that of his satanic majesty, and Arthur Tollington sincerely desired that the past could be obliterated. He had gone so far as to renounce all that he thought most objectionable in his proceedings, before his eyes fell on Charlotte Thirlwell's beautiful face as she sat alone on one of the seats in the Casino at Spa-quite unconscious of the conquest she had made-waiting for her mother, who played at roulette at that time, and so did not remark the handsome Mr. Tollington, who sometimes formed one of the set that thronged round the trente et quarante table. He had followed Mrs. Thirlwell and her daughter to Wiesbaden and Homburg, though but for the incident of the lost bracelet he would probably have made there no further advances towards more intimate acquaintance. Even then he had hesitated to take advantage of the opportunity thus afforded him. For as Tollington's love for Charlotte increased, the more frequently did he review the circumstances of his past life, which placed, as he too well knew, such a barrier between him and her, that it restrained him from seeking to gain the pure maidenly affections of the fair girl whom he had made the idol of his heart. Then, deep melancholy crept over him, or some sudden depression that did not escape even Mrs. Thirlwell's observation, though she was far from guessing the true cause of it. Yet Tollington could not be said to repent of the past. He was out of humour with fate, of which he thought himself the sport and the victim, for it was his fancy to win the love of Charlotte Thirlwell not merely as a man of fortune but as one also of high and unblemished character. But conscience, whose voice he had not heard for a very long time, now whispered to him audibly and persistently that deep dishonour attached to him and the means by which he had so rapidly attained to wealth. He tried to console himself with the reflection that he was but one of many who had walked in crooked paths, and met with success that had been denied to those who had pursued an honest career. "And the world," he said, "by its infatuated worship of wealth, and its treatment of poverty as the worst of crimes, encouraged dishonesty and vice. Honesty, like virtue, was no doubt a very good thing, and like virtue was in some way its own reward, yet too frequently it brought no grist to the mill." But it was a very respectable quality, and Tollington himself had often, from his respect for it, relieved the distress of its needy and unfortunate possessors. For if he had not always been strictly just he had always been very generous, while he had met with men who were, doubtless, unimpeachably just, and, equally doubtless, very close-fisted and hard-hearted. But as regarded his past transactions there was little chance of March-VOL. III. NO. XV. Р an exposé. And his great discretion, tact, and energy had fully secured his present enviable position; yet certain vague doubts and qualms of conscience made him resolve that rather than she should be included in the disgrace of any mischance that by a bare possibility might befal him, he would renounce the hopes he had formed of winning her love, "he would see her no more!" And this was his intention-firm intention, he thought-when he wrote to Mrs. Thirlwell; but he wavered in it even as the train bore him away from Homburg, and gave it up entirely when, two days after, he by chance saw Charlotte leaving the hotel at Frankfort with her mother. "Why," he argued, mentally, "should he make his own misery by affixing a stigma on himself that the world had not dared to put on his character? Why should he "forego the happiness he so longed for without an effort to grasp it? He would be worthy of it, too; for the future should find him frequenting only the straight path of honour. Love, that had wrought this change in him, should henceforth be his guiding star." And Tollington could well afford to follow the impulses of his now virtuous state of mind, having a snug, well-secured income of not less than twelve thousand pounds a year. It was decided, then; "he would follow his beloved; he would try to win her heart. He knew that her foolish mother was ready to sacrifice her at any moment on the altar of Mammon; but it was from herself, not from her mother, he would seek to know his fate." And Tollington, from a despairing mood, at once soared to a hopeful one. "He might yet live with her a happy, blameless life;" in the enjoyment, of course, of all the refinements, elegancies, and luxuries with which it was in his power to surround the beautiful bride of his choice. (To be continued.) THE POEMS OF THOMAS GORDON HAKE.