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twilight gloom; nor may any outsider guess what goes on there. But the windows of this house of revelry were out, for coolness sake; and also, perhaps, that the youth of Goa might delight itself in the nimble action of the dancers.

Shortly before midnight I left Panjim by the Shastri: going on board her in good time, to get things made straight on the upper deck for a muchneeded sleep, when she should have cast off and stood out to sea. But those evil beasts, which had found me such good eating ashore, must surely have sent out cards to all the élite of their Goan friends for a final banquet in my honor. When nobody seemed looking, I stole aft, stripped all my things off, and turning them inside out, banged them frantically against the taffrail. Even so, however, some few of the diners-out clung manfully to those fluttering rags; and, with appetites whetted by danger, and spirits unimpaired by loss of friends, returned lustily to the feast, when I had returned to my clothes. Thanks to the polite attention of these unbidden guests I was kept awake till after six bells in the middle watch (3 A. M.): and a strongminded steward shaking me up for coffee at sunrise, I can scarcely be accused of having overslept myself. Surely my visit to the shrine of St. Francis had not been without its manifest miracle of grace; for never once did I curse those accursed beasts, not even in my heart!

All next day we kept putting into lovely creeks and inlets, each with its enormous fort of crumbling ruin. Those famous forts and Genoese towers in the Dardanelles and Bosphorus are mere pigmies set side by side with these of the Malabar coast of India. At night the stars were unspeakably brilliant. From all the greater of such as rode low, came rays of steady light across the oily sea to kiss our vessel's side.

From 9 P.M. I slept till nearly 11 P.M., when the cries of a lusty child woke me up. This abominable black roared the night away with such unflagging zeal that all hope of further

sleep had to be given up, and I passed the time as best I could, pacing up and down, smoking, and watching the lightning. If I could once have come to close quarters with that young person, she should have had handsome reason for her squalls. As it was, she had none. It was neither pain nor grief which bade her moan, but simply that she was (like Kirke White) "all alone." Restless in a novel situation and vexed at the inattention of her slumbering family, this pernicious imp had evidently said, in its desperately wicked heart, "If I can't sleep myself, I'll take devilish good care nobody else shall." And nobly it kept its word; fulfilling a bad intention to the letter! I got pretty close up once, but bodies packed so tight that I could find no interstice of deck, defrauded me of my revenge, when all but within reach. Thus, though I saw the little fiend well enough-stark naked, but for a woman's poke bonnet on; and squirming like an eel above her prostrate kith and kin-I might by no means come at her, not even with the sharp ferule of my stick.

Making fast at the Carnac Bunder, just as the great glory of the day sprang from behind a lofty Ghât, I hailed a boat, and went aboard our own steamer. But for the fleas of Goa and the squalling brat of Shastri, I would have made a push for Baroda at once. As it was, want of sleep was turning to insomnia; and though I stayed quietly on board for two whole days, not one wink of sleep could I get by hook or by crook.

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Finding they received larger orders than they could cope with, they ingenuously commenced shipping short weight, and exported eighteen pounds of raisins in boxes which, by rights, should contain twenty-two, and eighteen pounds of more or less rubbish at that. Naturally, this state of things could not last. Malaga fruit got a bad name in the world's markets, and similar raisins began to be grown elsewhere. Denia (near Valencia), which previously only produced the common pudding raisin, took to growing the dessert fruit. Australia also started, and finally California became the worst competitor of all. So that, by the time the Malagueños came to the conclusion -based on experience, not on innate morality-that honesty is the best policy, they found that it was too late. The second reason for the decrease is the competition caused by the canning of fresh fruit in Canada and the United States. Raisins used to be nearly the only dessert obtainable in England in the early months of the year; now there are so many kinds of preserved fruit that they are all but forgotten.

For all that, the Malaga district is busy enough in autumn. Without describing the production of raisins too minutely, we may say that when the grapes-white, not black, as many people imagine-are ripe at the end of August or the beginning of September, they are spread out in the sun on the drying grounds (paseros) attached to each farm. The great question then is for them to get sufficient sunshine; if, as occasionally happens at that time of year, the sky is overcast, they have to be dried by means of ovens, to their very great detriment. Once sufficiently cured, they are packed in boxes, the loose raisins by themselves, the others according to the beauty and size of the bunches and the fruit. The finest are arranged in artificial bunches with the most exquisite skill, and a clever laborer can only prepare one or two of

these boxes in a day. From the farms they are transported on donkeys to the town, and there stored in warehouses, whence they are sold to the merchants for shipment abroad. Perhaps the most curious fact connected with them is that, beyond the shippers, nobody appears to make a penny out of the fruit. The farmer grows his crop at a steady deficit, the warehouseman in town has generally advanced more money to the farmer than he ever gets back; while the dealer, be it in England, America, or on the Continent, simply buys raisins because his customers for more profitable articles expect him to keep them in stock against an occasional order.

