they mayform a critical brotherhood. Some, to-day, are able to grasp oneanother's meaning and yet find it difficult, because every form ofart has its own jargon, to express what they mean ; they can graspthat the painter equally with the writer is striving to expresshimself, bu t they fail to phra se their appre ciation an d their criticism

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The Esperanto of Artbecause writers cannot talk of masses or painters of style. Therestands between them a hedge of technique ; so thick is it thatoften they cannot see the soul of the works ; their difficulty is oneof terms. Now I do not suggest that the musician should studyPraxiteles and himself carve marble ; he is better employed ex-pressing his own passion in the Key of C. But I do feel that iftechnical terms are the preserve of each form of art, general termsare n o t ; tha t continuity, rhythm, harmony, to quote but a few, havea precise meaning, that they are inherent to no form of art becausethey are inherent to art itself.

The following, then, is a forlorn attempt to find the commonlanguage, the esperanto of art. It is made up of general terms (initalics) ; i t represents no more than a personal point of view, andis for this reason laid down in a tentative spirit : it is not a solutionbut a fingerpost. Order being a necessary antidote for the abstruse,I have divided the terms into groups, according to their nature,to the dimension they affect or the matter to which they refer.Following this line of thought we find that works of art affect usin virtue of four properties : their power, their logic, their move-ment, and their attitude; this leads us to four groups of properties :

Group A. (Volumetric) : Concentration, Relief, Density, Depth.Group B. (Linear) : Linking, Continuity.Group C. (Kinetic) : Rhythm, Intensity, Reaction, Key, Cul-mination.

Group D. (Stat ic) : Grace, Balance, Harm ony.This is a rough classification, for an opera does not necessarilycom pare with a square rood of paint or a novel of Tolstoy an length ;indeed, on the volumetric basis, an opera may have less bulk thana sonnet .G rou p A. (Volumetr ic) . By concentration we mean the quali tyof conveying a great deal within a small space. It follows that

concentration is in inverse ratio to area, though it does not followthat area is in inverse ratio to concentration. While " An naKarenin " is an enormous novel it is as concentrated as the sonnet29


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The Esperanto of ArtG rou p B. (Lin ear) . T h e quali ty of linking is opposed to thequali ty of discord, though a discord may prove to be a l ink. Themost perfect instances of linking and continuity, for I almost

identify the terms, are the solar spectrum and the song of the lark,but in the field of art we must be content with the gamut, thesequence of shades and the concatenation of phrases. In prose :" The bird rose up into the air, and its wings beat slowly.T h e air was laden with mist . T h e bird rose tow ards the clouds . . "is an instance where there is a solution of continuity, which couldbe remedied if the second sentence were related to the flight of thebird. And the same lack of continuity would exist if the painterof a harlequin were to make his skull-cap brown, if in a pause of

some work of Locatelli the musician interposed (however skilfullyand gradually) some characteristic Grieg chords.It does not, of course, follow that a discord is discontinuous.Providing it recurs within the scheme of the work, as the clashesin "Elektra ," the sequence of discords becomes a sequence ofl inks, and we arrive at this paradox, that it is the solutions ofcontinuity provide the continuity, while the apparently continuousport ions of the work are carried by the discordant sect ions. Thusthere is continuity in the Louvre Ghirlandajo because equivalent ,if m ino r, discords repeat th e motif of th e red m antle in twoother portions of the picture. The relation of the discords issometimes vi tal to mo re tha n continuity, namely to rhythm( G r o u p C ) .W ith G rou p C. (Kinetic) we touch th e most vital port ion of thesubject, for the kinetic quality in art amounts to the quality of lifein man. And its chief component is rhythm. If rhythm be taken as acondit ion of internal movement within the inanimate, as a sugges

tion of expanding and retracting life, of phrases (musical, pictorialor literary) that come to an inevitable resolution, it is seen that itspresence in a work of art must baffle until i t is realised under whatguise it appears. A simple instance of prose rhythm is :" T h e wayfarer stop ped by the well. H e looked within its

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The Blue Reviewdepths and the water was far below. Idly he dropped a pebblebetween the walls ; and i t seemed minutes while he waited unt i lthe water sped i t s thanks ."T hi s is not me tr ical bu t rhyth m ic prose, and it would be wearisomeif the rhy thm were not al tered from pa ragrap h to paragra ph ; shortsentences alternate with long at fixed intervals, or passive verbsare inset between act ives, while G othic word s juxtapos ed to La t in ,or adjectival combinations, produce the same effect of rise and fall.The rhy thm may be regular as the movement of a woman 's b reas tor spasmodic within the regular as the flight of a gull .

