rything that she says about the gradual growth and formation of
character. Indeed, those who have not read Aristotle upon this point
might with advantage read Lady Bellairs.

Miss Constance Naden's little volume, A Modern Apostle and Other Poems,
shows both culture and courage--culture in its use of language, courage
in its selection of subject-matter. The modern apostle of whom Miss
Naden sings is a young clergyman who preaches Pantheistic Socialism in
the Free Church of some provincial manufacturing town, converts
everybody, except the woman whom he loves, and is killed in a street
riot. The story is exceedingly powerful, but seems more suitable for
prose than for verse. It is right that a poet should be full of the
spirit of his age, but the external forms of modern life are hardly, as
yet, expressive of that spirit. They are truths of fact, not truths of
the imagination, and though they may give the poet an opportunity for
realism, they often rob the poem of the reality that is so essential to
it. Art, however, is a matter of result, not of theory, and if the fruit
is pleasant, we should not quarrel about the tree. Miss Naden's work is
distinguished by rich imagery, fine colour, and sweet music, and these
are things for which we should be grateful, wherever we find them. In
point of mere technical skill, her longer poems are the best; but some of
the shorter poems are very fascinating. This, for instance, is pretty:

The copyist group was gathered round
A time-worn fresco, world-renowned,
Whose central glory once had been
The face of Christ, the Nazarene.

And every copyist of the crowd
With his own soul that face endowed,
Gentle, severe, majestic, mean;
But which was Christ, the Nazarene?

Then one who watched them made complaint,
And marvelled, saying, 'Wherefore paint
Till ye be sure your eyes have seen
The face of Christ, the Nazarene?'

And this sonnet is full of suggestion:

The wine-flushed monarch slept, but in his ear
An angel breathed--'Repent, or choose the flame
Quenchless.' In dread he woke, but not in shame,
Deep musing--'Sin I love, yet hell I fear.'

Wherefore he left his feasts and minions dear,
And justly ruled, and died a saint in name.
But when his hasting spirit heavenward came,
A stern voice cried--'O Soul! what dost thou here?'

'Love I forswore, and wine, and kept my vow
To live a just and