As may be imagined, many farmers have already abandoned raisins in despair. A worthy Colonial, who came to Malaga with a view to learning something about their cultivation, and applying his knowledge in Australia, was thereby led to write a pamphlet, showing how fine an opening was offered to English farmers in Spain. Land and vines were to be had for a song. All they had to do was to go south, apply their knowledge and superior intelligence to raisin growing, and after a few years return to England with their fortunes made. The pamphlet was cordially received by Foreign Office officials as wise as its author, and was immediately published by government. Fortunately, it attracted but little attention. Still, the writer is acquainted with one young Englishman who eagerly embraced the scheme, only to discover, on his arrival in Malaga, what every one there already knewnamely, that Spanish farmers understood more about raisins than he, the Englishman, would learn in a lifetime, and secondly, that wheat-growing in England meant a gold-mine compared to fruit-farming in Spain. So, wisely desisting from his project, he took to growing vegetables for the English market instead, and was rewarded by dropping scarcely half the money he would have lost had he gone in for raisins. This, considering the present state of agriculture in Spain, may be called a highly creditable result.

Sixth Series,
Volume XII.

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No. 2731.-November 7, 1896.

From Beginning,
Vol. CCXI.

CONTENTS.

I. WILLIAM MORRIS'S POEMS. By A. Lang, Longman's Magazine,
II. RUSSIA'S STRENGTH. By

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VIII. A "FIDGETY" QUESTION IN SPELLING.
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IX. THE CONFIDENCES OF A SOCIETY POET,
X. A PERSIAN MIRACLE PLAY. By M.
Pechell,
XI. NAPOLEON'S VOYAGE TO ST. HELENA,
XII. WILLIAM MORRIS. By H. Buxton For-
man,

XIII. GOLDSMITH'S CONVERSATION,

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THE LIVING AGE COMPANY, BOSTON.

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"THE EUROPEAN POWERS."
Powers? Hard by the Golden Horn
Those satyr lips, as cold as cruel,
Must curl in sly, sardonic scorn!
Will nothing serve as kindling fuel
To fire the chilly "Christian" heart,
Or move from apathetic meekness
The timid thralls of mode and mart?
Powers? What then is craven weak-
ness?

From Thames to Neva runs all blood
As icily as the pole-world frozen?
Kaisers and czars, in fulsome mood,

May dub each other "Christian cousin," War lord, or knightly emperor;

And he, the Unspeakable, sits smiling At "Christian Powers," of spirit poor, Who waste in mutual reviling The black-winged hours, like birds of prey Full gorged with carrion, vulture, raven, Flapping in the full light of day,

Fearless of Christian kings turned craven!

What marvel carrion-fowls are bold

When full-armed war lords pale and

palter,

Like angry spinsters chide and scold,

But at "the name or action" falter? Meanwhile the death-heaps swell and swell.

Mercy, a pale and piteous pleader, Weeps helpless at the gates of hell,

The Christian crowd calls for a leader Who cometh not! Each lord, each chief, In diplomatic bonds entangled, Scarce dares to stir. No strong belief Moves any man. The "Powers" have wrangled,

Worried, and watched; but none dares cut The Gordian knot, drawn redder, tighter,

But him, with sinister eyes half shut

In scorn, who mocks at crown and mitre. Who'll lead? who'll strike? the peoples

cry.

Impotent seems appeal or urging; Yet, hid from cold official eye,

Christian humanity seems upsurging, To those who watch. Wistful appeal To an old leader, worn and weary, Proves what small trust the people feel In younger chiefs, callous or cheery. Who'll stir? Who'll strike? Scant answer yet!

The throned assassin lolls and lowers, Mocking, with Crescent crimson-wet, Powerless things called "Christian Powers."

Punch.

ADVENIAT REGNUM TUUM. Thy kingdom come! Yes, bid it come. But when Thy kingdom first began On earth Thy kingdom was a home, A child, a woman, and a man.

The child was in the midst thereof,
O, blessed Jesus, holiest One!
The centre and the fount of love
Mary and Joseph's little Son.