Pictorially rhythm is best gauged by certain tapestries basedon the f lower backgrounds of Fergusson and Anne Estel le Rice.Assume a black square of cloth ; if the flowers are grouped thus,from left to right : dark red, pink, white, there is no rhythm, forthe mental l ine is a mere downgrade ; if they are grouped : darkred, l ight blue, dark green, there is no rhythm, for the mental l ineis a mere curve, a circular or perhaps parabolic basin ; but if thegroup ing am ounts to : dark red, pink, light blue , black, l ight green,cream, dark brown, there is a sensation of ebb and flow, rise andfall, rhythm. A nd this a pplies to draw ing also, if we accept thatcolour is indicated by line, that l ines are colours and that coloursare tenses. That l ine can indicate colour is beyond denial, forwe accept that colour is not material while tone is material .Colour being the relation of an impression to the impressionof colourlessness, and tone being the resultant translation ofthe intensity of the colour, then it is feasible to reproduce ared and blue combinat ion by a green and yel low combinat ion ofequal contrast . Therefore a combinat ion of blacks may be made tobalance a combination of even seven colours, provided the relativeintensity (amount) of the blacks is in a true relation, in tone, withthe relative intensity of the colours.

The qual i ty of rhythm being absolutely obvious in music needsno discussion ; i t is the only form of rh yth m the p opu lar canrecognise, but if we accept the principles of grouping in phrase32


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The Esperan to of Ar tand colour, no musician will fail to recognise a sarabande in thedance of Matisse or in the posturings of Kellermann's clown.As for intensity, with which goes reaction, for the first cannotexist without the second, i t is natural ly brought about by therhythmic focussing of the subject ' s at tent ion upon words, coloursor notes. Intensity is marked, for instance, by the triplets of theVe nusberg m usic, their cont inual , s low bi l lowing; i t can be found,less easily, in phra ses and colo urs, b ut it m us t exist if the w ork isart . In pro se it is m arked by a general nervo usnes s of form and w or d:

" Upon the crag the tower pointed to the sky like a finger ofstone, and about i ts base were thick bushes, which had burst forthinto flower patches of purple and scarlet . The air was heavy withtheir scent ."Here the intensity is confined within the simile and the colourscheme ; the intervening space corresponds to the background ofa picture, while the final short sentence, purposely dulled, is thereaction. Evidently (and all the more so as I have chosen a pictorialeffect) an analogous intens ity cou ld be o btain ed in a pain ting :the flower patches could be exaggerated in colour to the uttermostlimit of the palette, while the reagent final sentence was figuredby a f i lmy treatment of the atmosphere. The l imit to intensity isthe key in which the work is conceived. But the word key mu s tnot be taken in its pur ely m usical sense ; obviously, w ithin thesame piece the governing motif must not be andante at the begin-ning and presto at the end, but in artistic generalisations it mustbe taken as the spirit that informs rather than as the technical rulewhich controls . Thus, in l i terature, the key is the atti tude of thewriter : if in one part of the book his thought recalls Thackerayand in another Paul de Kock the key has been changed ; and againif the left side of the picture is pointillist, the right side cubist,th e key has been changed. I choose exaggerated, almost absurdinstances to make the point clear ; in practice, when the writer,the musician or the painter appears to have seen consistently,the key he has worked in is steadfast.

