idyll of Nausicaa or to the Titanic humour of the episode in the Cyclops'
cave. Penelope has not the glamour of Circe, and the song of the Sirens
may sound sweeter than the whizz of the arrows of Odysseus as he stands
on the threshold of his hall. Yet, for sheer intensity of passionate
power, for concentration of intellectual interest and for masterly
dramatic construction, these latter books are quite unequalled. Indeed,
they show very clearly how it was that, as Greek art developed, the epos
passed into the drama. The whole scheme of the argument, the return of
the hero in disguise, his disclosure of himself to his son, his terrible
vengeance on his enemies and his final recognition by his wife, reminds
us of the plot of more than one Greek play, and shows us what the great
Athenian poet meant when he said that his own dramas were merely scraps
from Homer's table. In rendering this splendid poem into English verse,
Mr. Morris has done our literature a service that can hardly be
over-estimated, and it is pleasant to think that, even should the
classics be entirely excluded from our educational systems, the English
boy will still be able to know something of Homer's delightful tales, to
catch an echo of his grand music and to wander with the wise Odysseus
round 'the shores of old romance.'

The Odyssey of Homer. Done into English Verse by William Morris, Author
of The Earthly Paradise. Volume II. (Reeves and Turner.)

SIR CHARLES BOWEN'S VIRGIL

(Pall Mall Gazette, November 30, 1887.)

Sir Charles Bowen's translation of the Eclogues and the first six books
of the AEneid is hardly the work of a poet, but it is a very charming
version for all that, combining as it does the fine loyalty and learning
of a scholar with the graceful style of a man of letters, two essential
qualifications for any one who would render in English verse the
picturesque pastorals of Italian provincial life, or the stately and
polished epic of Imperial Rome. Dryden was a true poet, but, for some
reason or other, he failed to catch the real Virgilian spirit. His own
qualities became defects when he accepted the task of a translator. He
is too robust, too manly, too strong. He misses Virgil's strange and
subtle sweetness and has but little of his exquisite melody. Professor
Conington, on the other hand, was an admirable and painstaking scholar,
but he was so entirely devoid of literary tact and artistic insight that
he thought