e learn from the preface,
under six years of age, and it is sad to think of the future career of a
boy who is being brought up on bad history and worse poetry. Here is a
passage from the learned judge's account of Romulus:

Poor Tatius by some unknown hand
Was soon assassinated,
Some said by Romulus' command;
I know not--but 'twas fated.

Sole King again, this Romulus
Play'd some fantastic tricks,
Lictors he had, who hatchets bore
Bound up with rods of sticks.

He treated all who thwarted him
No better than a dog,
Sometimes 'twas 'Heads off, Lictors, there!'
Sometimes 'Ho! Lictors, flog!'

Then he created Senators,
And gave them rings of gold;
Old soldiers all; their name deriv'd
From 'Senex' which means 'old.'

Knights, too, he made, good horsemen all,
Who always were at hand
To execute immediately
Whate'er he might command.

But these were of Patrician rank,
Plebeians all the rest;
Remember this distinction, Jack!
For 'tis a useful test.

The reign of Tullius Hostilius opens with a very wicked rhyme:

As Numa, dying, only left
A daughter, named Pompilia,
The Senate had to choose a King.
They choose one sadly _sillier_.

If Jack goes to the bad, Mr. Justice Denman will have much to answer for.

After such a terrible example from the Bench, it is pleasant to turn to
the seats reserved for Queen's Counsel. Mr. Cooper Willis's Tales and
Legends, if somewhat boisterous in manner, is still very spirited and
clever. The Prison of the Danes is not at all a bad poem, and there is a
great deal of eloquent, strong writing in the passage beginning:

The dying star-song of the night sinks in the dawning day,
And the dark-blue sheen is changed to green, and the green fades into
grey,
And the sleepers are roused from their slumbers, and at last the
Danesmen know
How few of all their numbers are left them by the foe.

Not much can be said of a poet who exclaims:

Oh, for the power of Byron or of Moore,
To glow with one, and with the latter soar.

And yet Mr. Moodie is one of the best of those South African poets whose
works have been collected and arranged by Mr. Wilmot. Pringle, the
'father of South African verse,' comes first, of course, and his best
poem is, undoubtedly, Afar in the Desert:

Afar in the desert I love to ride,
With the silent