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The Blue ReviewIt should be said that uniformity of key does not im ply absenceof reaction : there is room , while the key remains uniform, for thejuxta posit io n of burlesq ue and rom ance, ju st as ther e is room in

H olbe in 's " Am bassadors " for the incom prehensible object inthe foreground, said to be a pun (Hohl Bein). But the key needsto be kept in mind as i ts maximum expression is the culminationof the effect. The culmination of a speech is in its peroration ; ofa poem in i ts incorporated envoi. T h u s in the " Ara b Love S on g,"t h e culmination is :" And thou what needest with thy tr ibe 's black tentsWho hast the red pavilion of my heart ? "There is no difficulty there. But in painting the culmination is

more subtle. It consists in the isolation of the chief object. Saythat we have from left to right : Black, yellow, dark brown, lightb lue , dark red " ; then add on the extreme right crimso n, then go ld.The p ic tu re culminates on the extreme right , with the result thatattention is directed there and that any object in that section ofthe picture benefits by an influence about equivalent to that offootlights. Culmination involves the painter in great difficulties,for there must be culmination, while an effect in the wrong placemay destroy the balance of his work. This appertains toGroup D. (Stat ic) . I ts chief quali ty, balance, is easily definedin painting. Where there is correspondence between every sectionof the picture, where no value is exaggerated, balance exis ts . Henc ethe fai lure of Futurism. While the Futuris ts understand very well

intensity, reaction and relief, the y refuse to give balance any at tentionat all ; leaving aside the ab surd ity of rend ering t he m enta l intoterms of the pictorial, and taking as an instance one who was onceless Futuris t than the Futuris ts , Severini , we see in his " Pan-panDance " how he detached himself from his school : he attainedbalance by giving every object an equal intensity. Evidently if thereare no clashes of tone-v alues ther e mu st be balance, and the instanceserves to show that where there are clashes of tone-values balancemust be ensured by the art is t ' s hand. There is a lways balance in

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The Esperanto of Artth e pu rely decorative ; in the realistic there is balance if theattention of the beholder is directed simultaneously to the severalpoints of culmination indicated by the rhythm of the p ic ture . Thusthere is balance in Rothenste in ' s "Chloe " because the rocks onthe right repeat the significance of the rocks on the left.

Likewise in literature there is balance in certain groupings ofphrases :" T h e waves rol led in . Every one, edged w ith foam, curvedforward to kiss the sand. Silvery in the sun they rolled. And theycame assured, as if they had forgotten that they had come at otherdawns, only to re t i re before the inert earth."This is a lmost the exact " short- long-short- long " of waves themselves, and there is balance because each short- long groupingfigures one curled wave. Nothing clarifies this idea so well as theMorse Code .

With perfect balance go grace and harmony. While grace m u s tstand by itself as a not especially important quality because it isnot, need not, always be present, harmony must be recognised as asynonym of balance. It is only because grace is often used whereharmony is meant that i t finds a place in this glossary. Obviouslythe re is no grace in Ro din 's Balzac, while there is grace in every noteof Lulli and Gluck ; by grace we mean the quality of lightness wefind in Pater , Meredith, Andre Gide, Mozart , Watteau, Donatel lo :the instances suffice to indicate the meaning, while harmony, if itbe taken as a synonym of balance needs no further explanationthan has been given for that term.

I venture to repeat in conclusion that there is nothing dogmaticabout these ideas. They are subject to criticism and objection, forwe are groping in the dark towards what Mr. Leonard Inkstercalls the standa rdisation of artistic term s ; if I prefer to hi sscientif ic way the more inspired suggest ion of "esperanto," that isa common language of the arts, i t is without fear of being calledmetaphysical . I t may be argued that a purely inte l lectual a t temptto extract and correlate the inspirations of forms of art is a

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The Blue Reviewm etaphy sical exercise doo m ed to failure b y its own amb ition. I donot think so. For art is universal enough to contain all the appeals,the sensuous, the intellectual and, for those who perceive it , thesp ir i tu al ; bu t the sensuous is incapable of explanation becausesensuousness is a thing of perceptions which vanish as soon as thebra in a t tem pts to state the m in mental term s ; and the spiri tual ,w hich I will define m uc h as I wou ld faith as a stimu lation pro du cedby a thing which one knows to be inexistent, also resists analysis ;if we are to bridge the gulf that separates the various forms of art,some intel lectual process must be applied. Now it may be meta-physical to treat of the soul in terms of the intellect, but theintellect has never in philosophic matters refrained from layinghands upon the alleged soul of man ; I see no reason, therefore,to place art higher than the essence of human life and grant itimmunity from attack and exegesis by the intellect. Indeed, theintellect in its metaphysical moods is alone capable of solving theriddle of artistic sensation. Once defined by intellect and appliedby intellect, the esperanto of the arts may well serve to reconcilethe m an d dem on strate to their various fo rms, against their will ,their fundam ental u nity.

