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frains aim at reflecting a pathos of mere sentiment that is sometimes almost tearful. There is a kind of wail in Tennyson's “Enone," where the burden of"O Mother Ida, many-fountained Ida, Dear Mother Ida, hearken ere I die." is repeated (to the horror of the magazine critics of '33, who thought it was done to fill up space) not far short of twenty times. The effect here is partly to enhance the poem's wonderful musical sweetness, which leaves so strong a flavor in the memory that many who know Tennyson well will answer to an unlooked for question that "(Enone" is in rhyme; but partly the effect is of a recurring cry that fills the whole poem with the sound of weeping. For when people weep they do repeat themselves; a word or a phrase comes back and back when sobbing woman tells her woe; and repentant children are ever tautological.

The Latin refrain was a fashion of the fifteenth century. Dunbar had a fondness for it; Dunbar that was trebly a Latinist-Scotsman, Franciscan, courtier-and he seems to use the Latin mostly for its associations with Church singing. The delightful poem that begins: *Rorate coeli desuper! Hevins, distil your balmy schouris!" ends each verse with the Latin line:

"Et nobis puer natus est."

One hears the organ there. A new
music breaks in with the refrain, as in
Tennyson's great ode the choir comes
in upon “Ashes to Ashes, Dust to
Dust." It is the device that Shelley
uses in the "Hymn of Pan,” for there,
too, a new music returns with the re-
frain.
"From the forests and highlands

We come, we come;
From the river-girt islands

Where loud waves are dumb,
Listening to my sweet pipings.

Liquid Peneus was flowing,
And all dark Tempe lay
On Pelion's shadow outgrowing

The light of the dying day, Speeded by my sweet pipings." Pan is singing aloud to a rippling tune, and suddenly, as the rhythm changes, the pipe seems to break in apon the human voice.

It may be that there is overmuch guess-work in all this. Perhaps there is no such change of music in the "Hymn of Pan," and what one fancy acknowledges another may deny. To one a refrain seems charged with tears which to another rings mechanical; some hear the pipe where others still liear the singer's voice, and to some all such imaginings are foolishness. But they say that no two minds read a musician's thought alike, and yet music, ill or well interpreted, is still a kindly thing in a grim world.

J. F. R.

The Spectator.

BOOKS AND AUTHORS

The "Royal Women" who are the :subjects of Mary Ridpath-Mann's volume bearing that title are Queen Elizabeth, Mary Queen of Scots, Marie An. toinette and the Empress Josephine. She writes of them, not merely as great figures in history, but as women whose lives were touched with romance and tinged with tragedy. Her

chapters retain the directness and picturesqueness of the lecture-form in which they were prepared. They are vivid pictures of the royal women named and of the times in which they lived. A. C. McClurg & Co.

The Montana cowboy, according to Mr. B. M. Bower, the author of "The

are

Uphill Climb," and Mr. Charles M. measure of either is meted to him; Russell, who gives the book four good and then just as he discovers that the illustrations, uses the dialect popularly master power in man's life is loving attributed to his species in the United unselfishness, comes a summons from States, and wears clothes even more the King Himself, and Jerry leaves eccentric; these his invariable his few friends and goes away to that traits, but on the question of whiskey, Kingdom where he will always be one cowboy differs as widely from an- understood. The soft vagueness with other as if his vocation were of the which the story is told is consistently least adventurous sort, and Mr. Bowers maintained, and the book is a charmpleases to select a hero with a congeni- ing bit of romance, Doubleday Page tal weakness for whiskey. As he is an & Co. uncommonly good fighter, this is a serious matter both for his friends and Elsie Singmaster's "Gettysburg" for his enemies, sometimes for all his (Houghton Mifflin Co.) is accurately neighbors, and always for the pretty described in the sub-title as "Stories of girl who loves him, and the chronicle of the Red Harvest and the Aftermath." his self-cure is very lively reading, be- All of the nine stories in the book resides being a good tempepsince tract, late to the great battle, the fiftieth anand a truthful study of the inebriate. niversary of which has just been comThe equestrian incidents, of the book memorated, and to its monuments and are very vivid, and the mystery pervad- memories. The first gives a vivid picing the whole provides a thoroughly ture of what that fateful first of July good centre of actiog Little, Brown meant to the people of the town, upon & Co.

