whole, the Chamber just returned hardly differs at first sight from its predecessor. But whether it will adopt the same policy and be content . with the same effaced attitude is the question.

It is useless to prophesy, and it is hardly worth while to give an account of the various opinions already set forth in the Press-especially by M. Jaurès and M. Paul Boncour-concern

It cannot be repeated too much that from the electoral standpoint France has long ceased to be a Catholic country. There are quite as many practising Catholics and fewer anti-Catholics in the male population of the United Kingdom.

The Nineteenth Century and After.

ing the centre of gravity of the new majority. However, it seems impossible that we should be long left in the dark as to the power of the new Chamber and what may be called its stamina. One crucial question likely to enlighten us at once on the degree of independence of the two hundred new members, and on which M. Jaurès is determined to expend all his energy, is sure to be brought forward shortly after the beginning of the session. This is the question of Proportional Representation. The Radical majority in the old Chamber was against this reform, and M. Briand, from purely political motives, looks askance at it. If the new Chamber tries to evade a debate on this question, or if the Premier succeeds in enforcing his wish to have it put off, we shall know that nothing is changed, and that we must expect to see a chlorotic majority led by a strong Government. If, on the contrary, Proportional Representation is passed, we shall have to look on it as a new departure and the final abandonment of the systematic sham and pretence kept up during the past eight or ten years: for the deputies will find themselves, for the first time, independent of the local committees to which they used to owe their election, and able to face questions for themselves. The immediate gainers would be the Socialists, and, as they hate M. Briand, it is not impossible that the victory of Proportional Representation may entail the downfall of the Cabinet, but the fall of a Cabinet compared with so considerable a change in the parliamentary life of France would be a trivial accident. Ernest Dimnet,

Paris.

10.45. Though I have never been on a Jury before, I feel that it is as well to be punctual. Is this the County Court, policeman? Thank you. First come, first serve, is the juryman's motto. If I am sworn in for the opening action I may yet be down at the Oval for lunch.

10.55. Upstairs there seem to be a lot of jurymen about, most of them without collars; I wish I knew the etiquette. And where do I go now? Perhaps if I show somebody my summons In there? Thank you very much Oh, is this the dock? Thank you. Oh, yes, over there. Thanks.

11. In the jury box. Evidently I am very late. We are in the middle of the action, and I haven't taken an oath of any kind. I ask the juryman next to me for a rough synopsis or résumé of the case as far as it has gone, so that I can give a right and trusty verdict. He explains that our action hasn't begun yet, and that this one is being tried without jury. Most sensible-that's how all actions should be tried.

Having nothing else to do I listen to counsel. As far as I can make it out, "We" (by which, I take it, the little man in the wig means himself and his friends) have been unable to obtain reasonable access to the bathroom of our lodgings for the purposes of bathing,

the landlady having pocketed the key of the same. No wonder we are annoyed. On the other hand, as the fat man in fancy dress rightly points out, "We" (meaning him and the landlady) have only locked the door between the hours of 11 A.M. and 8 P.M., the fact being that his learned friend was in the habit of washing his clothes in the bathroom. (Disgraceful.) We are only too delighted to allow him to bathe in the morning and at night, but it must be fair bathing.

His Honor thinks this reasonable.

The Little Man says he will undertake not to wash his clothes in the bathroom; but suppose he wanted a warm bath in the afternoon?

His Honor thinks that any reasonable man or woman might want a warm bath in the afternoon-say between three and four.

The Fat Man says that if his learned friend really wants a warm bath in the afternoon, say between three and four, he is prepared to allow access to the room for that hour.

His Honor thinks this noble. The Little Man urges that he might possibly want his bath at five. (True.).

After much argument His Honor suggests 4.30 as a reasonable compromise. Agreed that the Little Man shall be allowed to bathe from 8 P.M. to 11 A.M. and from 3 P.M. to 4.30 P.M.

Now for our action.

11.45. We stand up in twos to take the oath. Having read all about germs

I decide to kiss my thumb, instead of the book which I and the man next to me are holding together. In my nervousness, however, I kiss the other man's thumb. I hope he won't mind.

Before our case begins the usher announces that all the other actions have been settled out of court and that the

The various schools of poetry at present in England have a common characteristic-conservatism. Each goes back to some tradition, and does very little more than carry it on. The writers who now pretend most to originality are generally the most imitative: snatching at the eccentricities of great but uneven models, they try, by exaggerating these, to produce the effect of novelty. The work of the best writers of verse of the younger generation consists chiefly of pleasant but slight variations on known themes. scarcely any development.