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E P I L O G U E : P E N S I O N S E G U I N By K A T H E R I N EM A N S F I E L DT HE servant who opened the door was twin sister totha t efficient a nd h ideo us crea ture bea ring a sou ptureen into the First French Picture. Her roundred face shon e like freshly wa shed ch ina. S he had apair of immense bare arms to match, and a quanti tyof m ottled hair arranged in a sort of bow . I stam meredin a ridiculous, breathless fashion, as though a pack of Russianwolves were behind me rather than five flights of beautifullypolished F re nc h stairs. " H ave you a roo m ? " T h e servant girl didnot know. She would ask Madame. Madame was at dinner. " Willyou come in, please ? " T hr ou gh the dark hall, guard ed by a largeblack stove that had the appearance of a headless cat with one redall-seeing eye in the middle of its stomach, I followed her into thesalon. " Please to sit down," said the servant girl , closing the doorbehind her. I heard her list slippers shuffle along the corridor,the sound of another door openinga little clamourinstantlysuppressed. Silence followed. The salon was long and narrow, witha yellow floor dotted with white mats. White muslin curtains hidthe window s : the walls were white , decorated w ith pictures of paleladies drifting down cypress avenues to forsaken temples, andmo ons ris ing over bound less oceans. You w ould have though t thatall the long years of Madame's virginity had been devoted to themaking of white matsthat her childish voice had lisped itsnumbers in crochet work stitches. I did not dare to begin countingthem. They rained upon me from every possible place, like impossible snowflakes. Even the piano stool was buttoned into oneembroidered with P. F. I had been looking for a resting place allthe morning. At the start I flew up innumerable stairs as thoughthey were major scalesthe most cheerful things in the worldbut after repeated failures the scales had resolved into the minor,and my heart which was quite cast down by this time, leapt upagain at these signs and tokens of virtue and sobriety. " A womanwith such sober passion s," thou ght I , " i s bo und to be quiet and

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The Blue Reviewclean, with few babies and a much absent husband. Mats are notthe sort of things that lend themselves in their making to cheerfulsinging. Mats are essentially the fruits of pious solitude. I shallcertainly take a room he re ." A nd I began to drea m of unpack ing m yclothes in a little white room, and getting into a kimono and lyingon a white bed, watching the curtains float out from the window inthe delicious autumn air that smelled of apples and honey . . . untilthe door opened and a tall thin woman in a lilac pinafore came in,smil ing in a vague fashion. " M adam e Seguin ? " " Y es, M ad am e."I repeated the familiar story. A quiet room. Removed from anychurch bells, or crowing cocks, or litt le boys' schools, or railwaystat ions. " There are none of such things anywhere near here,"said Madame, looking very surprised. " I have a very beautifulroom to let, and quite unexpectedly. It has been occupied by ayoung gentleman from Buenos Ayres whose father died, unfor-tunately, and implored him to return home immediately. Quitenatura l , indee d." " Oh , very ! " said I , hop ing that th e H am let-like apparition was at rest again and would not invade my solitudeto make certain of his son's obed ience. "If M adam e wil l follow m e ."D ow n a dark corridor, round a corner I felt my way. I wan ted toask Madame if this was where Buenos Ayres pere appeared untohis son, but I did not dare to. " Hereyou see. Quite away fromeverything," sa id Madame.

I have always viewed with a proper amount of respect andabhorrence those penetrat ing spiri ts who are not susceptible toappearances. What is there to believe in except appearances ? Ihave nearly always found that they are the only things worthenjoying at all , and if ever an innocent child lays its head upon myknee and begs for the truth of the matter, I shall tell i t the storyof my one and only nurse, who, knowing my horror of gooseberryja m , spread a coating of apricot over the top of the ja m jar. As longas I believed it apricot I was happy, and learning wisdom, I con-trived to eat the apricot and leave the gooseberry behind. " So,you see, my little innocent creature," I shall end, " the great thing

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Epilogue : Pension Seguinto learn in this life is to be conten t with appea rances, and sh un th evulgari t ies of the grocer and the phi losopher."

