bow.  All nonsense in the shape of belief in dreams, omens, presentiments, ghosts, spiritualism, palmistry, etc.  Entertaining wild flights of the imagination, or empty idealistic aspirations.

I am afraid that I have a good deal of sympathy with what are called ‘empty idealistic aspirations’; and ‘wild flights of the imagination’ are so extremely rare in the nineteenth century that they seem to me deserving rather of praise than of censure.  The exclamation ‘Bother!’ also, though certainly lacking in beauty, might, I think, be permitted under circumstances of extreme aggravation, such as, for instance, the rejection of a manuscript by the editor of a magazine; but in all other respects the list seems to be quite excellent.  As for ’What to Cultivate,’ nothing could be better than the following: 

An unaffected, low, distinct, silver-toned voice.  The art of pleasing those around you, and seeming pleased with them, and all they may do for you.  The charm of making little sacrifices quite naturally, as if of no account to yourself.  The habit of making allowances for the opinions, feelings, or prejudices of others.  An erect carriage—­that is, a sound body.  A good memory for faces, and facts connected with them—­thus avoiding giving offence through not recognising or bowing to people, or saying to them what had best been left unsaid.  The art of listening without impatience to prosy talkers, and smiling at the twice-told tale or joke.

I cannot help thinking that the last aphorism aims at too high a standard.  There is always a certain amount of danger in any attempt to cultivate impossible virtues.  However, it is only fair to add that Lady Bellairs recognises the importance of self-development quite as much as the importance of self-denial; and there is a great deal of sound sense in everything that she says about the gradual growth and formation of character.  Indeed, those who have not read Aristotle upon this point might with advantage read Lady Bellairs.

Miss Constance Naden’s little volume, A Modern Apostle and Other Poems, shows both culture and courage—­culture in its use of language, courage in its selection of subject-matter.  The modern apostle of whom Miss Naden sings is a young clergyman who preaches Pantheistic Socialism in the Free Church of some provincial manufacturing town, converts everybody, except the woman whom he loves, and is killed in a street riot.  The story is exceedingly powerful, but seems more suitable for prose than for verse.  It is right that a poet should be full of the spirit of his age, but the external forms of modern life are hardly, as yet, expressive of that spirit.  They are truths of fact, not truths of the imagination, and though they may give the poet an opportunity for realism, they often rob the poem of the reality that is so essential to it.  Art, however, is a matter of result, not of theory, and if the fruit is pleasant, we should not quarrel about the tree.  Miss Naden’s work is distinguished by rich imagery, fine colour, and sweet music, and these are things for which we should be grateful, wherever we find them.  In point of mere technical skill, her longer poems are the best; but some of the shorter poems are very fascinating.  This, for instance, is pretty: