o great a charm, and, indeed, may be said to be almost
essential to the perfect literary presentation of any story. This
element the Greek managed to retain by the introduction of chorus and
messenger; but we seem to have been unable to invent any substitute for
it. That there is here a distinct loss cannot, I think, be denied. There
is something harsh, abrupt, and inartistic in such a stage-direction as
'Canute strangles Edric, flings his body into the stream, and gazes out.'
It strikes no dramatic note, it conveys no picture, it is meagre and
inadequate. If acted it might be fine; but as read, it is unimpressive.
However, there is no form of art that has not got its limitations, and
though it is sad to see the action of a play relegated to a formal
footnote, still there is undoubtedly a certain gain in psychological
analysis and psychological concentration.

It is a far cry from the Knutlinga Saga to Rossetti's note-book, but
Michael Field passes from one to the other without any loss of power.
Indeed, most readers will probably prefer The Cup of Water, which is the
second play in this volume, to the earlier historical drama. It is more
purely poetical; and if it has less power, it has certainly more beauty.
Rossetti conceived the idea of a story in which a young king falls
passionately in love with a little peasant girl who gives him a cup of
water, and is by her beloved in turn, but being betrothed to a noble
lady, he yields her in marriage to his friend, on condition that once a
year--on the anniversary of their meeting--she brings him a cup of water.
The girl dies in childbirth, leaving a daughter who grows into her
mother's perfect likeness, and comes to meet the king when he is hunting.
Just, however, as he is about to take the cup from her hand, a second
figure, in her exact likeness, but dressed in peasant's clothes, steps to
her side, looks in the king's face, and kisses him on the mouth. He
falls forward on his horse's neck, and is lifted up dead. Michael Field
has struck out the supernatural element so characteristic of Rossetti's
genius, and in some other respects modified for dramatic purposes
material Rossetti left unused. The result is a poem of exquisite and
pathetic grace. Cara, the peasant girl, is a creation as delicate as it
is delightful, and it deserves to rank beside the Faun of Callirhoe. As
for the young king who loses all the happiness of his life through one
noble moment of unselfis