Bright sunl ight s t reame d thro ugh the windows of the del ightfulroom . Th er e was an alcove for the bed , a w ri t ing table was placedagainst the window, a couch against the wall . And outside thewindow I looked down upon an avenue of gold and red t rees andup at a range of mountains white with fresh fallen snow. " Onehun dred and e ighty f rancs a m on th , " m urm ure d M adam e, smi l ingat nothing, but seeming to imply by her manner " of course thishas nothing to do with the matter ." I said , " That is too much.I cannot afford more than one hundred and f i f ty francs." " But ,"explained M ada m e, " th e size ! the alcove. An d the extreme rar i tyof being overlooked by so m any m ou nta ins ." " Y es ," I said ." And then the food. There are four meals a day, and breakfastin your room if you wish it ." " Yes," I said, more feebly. " Andm y husban d a professor at the Conservatoire that again is so ra re ."Courage is l ike a disobedient dog. Once it starts running away, i tfl ies all the faster for your attempts to recall i t . " One hundred andsix ty," I said. " If you agree to take it for tw o mo nth s I willaccept ," said Madame very quickly. I agreed.

Marie helped to unstrap my boxes. She knel t on the f loor ,grinning and scratching her big red arms." Ah, how glad I am Madame has come," she said . " Now weshall have some life again. Monsieur Arthur, who lived in thisroomhe was a gay one. Singing al l day, and sometimes dancing.Many a t ime Mademoisel le Ambatielos would be playing and he'ddance for an hou r withou t s top ping ." " W ho is Madem oisel leAm batielos ? " I a sked. " A young lady, s tudying at the C on -servatoire," said Marie, sniffing in a very friendly fashion. " But

she gives lessons, too. A h, m on D ieu, sometimes when I 'm dus t ingher room I think her fingers will drop off. She plays all day long.Bu t I l ike that that 's l ife, noise is . T h at 's wha t I say. Yo u' l l hea rher soon. U p and dow n she goes ! " said M arie, with extremeheart iness. " B ut , " I c r ied, loathing Marie, " how m any othe r39


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The Blue Reviewpeop le are staying here ? " Ma rie shru gg ed. " N ob od y to speak of.There 's the Russian gentleman, a pries t he is , and Madame's threechildren and tha t 's a l l. T h e children are lively eno ug h," she said,f il ling the washstand pitcher, " bu t then , ther e 's the baby the boy!Ah , you' l l know about h im , poor l i t tle one, soon enough ! " Shewas so detestable, I would not ask her anything further.

I waited until she had gone, and leaned against the window-sill ,watching the sun deepen in the trees until they seemed full andtrembling with gold, and wondering what was the matter with themyster ious baby.All through the afternoon Mademoiselle Ambatielos and the

piano warred with the Appassionata Sonata. They shattered i t tobits and remade i t to their heart 's desirethey unpicked i tandtried it in various styles. T h ey adde d a little touch caug ht u psomething. Finally they decided that the only thing of importancewas the loud pedal . The mysterious baby, hidden behind Heavenknows how many doors , cried with such curious pers is tence thatI had to strain my ears, wondering if it was a baby or an engine ora far-off wh istle. At du sk M arie, accomp anied by the tw o little girls ,brought me a lamp. My appearance dis turbed these charmingchildren to such an extent that they rushed up and down thecorridor in a frenzied state for half an hour afterwards, bumpingthemselves against the walls, and shrieking with derisive laughter.At eight the gong sounded for supper. I was hungry. The corridorwas filled with the warm, strong smell of cooked meat. " Well,"I tho ug ht, " at any rate, jud gin g by the smell the food m ust b ego od ." And feel ing very fr ightened I entered the dining roo m .Two rows of faces turned to watch me. M. Seguin introduced

m e, rapped on the table with the soup spoon, and the two littlegirls, im pud ent and scornful , cried " Bon soir , M ad am e," while thebaby, half washed away by his afternoon performance, emptiedhis cup of milk over his head while Madame Seguin showed me myseat. In the confusion caused by this last episode, and by his being40