whom the horrors of war fell unex

pectedly; in the last we see Mary Gentle, harmless eccentricity coup- Bowman, one of those who, dazed with led with penetrating comprehension of dread, witnessed the battle, and from all manner of beauty makes a combi- whose home her husband went out to nation which nobody expects often to bear his share in it, sitting on her porch, encounter in fiction, inasmuch as but after nearly fifty years of widowhood, one Charles Lamb has appeared in all her memories of that day as vivid as the English-writing nations; and Roy ever. Between are the stories of ParRolfe Gilson, in attempting to write sons the coward, who became a hero; the history of an Elia of this Century, of Haskell, whose quick courage in born and reared in the United States, rallying the wavering Union lines did gives his readers an original creation, so much to save the day; of Lincoln's and calls it "The Legend of Jerry speech on the battlefield in November Ladd." There are but twelve chapters 1863; of the blind gunner Criswell, who in his little book, but nothing hitherto went back to the battlefield, after the written by him is as striking, or as monument had been erected, only to find 'permanent in its impressive quality. that his own name had been omitted One may forget many heroes, brave, from the bronze plate where it should dashing, studious, or pious, but one have been inscribed with the others; can hardly forget Jerry. One may call of the disappointment and ultimate him fool, poet, idealist, or dreamer, triumph of Billy Gude the guide; and but one

will remember him. He other pathetic incidents of the battle comes to town to win recognition and or its commemorations. There are four bread and butter, and but stinted illustrations by different artists.

BUVINT: BDRIBS

VOLONE LX.

FROM BBGIMNING

No. 8602 July 19, 1913

{

IV.

CONTENTS 1. The Problem of Poverty. By J. A. R. Marriott.

NINETEENTH CENTURY AND AFTER 131 11. Mr. Masefield's Poetry. By Gilbert Thomas.

FOBTNIGHTLY REVIEW 141 II. Color-Blind. Chapter XII. By Alice Perrin. (To be continued.)

TIMES 149 The Trade in Armaments. By J. F. Williams.

CONTEMPORARY REVIEW 156 V. Mankind and the Jungle. By Sir Hugh Clifford, K.C.M.G.

BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE 160 The New Matron. By Margaret Sherwood.

CORNHILL MAGAZINE 166 VII. George Wyndham.

SATURDAY REVIEW 176 VIII. Another Anglo-American Flasco? By Sydney Brooks. OUTLOOK 178 IX. Home Rule-War or Peace?

NATION 180 X. Mr. Punch's Didactic Novels. By A.A.M.

PUNO: 182 XI. Moral Intoxicants.

SPROTATOR 184 XII. A Morning Adventure By Filson Young, SATURDAY REVIEW 187

A PAGE OF VERSE XIII. Avernus. By Knight-Adkin.

SPEOTATOR 130 XIV. A Man's Prayer. By T. Wemyss Reid. WESTMINSTER GAZDTTE 130 BOOKS AND AUTHORS.

189

VI.

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AVERNUS.

The chains in whose fetters our own

hands have bound them, As the wild wind whistles through

The dearly beloved! who were free woodland spaces,

when we found them! Whirling the leaves into aimless races, To cast them forth into desolate Nothing is here that the priests would

have told us, places,

No worm to gnaw us, no flame to en

fold us, As the red sparks spin from the breath of the blower,

But the comfortless Wisdom of Death

to hold us: Flying and flickering higher or lower, Or the thin spray flits from the oar of To hold us, silent and reft of all power, the rower,

Waiting in idleness hour by hour,

Till the seeds we planted have come So do we, torn from the world of our

to flower. knowing,

Knight-Adkin. Dazed and forlorn with the wrench of The Spectator.

our going, Eddy and whirl like water flowing.

A MAN'S PRAYER. Flitting and passing, but ever return- If plunging winds and beating rain ing

Call me to battle, but in vain, Back to the hearts where our home- Or if I am afraid to rise fires were burning,

And bear a burden of grey skies,— Read we the lesson that's writ for our Then to my sick heart requiem give, learning.

