hards.)

(8) The Third Miss St. Quentin. By Mrs. Molesworth. (Hatchards.)

(9) A Christmas Posy. By Mrs. Molesworth. Illustrated by Walter Crane.
(Hatchards.)

(10) Giannetta. A Girl's Story of Herself. By Rosa Mulholland. (Blackie
and Sons.)

(11) Ralph Hardcastle's Will. By Agnes Giberne. (Hatchards.)

(12) Flora's Feast. A Masque of Flowers. Penned and Pictured by Walter
Crane. (Cassell and Co.)

(13) Here's to the Maiden of Bashful Fifteen. By Richard Brinsley
Sheridan. Illustrated by Alice Havers and Ernest Wilson. (Hildesheimer
and Faulkner.)

POETRY AND PRISON

(Pall Mall Gazette, January 3, 1889.)

Prison has had an admirable effect on Mr. Wilfrid Blunt as a poet. The
Love Sonnets of Proteus, in spite of their clever Musset-like modernities
and their swift brilliant wit, were but affected or fantastic at best.
They were simply the records of passing moods and moments, of which some
were sad and others sweet, and not a few shameful. Their subject was not
of high or serious import. They contained much that was wilful and weak.
In Vinculis, upon the other hand, is a book that stirs one by its fine
sincerity of purpose, its lofty and impassioned thought, its depth and
ardour of intense feeling. 'Imprisonment,' says Mr. Blunt in his
preface, 'is a reality of discipline most useful to the modern soul,
lapped as it is in physical sloth and self-indulgence. Like a sickness
or a spiritual retreat it purifies and ennobles; and the soul emerges
from it stronger and more self-contained.' To him, certainly, it has
been a mode of purification. The opening sonnets, composed in the bleak
cell of Galway Gaol, and written down on the fly-leaves of the prisoner's
prayer-book, are full of things nobly conceived and nobly uttered, and
show that though Mr. Balfour may enforce 'plain living' by his prison
regulations, he cannot prevent 'high thinking' or in any way limit or
constrain the freedom of a man's soul. They are, of course, intensely
personal in expression. They could not fail to be so. But the
personality that they reveal has nothing petty or ignoble about it. The
petulant cry of the shallow egoist which was the chief characteristic of
the Love Sonnets of Proteus is not to be found here. In its place we
have wild grief and terrible scorn, fierce rage and flame-like passion.
Such a sonnet as the following comes out of the very fire of heart and
brain:

God knows, 'twas not wi