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Epilog ue : Pensio n Seguincarried away by M arie, screaming a nd spitting with rage, I sat dow nnext to the Russian priest and opposite Mademoiselle Ambatielos.M. Seguin took a loaf of bread from a three-legged basket at hiselbow and carved it against his chest. Soup was servedwithvermicelli letters of the alphabet floating in it. These were lasts traws to the l i t t le Seguins ' table manners .

" M aman , Yvonne 's got mo re le tte rs than m e. " " M am an,Helene keeps taking my let ters out with her spoon." " Children !Ch ildren ! Qu iet , q u ie t! " said M adam e Seguin g ently. " N o,don' t do i t ." Helene seized Yvonne's plate and pulled i t towardsher. " Stop," said M. Seguin, who was like a rat, with spectaclesall misted over with soup steam. " Helene, leave the table. Go toMarie." Exit Helene, with her apron over her head.Soup was followed by chestnuts and brussels sprouts. All thetime the Russian priest, who wore a pale blue tie with a buttonedfrock coat and a moustache fierce as a Gogol novel, kept up a flowof conversation with Mademoiselle Ambatielos. She looked veryyoung. She was stout, with a high firm bust decorated with a sprayof artificial roses. She never ceased touching the roses or her blouseor hair, or looking at her handswith a smile trembling on hermouth and her blue eyes wide and staring. She seemed halfintoxicated with her fresh young body.

" I saw you this morning when you didn' t see me," said thepries t . " You didn' t ." " I did." " He didn' t , did he, Madame ? "Madame Seguin smiled, and carried away the chestnuts , bringingback a dish of pears." I hope you will come into the salon after dinner," she saidto m e. " W e always chat a littlew e are such a small family pa rty ."I smiled, wondering why pears should fol low chestnuts ." I must apologise for baby," she went on. " He is so nervous.Bu t he spen ds his day in a room at the other en d of the app artem entto you . You will not be troub led . Only thin k of it . H e passeswhole days banging his litt le head against the floors and walls.The doctors cannot understand i t a t a l l ." M. Seguin pushed back

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The Blue Reviewhis chair, said grace. I followed desperately into the salon. " Iexpect you have been admiring my mats," said Madame Seguin,with m ore animation than she had hitherto shown. " People alwaysimagine they are the product of my indu stry. B ut alas, no ! Theyare all made by my friend M adame K um m er, who has the pensionon the first floor."

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Paint ing Ambrose McEvoy


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P . D . L .

Two Drawings Derwent Lees

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NORMAN WILKINSONOF FOUR OAKS.1913

Design for a Wrap Norman Wilk inson


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Design for Fancy Dress Harold Squ ire


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T H E T H E A T R E : By G I L B E R T C A N N A NConvent ions : Chinese, English and FrenchT H E R E is at the D u k e of York 's Theat re an ingeniousentertainment cal led The Yellow Jacket, whichpurpor t s to be a Chinese play in the Chinese manner .Whe the r it is really Chinese or not does not mat te r .I t is sufficiently like The Mikado and Willow-patternand unlike The Let ters of John Chinaman to beaccepted by an English audience. What is impor tan t is tha t it isan entertainment which does perfectly set up its conventions forthe evening's purposes . It has no change of scene. The author ofthe piece and propr ie tor of the t roupe of actors announces theshifting of the scene" 'Tis a room in the palace of Wu Sin "" 'Tis a love-nest ," etc .and, because he believes in the t r ans formation, his words carry convict ion. All the machinery of thestage is exposed. Ther e is absolutely no deception, as the conjurersays, and the audience is t rus ted to deceive itself, and it does so.Unfor tunate ly for it-self this deception does not lead to anything,because the American authors have, l ike so many of their Englishcolleagues, been concerned more with stage trickery than withany dram atic idea. Th ey have trusted too m u c h to the noveltyand the h u m o u r s of Chinese convention and have failed to seeto it tha t the play itself, which moves through that convention,should be imaginative and cha rming . In fine, this Chinese play isinfected with the vices of the Western theatre to such an extenttha t its own virtues do not appear and the entertainment does notinvariably entertain : indeed, wi thout Mr. Frederick Ross as theChorus and Mr. Holman Clark as the Proper ty Man there wouldbe very little fun at that thea t re . The actors , as is so often the case,are left to make the best of a poor business and so it is not fromChina tha t we are to look for help , though the magnates of thetheatre will no doubt ransack the Far East and the Fur the r Wes tbefore they begin to look at h o m e for dramatic fare to lay beforethe English public .