Wherever on the earth shall be
A child, a woman, and a man,
Imaging that sweet trinity

Wherewith Thy kingdom first began,

Establish there Thy kingdom! Yea,
And o'er that trinity of love
Send down, as in Thy appointed day,
The brooding spirit of Thy Dove!
KATHARINE TYNAN HINKSON.
Sunday Magazine.

GARIBALDI'S LAST POEM. Friendship, pervading spirit of the blest, Sublimest bounty of the Infinite, Imperishable as the Alpine height That stands secure in everlasting rest:

And what were we, if thou wert unpossest

Midst all the adversities that do us spite? What but thy power can shelter the opprest

And lift this sunken people to the light?

All pass the Styx-love, pride, ambition's dream,

And human greatness flies, a fugitive, To vanish, cloud-like, in the Lethic stream; Thou, emanate from God, alone dost live The life of the immortal and supreme

The holy comfort which is thine to give. Translated by Evelyn Martinengo Cesaresco in the Academy.

A QUATRAIN.

I have trod the upward and the downward slope;

I have endured and done in days before; I have longed for all, and bid farewell to hope;

And I have lived and loved, and closed the door.

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

From Longman's Magazine.

WILLIAM MORRIS'S POEMS.

on

"Enough," said the pupil of the wise Imlac, "you have convinced me that no man can be a poet." The study of Mr. William Morris's poems, in the new collected edition, has convinced me that no man, or, at least, no middle-aged man, can be a critic. I read Mr. Morris's poems (thanks to the knightly honors conferred the Bard of Penrhyn, there is now no ambiguity as to "Mr. Morris"), but it is not the book only that I read. The scroll of my youth is unfolded. I see the dear place where first I perused "The Blue Closet;" the old faces of old friends flock around me; old chaff, old laughter, old happiness. re-echo and revive. St. Andrews, Oxford, come before the mind's eye, with

Many a place

That's in sad case

Where joy was wont afore, oh! as Minstrel Burne sings. These voices, faces, landscapes mingle with the music and blur the pictures of the poet who enchanted for us certain hours passed in the paradise of youth. A reviewer who finds himself in this case may as well frankly confess that he can no more criticise Mr. Morris dispassionately than he could criticise his old self and the friends whom he shall never see again, till he meets them

Beyond the sphere of time,
And sin, and grief's control,
Serene in changeless prime
Of body and of soul.

To write of one's own "adventures among books" may be to provide anecdotage more or less trivial, more or less futile, but, at least, it is to write historically. We know how books have affected, and do affect, ourselves, our bundle of prejudices and tastes, of old impressions and revived sensations. To judge books dispassionately and impersonally is much more difficult-indeed, it is practically impossible, for our own tastes and experiences must, more or less, modify our verdicts, do what we will. However, the effort must be made, for to say that, at a cer

tain age, in certain circumstances, an individual took much pleasure in "The Life and Death of Jason," the present of a college friend, is certainly not to criticise "The Life and Death of Jason."

There have been three blossoming times in the English poetry of the nineteenth century. The first dates from Wordsworth, Coleridge, Scott, and, later, from Shelley, Byron, Keats. By 1822 the blossoming time was over, and Mr. Murray, of Albemarle Street, soon ceased to publish poetry. This "great refusal" he had reason to regret, for the second blossoming time began in 1830-1833, with young Mr. Tennyson and Mr. Browning. It broke forth again in 1842 and did not practically cease till England's greatest laureate sang of the "Crossing of the Bar." But while Tennyson put out his full strength in 1842, and Mr. Browning rather later, in "Bells and Pomegranates" (Men and Women), the third spring came in 1858, with Mr. Morris's "Defence of Guinevere," and flowered till Mr. Swinburne's "Atalanta in Calydon" appeared in 1865, followed by his poems of 1866. Mr. Rossetti's book of 1870 belonged, in date of composition, mainly to this period. Since then poetry has not given us more than a few charming scattered lyrics, of Mr. Bridges, Mr. Watson, and one or two others who are of very intermittent inspiration. A reviewer who, like myself, was a schoolboy or an undergraduate in the third vernal season of the century's verse-who was then in the age of enthusiasm, appreciation, imitation-knows well that his judgment of Mr. Morris must have a strong personal bias.

In 1858, when "The Defence of Guinevere" came out, Mr. Morris must have been but a year or two from his undergraduateship. Every one has heard enough about his companions, Mr. Burne Jones, Mr. Rossetti, Canon Dixon, and the others of the old Oxford and Cambridge Magazine, where Mr. Morris's wonderful prose fantasies are buried. Why should they not be revived, these strangely colored and magical dreams? As literature, I pre

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