“Ce n’est plus qu’une ardeur dans mes veines cachee,
    C’est Venus tout entiere a sa proie attachee.”

Swinburne, when he dodged about London, a lively young dog, wrote “Poems and Ballads,” and “Chastelard,” since he has gone to live at Putney, he has contributed to the Nineteenth Century, and published an interesting little volume entitled, “A Century of Rondels,” in which he continues his plaint about his mother the sea.

Respectability is sweeping the picturesque out of life; national costumes are disappearing.  The kilt is going or gone in the highlands, and the smock in the southlands, even the Japanese are becoming Christian and respectable; in another quarter of a century silk hats and pianos will be found in every house in Jeddo.  Too true that universal uniformity is the future of the world; and when Mr. Morris speaks of the democratic art to be when the world is socialistic, I ask, whence will the unfortunates draw their inspiration?  To-day our plight is pitiable enough—­the duke, the jockey-boy, and the artist are exactly alike; they are dressed by the same tailor, they dine at the same clubs, they swear the same oaths, they speak equally bad English, they love the same women.  Such a state of things is dreary enough, but what unimaginable dreariness there will be when there are neither rich nor poor, when all have been educated, when self-education has ceased.  A terrible world to dream of, worse, far worse, in darkness and hopelessness than Dante’s lowest circle of hell.  The spectre of famine, of the plague, of war, etc., are mild and gracious symbols compared with that menacing figure, Universal Education, with which we are threatened, which has already eunuched the genius of the last five-and-twenty years of the nineteenth century, and produced a limitless abortion in that of future time.  Education, I tremble before thy dreaded name.  The cruelties of Nero, of Caligula, what were they?—­a few crunched limbs in the amphitheatre; but thine, O Education, are the yearning of souls sick of life, of maddening discontent, of all the fearsome and fathomless sufferings of the mind.  When Goethe said “More light,” he said the wickedest and most infamous words that human lips ever spoke.  In old days, when a people became too highly civilised the barbarians came down from the north and regenerated that nation with darkness; but now there are no more barbarians, and sooner or later I am convinced that we shall have to end the evil by summary edicts—­the obstruction no doubt will be severe, the equivalents of Gladstone and Morley will stop at nothing to defeat the Bill; but it will nevertheless be carried by patriotic Conservative and Unionist majorities, and it will be written in the Statute Book that not more than one child in a hundred shall be taught to read, and no more than one in ten thousand shall learn the piano.