It seems very certain that, the Court Theatre school having43


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The Blue Reviewcarried their revolution so far, and seeming impotent to bring it toa head, there will be in the main theatres of London a pleasantreaction. It is not without significance that the youngest of theactor-managers should produce the masterpiece of old Sardou, thegreatest of theatrical conjurers. " Absolutely no deception, ladiesand gentlemen. The quickness of the act ion deceives the eye."The idol of Francisque Sarcey had a diabolical ingenuity in usingthe theatre to create in his audience a sort of spurious excitement,very l ike that of "spott ing winners ." He lays a scent , crosses i t ,doubles, trails aniseed across it , brings you to running water,bears you off on a chase after nothing, gives you an evening'soccupation that has neither rhyme nor reason, impresses you inyour excitement with his marvellous ingenuity and leaves youin cold blood to realise his incurable futility. You are not askedto believe and you do no t believe in any of the c hara cters of th e play .You are not asked to set up any convention except it be a convent ion to assume the cleverness of M. Sardou and your own imbecility. Once that is granted then the play proceeds to pick its waythrough the maze. It is not elevating but it is , up to a point,amusing. Unfortunately the fashion on which that kind of thinglived is dead, for we have gained a certain degree of efficiency in afiner use of the m ach inery of the the atre . W e have mad e room in th etheatre, if not for beauty, at least for an idea or two. Worst of all(for Sardou and Sarcey) we have begun to think our theatre inLondon superior to the theatre of Paris . We are beginning to wantto use our own conventions and to use them to some purpose, or ,again, we are inclined to make a convention of the absence ofconventions and to say, Be hanged to action, give us character.M r. Arnold Benn ett , for instance, in T h e G reat Adv entur e, has themost fantastical and flimsy excuse for setting the machinery of thetheatre in m otion. H e has a wildly impro bable s tory which is hardlyat all susceptible of exposition in term s of dra m a, bu t his interest iscentred in his two characters of the painter and Janet Cannot, andby these he justifies himself of the d em and he makes on our tim e

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T h e T h e a t r eand pockets (I always pay for my seat in case I may have in allgood faith to insult author and manager). He says with his admirable com mo n sense : " I can enterta in you in m y own way.I can provide admirable opportunities for actors and actresses."Agreed. All the same, the pleasure that is to be got in the theatrefrom the revelation of character in dramatic action is keener and,more profitable than that which is to be got from the leisurely and,so to speak, extrinsic exposition of character for its own sake.It is all a matter of convention, and I find that we have, after all,something to learn from the Chinese.

Let me add that we have nothing at all to learn from theJapanese of Melchior Lengyel in Typhoon, which is pure but notvery competent Sardou. In spite of all the industry and ingenuitythat have gone to the making of the play and its production, nosufficient con ven tion is set u p . T h e action of the play is no t affectedby the hero's being a Japanese, and the over-elaborate colouring ofthe Japanese e lement jars with the thread-bare French textures ofthe piece. All the labour to induce conviction of something that isfundamentally untrue and clearly irrelevant to the action producesexhaustion and a sort of irritation to which the excitement of theeffective theatrical scenes come as such a relief that many peoplewill believe that Typhoon is a tolerable play. It is not nearly sogood as Diplomacy.