I am too poor a thing to live.

If hands of mine forget to pray Now that the night and the silence en- And torn feet fear a stony way,

My heart grow weary of the quest Now that the bonds of eternity hold And long for an untimely rest,

Then cross my hands and let me be, All that we did ere the darkness en- Life is too fierce and sweet for me. rolled us,

If open lands and windy skies

Wake not new wonders in mine eyes, All that we did when the red blood Or through the goodly world I go was running,

And love no friend and hate no foe,When our hands held their grip and Then, though my destined days our brains kept their cunning,

abound, When evil or good were for taking or Let me be lying underground. shunning,

If, while I draw exulting breath,

I seek to run away from Death, We must watch blossoming hour by And do not welcome him, nor strive hour,

With him to keep my soul alive,From the seed to the bud, from the Then, in that hour, may Death strike bud to the flower

deep, Wisdom is ours now, but nevermore For I am only fit for sleep. power!

But while I love the wind that

blows,

And scent a mystery in a rose, Dim. ineffectual, vague, unavailing,

and Emptily grasping

voicelessly Or while my torn feet do not tire, wailing,

And heart of mine seeks high desire,Bound, in a rudderless ship we are Then, though a spectre, gaunt and

wan, sailing,

God, give me strength to struggle on.

T. Wemyss Reid. Watching the souls that we loved-and

The Westminster Gazette. around them

fold us,

us,

THE PROBLEM OF POVERTY.

"The crime of the poor is their pov- sections of society to an extent which erty.” To this dogma there has always may hardly be credited by those who been a large measure of subscription. have not shared the opportunities of We are now called upon to subscribe the present writer. At the root of much to a complimentary dogma: "The crime of the prevailing discontent is to be of the wealthy is their wealth.” For found the idea, sometimes only half years past the platforms of Hyde Park formulated and not always articulate, have re-echoed the cry that the first that the wealth of the relatively few step towards the amelioration of the is responsible for the poverty of the lot of the poor must be the impover- many. ishment of the rich. The superior per- Has the proposition thus bluntly son may deem the commonplaces of enunciated any basis of justification Socialist oratory unworthy of serious either in economic theory or in historattention. For my own part I have ical fact? The question is one of adalways questioned the wisdom of this mitted significance. In the following attitude, and few, I think, will be pre- pages I attempt an answer. pared to maintain it when one of those commonplaces is adopted as the text

I. of a discussion in this Review; least of Is it true that, as a matter of historall, when the preacher is the Rev. S. A ical fact, the wealth of the wealthy is Barnett, Canon of Westminster. Canon the root-cause of the poverty of the Barnett has earned the right to dis- poor? cuss such problems by many years of The existing "capitalistic" system, devoted labor in the service of the against which so many hard things are poor of East London. His mere word said, is not much more than one huncarries the weight of long experience. dred years old, and it is during that No proposition endorsed by him can be same period that “modern England," carelessly regarded or lightly dis- with its peculiar problems—social and missed. If, therefore, I venture to economic— has come into being. Who subject to criticism the main thesis of has not been captivated by the idyllic his contribution to the February num- pictures of the pre-capitalistic era ber of this Review, it will, I trust, be which Socialistic writers are wont to understood that such criticism is of- draw:the picture of the stout English fered with unfeigned diffidence, and yeoman, hopelessly conservative in his mainly out of regard for the high au- agricultural methods, possessing neither thority of the writer and for the enterprise, nor capital, nor scientific deference naturally conceded to his knowledge, but giving to the smiling opinions.

countryside an aspect of contentment, "If," says Canon Barnett, “the poor if not of opulence; of manufacturing are to become richer the rich must be- industry carried on mainly on the selfcome poorer.” This notion is, as we have sufficing system—for use rather than seen, by no means peculiar to Canon for profit and exchange: master, jourBarnett; but the point which I am neyman, and apprentice working hapanxious to emphasize is that it has pily, side by side, at the loom or in the captured the imagination of certain forge, united by bonds of genuine hu

man affection, living the same life, 1. "Our Prosent Discontonts.” The Living Ago. Mar. 29, 1913.

absorbed in the same interests? The

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