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That our readers may have an opportunity of trying their band at interpretation, and forming their own judgment as to the merits of this strange production, we will set before them the concluding stanzas of the section entitled "Hers," which, as far as we can make out, is a longwinded address of a loving lady to her lord, who is represented as a sort of modern Messiah :

"The nearer you, O love, I shrink the more,-
I could press my heart to thine, and die;
For Loss stands up behind you most high,
That I shall surely fall on Life's worst floor,
My hands upon my face for passion sore,
That sin alone can soothe, if my wild cry
For sweet companionship of smile and sigh

May find no entrance through your heart's dear door.
'I am not equal! no! no woman is ! '—

I cry in my despair's last catching hope!
But would there came some speedy end to this;
For I am wrecked, yet dare not trust the rope;
And Death frowns fiercer for the promised bliss
Beyond the cruel cliff's down landward slope.

"Oh what is this? What hands are now so strong
Which wish to bind me to a monstrous mate,
From you who has outdreamed men from my fate?
What subtle chains are these, though golden, wrong,
That would thus exile me from land of Song,
And force me by the waves of Fashion wait
Till some deep-plunging beast on me would sate
Salt passion's greed, dragging me down among
The dead and fleshless ones of that chill Sea
Whose love is death, despite its lovely looks?
What rock so cold as this I feel? Are we
Then parted aye? Or do I see near nooks
Touched with quick golden light from sword to free,
That comes in thy strong hand to cut fixed hooks?

"I'm speechless, frozen dead, stolid as stone!
Oh help me! help me! I who dare not speak!
Thus never could the hours their tortures wreak
On mortal soul before! I . . . I alone ...
I only... so have trembled to each tone
Of love I cannot ask-I must not seek;
And I shall die if I remain thus weak.
The seeds are now in me for ever sown!

O Sun, shine out! Come, Summer, come to me,
Lest Winter's reign prolonged, should sadly kill
All hope of luscious fruit for Autumn's glee;
For thine must ever be the leading will,
And I the fertile garden where each tree
Shall grow thy fruits to cure wide human ill.

"O joy! Hold, hold, O heart! for Silence tells-
Sweet Silence tells me how to go and pray;
For who am I that he should worship pay,
So wonderful, to me whose heart but spells
The volumes of delight his power outwells!

O God, is this thy world of night and day?

Have I quick passed to higher spheres' display?


My love! my life! spired Thought has bells, bells, bells,
Which ring great giddy joy, and Voice is drowned
But thou art mine, and I am thine, we know,
Through life to death, though round to furthest round
Of Earth's love-rings in Heaven's boundless flow,
Where, past all silence, opens spheral sound,
And human joy shall into final go.'

We are at a loss to understand either the grammar or the sense of the line:

"From you who has outdreamed men from my fate; "


and we protest against such expressions as "force me by the waves of Fashion wait;" spired thought has bells, bells, bells;" and "joy shall into final go." Mr. Sinclair may be as original and profound and subtle as he pleases, but he must at least conform to the laws of the language in which he writes. If he wishes to be thought a second Browning, he should try to imitate him in his best points, not in his faults, and, at any rate, avoid ungraminatical expressions.

Miscellaneous Poems. By FRANCIS M. DEAN, B.A. Dublin: E. Ponsonby. London: Longmans, Green, & Co. 1876.-If a taste for poetry necessarily implied the possession of a power to produce it, Mr. Dean might fairly claim a high place among poets, for he tells us, in the language of Edgar Poe, that poetry is with him a "passion, not a purpose." But it is quite possible to be foud, not merely of reading poetry, but also of attempting to write it, without being able to attain to any high degree of excellence in the art, just as many take a great delight in hearing music who are very indifferent performers, or unable to perform at all. Mr. Dean bespeaks indulgent criticism on the ground that most of his little poems were written in his youth from a mere love of poetry. Viewed in this light they may escape severe censure, and some of them may even be pronounced creditable productions. Still, we cannot but question the wisdom of publishing pieces which, according to the author's own confession, " bear the impress of an unripe mind," and "exhibit many crude faults and imperfections." Crudity and extravagance are gladly excused in a youthful writer who shows signs of true poetic inspiration; but it is not the excesses of a too Juxuriant imagination stirred by intense feeling that any one will lay to Mr. Dean's charge. His work suffers from the deficiency rather than the excess of moving power. It wants the warmth and flush of healthy life. There is an air of unreality about it. The pieces read more like exercises in composition than the spontaneous outbursts of deep feeling and vivid imagination. The author treats conventional topics in a conventional way. He is very fond of personifying abstract ideas and inanimate objects, and addressing poems to them. One of the best of these is the "Ode to Autumn," which runs thus:

"I hail thee, Crowner of the fruitful year,

And crowned thyself with fair fruit-laden boughs!