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F I C T I O N By H U G H W A L P O L EA New Book by Charles Marriot tO D E R N English cri t ic ism, a l lowing as i t does tha tPo etry and Essay and Dra m a are fit subjects for itsm ost serious attentio n, neverth eless denies th e novelsimilar privileges : the modern novel, i t gives us tounders tan d , i s , wh en popular , bad , and whe nunpopular pretentious, and behind this generalprinc iple there lurks a conviction t ha t the art of selection is inmodern fiction an impossible thing and that, at any rate, evenwh en a selection is m ade, nobo dy cares. T h e endeavo ur inEngland to notice every novel that is published must lead tocertain disaster, and the fact that the novel about which mostpeop le wish to read notices is, as a rule , the novel a bou t w hichthere is the least, critically, to be said, adds to the difficulties.Finally, i t is beyond question true that the general level of Englishfiction is , at the present moment, high, and this very quanti ty ofadequate work adds to the confusion of the critic 's duties.

The critic, confronted with novel after novel that would, withits cleverness and ability, have surprised the forties and fifties intoamazed a ppla use, has, nevertheless, to adm it that th e passage ofthese same volumes throu gh this mod ern world is swift andinglorious, three months being, on the whole , their a l lot ted spanof life. He is then forced to conclude that the standard of theEnglish novel is higher in 1913 than it was in 1850 ; then why, ifthat be the case, does no novel published to-day seem assured ofany im mo rtality ? In s ho rt, by wh at stand ards is the critic of to-da yto arrange his rewards and penalties ?

The first and immediate necessity, if one is to deal in anyordered fashion with the two thousand novels hurled annually atthe head of an amiably indulgent public, is the necessity of selection, and this selection must be made in accordance with certainrules, and these rules must come immediately from one's owndirect que stion, W hat do I person ally want from the novel ? Itm ay be taken for gran ted tha t wh at I personally wa nt is in no way

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Fictionthe same thing as wha t M r. S or M r. M require , bu t ,allow them to formulate their rules and proceed to their individualjudg m ents , and compare those judg m ents wi th my own, then ,at any rate, from the thre e cond itions of selection, some interestingdefinition may be gathered.

The qualities, then, that I require of the modern novel are aconviction of personality, a knowledge of life and a love of formand, of these, I believe the first to be the most essential. Thenovelist of to-day is confronted with a thousand examples of hisart, whereas the novelist of a hundred years ago had the undiscovered world before him ; again and again, to-day, we are confronted with the most admirable and lifelike imitations of otherpeople's masterpieces and these imitations may, critically, bedismissed at once : a second Fielding, a second Meredith, even asecond A rno ld B enn ett is of less value to us tha n a first M ary Bro w nor a genuine James Robinson.

It is , however, one of the most encouraging signs for the believer in the health and strength of the English novel of thetwentieth century that so many evidences of this same individualityare to be found ; during the months of the present year we havehad M r. Cannan 's " Rou nd the C orne r , " M r. Marr io t t' s " Catfish," M r s . Belloc Lowndes ' " Studies in Love and Terror," MissM eynell 's " Lo t Bar row ," Miss May Sinclair 's " Com bined M az e,"and M r. Oliver O nio n's " D eb it A cc ou nt," and in all of thesepersonality, knowledge of life and sense of form are (in variousdegrees) to be discovered ; in all these novels there is to be foundan intellectual courage and a determined honesty that is beyondall praise.Although Mr. Cannan may owe something to the greatest of

modern English novels , " The Way of All Flesh," Miss Sinclairsomething to Mr. Hoopdriver and Mr. Lewisham, and MissMeynell something to Jane Austen, there is evidence of enoughindividuality here to support the optimists and confound the fainthearted, but , of them all , Mr. Charles Marriot t has in " The47 E


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The Blue ReviewCatfish " (Hurst and Blackett, 6s.) produced the outs tanding novelof the pres ent year, and it is in " T h e Catfish " tha t I find the m ostcomplete fulfilment of my three essentials. If at the present timethe stan dar d of criticism had been less confused, th e au tho r of " T h eC olu m n," " Gen evra ," " T he W ondrous W ife ," and " Now ! "would have been rewarded with acclamation, but a certain almostfrigid d istinction, a deter m inatio n to advance no single step tow ardsth e coloured appre ciations of the pub lic lest any atom of perso nalityshould be sacrificed, have hindered his popularity, and the poetryof " Genevra " and "

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