domestic pet is the king of the cats, "if he is really the royal personage, he will immediately speak out and declare who he is; and, perhaps, at the same time, tell you some very disagreeable truths about yourself, not at all pleasant to have discussed by the house cat." Here is an inimitable touch, about cat nature, and human nature, too. A certain cat was watching his mistress at her embroidery, and fell into a reverie: "the condition of human creatures is frightful; their minds are ever given to sewing of canvas, playing with dolls, or some such silly employment; their thoughts are not turned to good works, such as providing suitable food for cats. What will become of them hereafter!"

My space will not allow me to take more extracts from Lady Wilde's charming book. The Irish regard animals, and the whole world of nature, as something enchanted, something on a level with man, and full of sympathy with him; at the same time they fill the spiritual world with exquisite and graceful fairy forms and presences. As we read of these reflections of the Celtic nature, we realize, with M. Renan, that c'est l'extrème douceur de mœurs qui y respire: such exquisite and delicate fancies can only be produced by a delicate and exquisite people. It is for this reason that these Ancient Legends of Ireland are such profitable reading for us. We are all, possibly, too much inclined to think with Lord Tennyson, in his new Locksley Hall:

"Celtic Demos rose a Demon, shriek'd and slaked the light with blood."

Those who may be tempted to judge the Irish harshly, to think unkindly of the Celtic nature, as Lord Tennyson thinks, should remember that we, and not the Celts, are responsible for the longest crime in history, and for all that has resulted from it. For my own

part, I wonder, not at Irish violence, but at the singular gentleness of disposition which the Irish exhibit, at the extreme moderation of their demands. Every vessel, says Epictetus, has two handles, by one of which it can be carried, and by the other it cannot; he means that every subject has its good, its profitable aspect. And surely we have all dwelt long enough on what we consider to be the bad aspect of the Irish; let us, then, with gratitude, accept Lady Wilde's good and charming aspect of them, and observe it to our lasting profit. Nothing, really, could profit us more than that the Irish should be free to develop their high gifts in their own way; except that they should communicate a large share of them to us. We have gifts of our own, as a race, the long roll of our poets proclaims them; but we should be all the better for a vast infusion of Celtism. This is the hour of the Celts in politics; they have us by the throat; and may their grip never be loosened till they have forced us into the path of justice and lucidity. We are on the eve, not of a Celtic Renaissance, but of a Celtic Resurrection. The Celts' immortal youth seems destined to vanquish even the despotism of facts. Perhaps the hour of the Celts is coming in Art, too; it may be the function of their immortal youth, their eternal freshness, to electrify our too serious Germanic old age. He will be the most winning artist, especially will he be the most winning poet, who can learn how to fascinate our over-taught, thought-wearied generation with the young-eyed freshness, the entrancing rapture of Celtic Naturalism. Never was it more needful for all artists to remember that he who would win mankind must fascinate it, he who would fascinate it must be winning. A study of Lady Wilde's books, or indeed of any works which deal fairly with the Celts, brings out their fascination and winningness, their beautiful simplicity of nature. And these quali

ties of fascination, charm, lightness, and direct simplicity are not the distinguishing notes of contemporary work in any sphere of English art. Our artists, and all of us who are not artists, should gaze long and earnestly into fairyland through Lady Wilde's charm'd magic

FOR DAISY.

WHY are you fair? Is it because we know

Your beauty stays but for another hour? Why are you sweet? Is it because you show Even in the bud the blasting of the flow'r? Is it that we,

Already in the mind,

Too surely see

The thoughtless, ruthless hurry of the wind
Scatter the petals of that perfect rose.

Why are you sad? Is it because our kisses,

That were so sweet in kissing, now are past; But are not all things swift to pass as this is Which we desire to last?

Being too happy we may not abide

Within the happiness that we possess,
But needs are swept on by the ceaseless tide
Of Life's unwisdom, and of our distress;

As if to all this crowd of ecstasies

The present close

Were beauty faded, and deceivèd trust,

Locks that no hands may braid, dull listless eyes,

Eyes that have wept their lustre into dust,—

Who knows?

HERBERT P. HORNE.

NESCIO QUÆ NUGARUM.

No. IV.

CAROLS FROM THE COAL-FIELDS: AND OTHER

SONGS AND BALLADS.

BY JOSEPH SKIPSEY.

Or the many volumes of verse lately published, one of the few worthy of regard is that containing Mr. Skipsey's collected poems. As yet he certainly has not gained the attention which he deserves; for he is a true poet, and all true work, great or small, demands the most conscientious and discriminating study that we are able to give it. In the present instance we must be pre-eminently discriminating, for we cannot read a dozen pages of his book and not recall to mind what our most discriminating living critic said of Wordsworth :-"Work altogether inferior, work quite uninspired, flat and dull, is produced by him with evident unconsciousness of its defects, and he presents it to us with the same faith and seriousness as his best work." And not only quite uninspired, but quite lamentable work does Mr. Skipsey present to us with the same faith and seriousness as his best work. We read this poem and are delighted :

"The wind comes from the west to-night;

So sweetly down the lane he bloweth
Upon my lips, with pure delight,

From head to foot my body gloweth.

"Where did the wind, the magic find

To charm me thus? say, heart that knoweth!

'Within a rose on which he blows

Before upon thy lips he bloweth !""

And then, turning the leaf, we come upon this :

:

"She snapt her fingers, on her heel,

Her sweet boot-heel-"

But perhaps not a little of this inequality comes from the way in which Mr. Skipsey is led, by influences the most opposite, into mere imitation. Blake, Rossetti, the present Anatomists of souls, and occasionally even Burns and his own Northumbrian Folk-Songs