hem unevenly. I have tried (let the
miserable truth be confessed) turning the book daily, as one turns a
piece of toast--But this is not criticism of Mr. Davidson's "Plays."

His Style full of Imagination and Wit.

Now it would be easy and pleasant to express my great admiration of
Mr. Davidson's Muse, and justify it by a score of extracts and so make
an end: and nobody (except perhaps Mr. Davidson himself) would know my
dishonesty. For indeed and out of doubt he is in some respects the
most richly-endowed of all our younger poets. Of wit and of
imagination he has almost a plethora: they crowd this book, and all
his books, from end to end. And his frequent felicity of phrase is
hardly less remarkable. You may turn page after page, and with each
page the truth of this will become more obvious. Let me add his quick
eye for natural beauty, his penetrating instinct for the principles
that lie beneath its phenomena, his sympathy with all men's more
generous emotions--and still I have a store of satisfactory
illustrations at hand for the mere trouble of turning the leaves.
Consider, for instance, the imagery in his description of the fight by
Bannockburn--

Now are they hand to hand!
How short a front! How close! _They're sewn together
with steel cross-stitches, halbert over sword,_
_Spear across lance and death the purfled seam!_
I never saw so fierce, so lock'd a fight.
That tireless brand that like a pliant flail
Threshes the lives from sheaves of Englishmen--
Know you who wields it? Douglas, who but he!
A noble meets him now. Clifford it is!
No bitterer foes seek out each other there.
Parried! That told! And that! Clifford, good night!
And Douglas shouts to Randolf; Edward Bruce
Cheers on the Steward; while the King's voice rings
In every Scotch ear: such a narrow strait
Confines this firth of war!

_Young Friar_: "God gives me strength
Again to gaze with eyes unseared. _Jewels!
These must be jewels peering in the grass.
Cloven from helms, or on them: dead men's eyes
Scarce shine so bright. The banners dip and mount
Like masts at sea...._"

Or consider the fanciful melody of the Fairies' song in _An
Unhistorical Pastoral_--

"Weave the dance and sing the song;
_Subterranean depths prolong
The rainy patter of our feet;_
Heights of air are rendered swe