* THE true poet will be infallibly attracted by the themes with which Nature has rendered him most competent to deal. Such a statement may seem to partake of the quality of a truism. When, however, it is borne in mind that critics are constantly alleging a mistaken choice of subject-matter as a grave charge against poets undeniably endowed with the gift of song, the statement will not be regarded as unimportant. This critical habit is doubtless not so much a besetting sin with the reviewers of to-day as it was with those who sat in the judgment seat during the early period of the Edinburgh and Quarterly. There are, however, those still among us who affect to act the part of midwife to the poetic intellect. In such a case the critic mistakes his functions. The complaint of poetry misapplied has been most frequently made concerning those who have elected to paint external Nature in her most familiar aspects, and who seek in the humbler walks of life for the characters of their poems. Jeffrey, who was at once the most pompous and least competent of celebrated critics, sneered at Wordsworth because he chose to write about "the wife of an unprosperous weaver a servant-girl with her natural child-a parish pauper, and one or two other personages of equal rank and dignity." His lordship could be finely ironical when he chose, and wondered very much how any gentleman accustomed to move in select circles could take an interest in the joys and sorrows of lowly and consequently uninteresting individuals. We are less tolerant of such nonsense now-a-days, but the practice of our more popular poets, and the occasionally expressed opinion of well-known reviewers, show that there is still a feeling prevalent against the poetic treatment of tales of humble life, or versified description of familiar scenery. They find it hard to believe-although the fact has been actually proved to us that a Mountain Daisy is as interesting a subject for poetic treatment as a Giaour; that Highland Mary possesses a charm not less potent than that of The Witch of Atlas; that the story of a Cripple or a Blind Boy may touch the finest chords in our nature as readily as an epic with kings for its characters. There will be found here and there a mind so constituted or so warped that it can in no degree sympathise with the quiet humours of * Parables and Tales. By Thomas Gordon Hake. With Illustrations. By Arthur Hughes. London: Chapman and Hall. 1872. humble life, or gain a pleasure in gazing at second hand on meadow, or stream, or village street. A primrose by a river's brim With the great majority of men, however, it is different, and so it happens that the most widely-known poems in existence are simple ⚫ narratives of simple folk. The author of the present volume has succeeded in placing before us a series of pictures, which for fidelity and finish we believe to be unsurpassed in our time. He finds his characters on village streets-in woodland glades-by moaning sea-coasts—in reeking city lanes. They are for the most part in scrrow, finding solace on the bosom of Nature. The most noticeable features in the poems are simplicity of manner, beauty of subject, a special power of seizing and describing scenery, and a quick and tender sympathy with human suffering. These qualities appear on the surface. But underneath the narrative runs a vein of mingled humour and pathos, which we would find it difficult to describe in words. It is a flavour to be enjoyed, but it defies definition. As illustrating all the qualities which we have mentioned as displayed in these poems, let us take "The Blind Boy," not because it is the best perhaps-for the merit of the poems is very equal-but because we like it best. In this, as in all the tales, the poet first describes the scenery surrounding the characters in his little drama. There is a special fitness in the adoption of this plan in the case of "The Blind Boy." Our own feelings of pleasure are aroused as we gaze. Everything appeals to the eye. In dark ascent the pine-clad hills Repose on heaven their rocky crest, Lit by the flash of falling rills That in the valley seek for rest, Chafing in rainbow-spray when thrust Clouds folded round the topmost peaks By these opening cliffs and gorges under the folded clouds and early sea-light move two figures-brother and sister wandering side by side. But to the boy the grandeur and beauty have existence only through the descriptions of his sister; he is blind. At early morn embraced by her And paint his visions from her lip. Her eyes are bright-his now are blind; The sister seeks the brother's mind. The little wanderers move gently by river-side and wooded shore, he recording each sound, and questioning her about each sight; she tenderly guiding his footsteps, and answering his queries. It is the most charming of dialogues. The doubts and difficulties of the boy dispelled by the simple but sufficient explanations of the girl. His hand in hers she walks along, And leads him to the river's brink, Closing her eyes with him to think; Sings not at eventide the lark? We can picture the innocent wonderment of the blind boy's face giving way to an expression of smiling satisfaction, as one by one the puzzles of an unseen universe are solved for him. Ă mortal receiving from angelic lips some account of mysteries in another world would not form a theme more worthy of the poet. The touch with which the narrative closes is exquisite: While they return, the dwelling near, One word must yet the sister say; |