There is

In regard to the means of poetic expression, this conservatism is worthy of admiration. It is now no easy task, even for a man of genius, to keep unimpaired the magnificent instrument of English poetry. Far too many writers of the last generation went out of their way to break up our language in their search after novelty of diction. Its resources, as Newman long since pointed out, are developed to that point at which decay sets in. A loving knowledge of the treasures of our tongue, and a true instinct in selecting from them, are now of much higher value than the verbal inventiveness of impatient and rather ignorant minds. The latter abound, at home and abroad. To the glory of our race but the confusion of our speech, we have planted overseas many a Soli where solecisms are being proudly and vigorously culti

vated as elements of new national dialects. Their disastrous influence on our literature daily grows wider and more profound: it tells on our press in a manner patent to every observer; it affects our speech even more deeply; and on English prose generally it works with a subtle, disintegrating effect. But few of the best of our novelists of the younger generation are able to write a sound prose in which the great traditions of English style are respected. They obtain, doubtless, a certain freshness of diction by submitting to the new influences; but this freshness is at times not unlike mere crudity, and at best it is of little value when compared with all that is lost in gaining it.

Only in our poetry are the treasures of our language loyally conserved, and our poets are well rewarded for their loving care. They possess a poetic diction which has been enriched and clarified, hardened and tempered, until it has become almost as perfect an instrument of expression as a thing of man's making can be. The melody of its rhythms seems inexhaustible; there is a wonderful variety in the orchestral harmonies of its periods; and its strange, magical power of using the commonest words, and heightening and glorifying them, enables it to fulfil most of the purposes of prose diction without ceasing to be finely poetic. Were Milton now living, he could make his

"Samson Agonistes" what he dreamed of making it a work in which poetry absorbed the special qualities of prose and acquired, besides the resulting flexibility, a larger movement and a more subtle music. As it is, we have an incomparable orchestra, but no man who seems capable of writing for it. The task of keeping one of the various instruments in order appears to exhaust the energy of our various poets; and they practise their solos far more often than they perform them. Take for instance, the case of Mr. W. B. Yeatsthe most poetic of our younger poets, in the opinion of several good critics. After studying the magic flute under William Morris, Rossetti, and Blake, he found a new fairyland in Irish myth and legend. But he is unable to play us there as Morris played us into the enchanted lands which he discovered. Only in the prose of Lady Gregory are seen some clear outlines of that world of fairies and heroes which the poets of the Irish school dream of, but cannot enter. They lead us to magic casements opening on nothing.

What is wanting in them, and in every writer of English verse at the present time, with the exception of the author of "The Dynasts," is energy of imagination. This, it may be argued, is a failing now common to men in every noble field of activity. The present writer does not think so. He, too, belongs to the younger generation, and, like many of his fellows, he accounts himself happy in that he is coming to the prime of life in one of the most exciting and hopeful eras in the history of the world. It seems to him-is it an illusion of fading youth?-that we are passing out of the wild, dazzling glare of the great Aufklärung of the latter part of the nineteenth century, into the large, steady light of a period of constructive activity in religion, science, philosophy, art, and letters. It is still too early to expect any general settle

ment of views in regard to the objects of fundamental importance; but these objects are becoming clearly defined. Clearness of vision is in itself a source of inspiration; and from it the best writers of the age derive their energy.

It is a fact of importance that these men are all prose writers. We have at least seven authors of recognized genius, and prose is their medium of expression. It is true that Mr. Thomas Hardy, the oldest and greatest of them, is the author of the most original essay in poetic drama since "Faust"; but is he not essentially a prose writer who composes verse, as Milton would say, with his left hand? It is in his marvellous stage-directions that his extraordinary breadth and intensity of vision are displayed; his poetry is merely a comment on his prose. Nevertheless, it is fortunate for English literature that he has turned from prose, and is using the instrument of verse. Even as a poet, his virtues are greater than his defects. He imports from our prose into our poetry the qualities which our poetry now lacks the sincerity, strength, range, and clarity of an enriched and disciplined imagination. With the exception of Francis Thompson and John Davidson, our poets of the younger generation seem to have lived entirely in the Palace of Art. Their impressions of life are taken at second-hand, and their ideas, derived from these impressions, are fanciful rather than imaginative. Our novelists, on the other hand, have been trained to use their own eyes. The general effect on our fiction of the realistic movement has been beneficent. It has hurt some weak minds; it has alarmed many tender consciences; it has enabled a few bad writers to acquire an unenviable reputation; but it has aroused in a considerable number of men a deeper sense of the realities of life, and this has in turn quickened their feelings, given their intellect a