My soul grows gladdened at thy presence near,
And when I see those ripe wreaths round thy brows:
Earth is content, and ended care allows

A mellow happiness to anxious hearts:

Each breath, soft-wafted from thy rich store, blows
Our love to warmer joyaunce, and imparts

To every breast a fame 'gainst Winter's coldest darts.

"Thy season is not one for pining grief;

Our cup runs o'er with warmer things than tears:
Why should we mourn the falling flower and leaf ?
Through their decay the golden fruit appears;
The cornfields stand with happy-listening ears;
Their smiles of ripeness sun our faces; trees
Wear now the royal pride of crowning years;
Fatness and plenty fill the fertile leas,

And sounds of thankful peace float in with every breeze.

"Now is the homestead glad, and warm, and gay.
Its aspect wears a hospitable look;

The fireside lengthens out the short'ning day,
With light as loved as suns which have forsook,
Whose cheerful blaze floods every cozy nook:
There all the old kind faces glow again,

Poring on some prized poet-breathing book;
And hearts that lost their freshest flowers from pain,
Reap fruits of rest and peace, sweet-ripened like the grain.

"Now is the country given up to pomp

Of rural glee, and flows the mirth divine;

Where youths and maidens sing, and dance, and romp,
In honour of the harvest 'neath the vine,

Whose purple clusters promise the red wine,
Low-hanging through the leafage tempting sweet,
Each grape of one rich rosy drop the sign;

While circle round, young children kissing meet,
And with coy blushing looks that longed-for fruitage greet.

"Heaven robes thee in all splendours of the clouds,
Which, streaming gold float o'er a purple sky

To gird thy throne-the sun-in glorious crowds;
Even earth has caught that warm light from on high,
As rich-winged bird the sunset glowing nigh,
And passes with her solemn woods and hills
Burning away-a wintry death to die:

When wailing winds, and moaning streams and rills Shall waft off each dead leaf, as coldness blights and kills.

"Like thee may come the autumn of our love
And life,-full of rich fruits and ripened worth,
Crowned with a brighter glory from above:
And know no pining want, or stricken dearth,
Nothing that hints of scarcity on earth!
And at death's cold and darkly closing hour,
When love and life fulfil their second birth,
Let us lie down in beauty, hope, and power,
Sure of returning Spring, and Spring's reviving dower."

Mr. Dean's subjects are not all of a conventional character. He has one poem "On Mr. Pickwick," and another entitled " The Potatoe" (sic). To extract poetry from a potato may not be so impossible a feat as extracting sunbeams from a cucumber, but it is no easy matter, and the idea of apostrophizing the homely vegetable in ambitious verse verges on the ridiculous. However, we must do Mr. Dean the justice to say he has done as much as could be expected towards investing the familiar object with poetic interest.

Sport in Abyssinia; or, The Mareb and Tackazzee. By the Earl of Mayo, Lieutenant Grenadier Guards. London, John Murray. 1876. This is an unpretending volume, but not the less interesting on that account. It professes to be simply a compilation from a diary kept by the author during a sporting tour in Abyssinia. What he saw and did, and the impressions made on his mind by the different events and scenes are related in a frank and easy style, without any affectation of authorship; and this gives a natural and pleasing freshness to his pages.


