son's wit is so brilliant within the circles of its
temporary coruscation as to leave the outline of his work in a
constant penumbra. Indeed, when he wishes to unburden his mind of an
idea, he seems to have less capacity than many men of half his
ability to determine the form best suited for conveying it. If
anything can be certain which has not been tried, it is that his story
_A Practical Novelist_ should have been cast in dramatic form. His
vastly clever _Perfervid: _or_ the Career of Ninian Jamieson_ is cast
in two parts which neither unite to make a whole, nor are sufficiently
independent to stand complete in themselves. I find it characteristic
that his _Random Itinerary_--that fresh and agreeable narrative of
suburban travel--should conclude with a crashing poem, magnificent in
itself, but utterly out of key with the rest of the book. Turn to the
_Compleat Angler_, and note the exquisite congruity of the songs
quoted by Walton with the prose in which they are set, and the
difference will be apparent at once. Fate seems to dog Mr. Davidson
even into his illustrations. _A Random Itinerary_ and this book of
_Plays_ (both published by Messrs. Mathews and Lane) have each a
conspicuously clever frontispiece. But the illustrator of _A Random
Itinerary_ has chosen as his subject the very poem which I have
mentioned as out of harmony with the book; and I must protest that the
vilely sensual faces in Mr. Beardsley's frontispiece to these _Plays_
are hopelessly out of keeping with the sunny paganism of _Scaramouch
in Naxos_. There is nothing Greek about Mr. Beardsley's figures: their
only relationship with the Olympians is derived through the goddess
Aselgeia.

With all this I have to repeat that Mr. Davidson is in some respects
the most richly endowed of all the younger poets. The grand manner
comes more easily to him than to any other: and if he can cultivate a
sense of form and use this sense as a curb upon his wit, he has all
the qualities that take a poet far.

* * * * *

Nov. 24, 1984. "Ballads and Songs."

At last there is no mistake about it: Mr. John Davidson has come by
his own. And by "his own" I do not mean popularity--though I hope
that in time he will have enough of this and to spare--but mastery of
his poetic method. This new volume of "Ballads and Songs" (London:
John Lane) justifies our hopes and removes our chief fear. You
remember Mr. T.E. Brown's fine verses on "Poets