On the 29th of December, 1874, the author and his party landed at Alassowah, and on the 29th of March, 1875, he sailed from that port on his return home. Thus his tour extended only over a period of three months, and is not represented as having been prolific either in adventure or in though the novelty of the expedition and the delightful scenery afforded ample enjoyment. The mode of travelling in the country is rather primitive. Parties travelling "in the king's name. passed on from one chief to another by a system of compulsory service :


"After the chief's soldiers and followers had hunted up the villagers, and dragged them, kicked them, and beat them, they were made to carry our baggage. We started about one hour before sunset, the coolies having gone

in front. The reason that the soldiers treated the villagers in this way was, that the king, who was far away, had heard there were some Englishmen

coming into the country, and had given


orders to the chiefs or governors that we were to be treated with respect, and everything that we wanted done for us. We travelled across a large tableland with not a vestige of foliage to be seen, and no sound to be heard but now and then the bleating of the sheep as they were driven to their pens near the villages for the night. The moon rose, and we very soon found ourselves near a village called Adouguada. All our coolies had stopped; the lazy fellows had scarcely been travelling for two hours; they had handed our baggage over to the headman of the village. This is a usual mode of proceeding in Abyssinia; one is passed on from village to village, and if the villages happened to be close together the day is spent in quarrelling and in looking over and counting the baggage. When I rode up they were all talking at once and making a horrid noise, as is usual on such occasions. I asked for a hearing, and informed the villagers of Adouguada that if they did not carry our baggage I should take two cows and two sheep from the village, and stop there all that night with my servants; under these circumstances they would have to provide us with bread, &c. Brou, the interpreter, advised me to do this; he said, It is the only way to get on, and you are travelling in the king's name, and can have what you want. H. then came up with K., and we procured something to eat and some coffee. The villagers made much noise and gesticulation, and then at last picked up half our things and went off.

"We then started for Sellaadarou,

the place we were going to camp at that night. It was bright moonlight, and the moon in the east, as some of my readers probably know, appears very different from our moon at home. It was a beautiful ride, but a little cold. We arrived at Sellaadarou about nine p.m., or perhaps a little later. K., like an old soldier as he was, pitched the camp just outside the village, in a sort of little garden that the villagers had made to grow their capsicums in; it was surrounded by a thick thorn hedge, made of boughs cut from the thorny acacia. This hedge provided us with wood without any trouble; so we made two large bonfires to warm ourselves, ate some supper, and turned in after a long worrying day. The other half of the baggage had not come up when we retired to our tents."

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"I heard, in a pool below the ford where we had crossed, some animals making an unusual noise, grunting and blowing. I went down with my gunbearers to the edge of the river, and, behold there were eight fine hippopotami disporting themselves in the river, much in the same way as the old riverhorse at the Zoo may be seen swimming about his tank. They reared themselves out of the water and exposed their heads and part of their necks, sometimes opening their enormous jaws so that I could see their white tusks. I fired at the nearest of the herd, and hit him behind the ear; he began bleeding profusely, and waltzed round and round in the water, causing tremendous waves. At last in about half an hour he sank, and we saw him no more. I shot at several more, and I believe, killed another, but we saw

no traces of them again; and I think it is a great chance, in a large rapid river of this sort, if their carcases are found at all. I sent servants during the following days up and down the river, but they were quite unsuccessful in finding any trace of the beasts."

Hunting the elephant and lion. was not more successful than the attempts made to bag the hippopotami :

"We had arranged with Barrakee to go for three days and sleep out, or bivouac, and hunt elephants; we accordingly started straight inland towards the mountain of Walkait. After we had crossed the hills, under which the Tackazzee ran, we came upon a sort of open plain with little hills cropping up here and there, and we had been following fresh elephant tracks the whole time. I must not forget to mention that during the night a large herd of elephants had passed close to our camp, and that all the jungle round was trampled and broken in every direction. I just remember, in a half-sleepy state, hearing strange noises, but I thought at the time it was only the "hippos " disporting themselves in the pool below. At last Barrakee, who was going in front, said that we were getting very close to the elephants, and that we must leave our mules behind us, and follow them up the rest of the way on foot. Not long afterwards we saw two elephants in the distance moving slowly along. We tried to stalk them, but we did not succeed. Barrakee took us to some water, where we drank, and close by which, as we came up to it, were some pigs lying asleep under a tree. An Abyssinian tried to knock one over with the butt of his gun, for we did not like to fire, being so close to the elephants.

"After we had halted for a little time and rested ourselves, Barrakee said we should move on, and he took us to the top of a steep little hill, where he said we were to pass the night, and from whence we could see the whole country round us. Brou, and a couple of men that Barrakee had with him, built us a 'das.' We ate some Juncheon, and then we sat down to

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