With kisses and with flowers, to say a last good bye; And lo, the wives a-lifting their babies to the sunAnd so our great Grand Army beheld its work begun." There are a few poems besides the war lyrics, but they are scarcely as good; they are rather commonplace, and upon such subjects as "A Friend's Souvenir," "The Old Gnarled Apple Tree," "Watching for Me at the Window";—yet a very good note is occasionally struck. More venturesome is Lilith, a narrative poem in five books, whose author has already printed a good deal of fugitive verse in Western papers. Mrs. Collier has several times been a contributor to THE OVERLAND. There is a quality of much promise in her verse-a certain affluence and sense of beauty, which is a relief from the cold neutrality of most current poetry. If this excellent quality could be united in her with a mastery of the poetic art, as art, equal to, say, that of Miss Thomas, her rank as a writer should be very high; but such a mastery is scarcely to be acquired after a poetic career has begun. Even with more thorough control of the poetic art, the poems could not be really memorable without more power and originality-for though often original enough in fancy, they have no great originality in thought or feeling; and while intelligent enough, and full of earnest emotion, they have not, intellectually or emotionally, anything that could properly be called power. It would be foolish to call attention to what they have not, were it not for what they have -a sufficient portion of beauty to make them worthy of serious criticism. Lilith is, as the name indicates, a version of the legend of Adam's first wife. Mrs. Collier makes very free with the legend, and it must be confessed, 2 Camp-fire, Memorial Day, and other Poems. By Kate Brownlee Sherwood. Chicago; Jansen, McClurg & Co. 1885. 8 Lilith. By Ada Langworthy Collier. Boston: D. Lothrop & Co. 1885. free with the unities of her own story; for it is full of internal inconsistencies in narrative, missible in a legend of this nature. The and anachronisms even beyond what is perliberty taken with the subject-matter is not merely legitimate, but the chief beauty of the cile the two accounts in Genesis of the creapoem. The legend (doubtless made to recontion of woman, the first of which represents her made with man, and by implication, coequal; and the other as created second and subordinate), is, it will be remembered, to the effect that the Lord first created Adam and Lilith, equal in authority; that the clashing this led to was so great, that Lilith was cast out from Eden, and the marital experiment tried again, on a different principle, by the creation of Eve. Lilith thereafter wedded Eblis, the prince of devils, and became the mother of demons and specters; and in vengeance upon her rival, Eve, the mother of mankind, became the special enemy of babes, whom she strangles with a thread of her golden hair. The obvious injustice to Lilith— who seems to have asked no more than her fair half, while Adam was the encroacher, on the assumption that they were created equal has inspired Mrs. Collier's version of the legend, according to which Lilith leaves Eden voluntarily, rather than submit to dominance, but loses thereby the blessing of motherhood. This alone, not either Adam or Eden, she envies Eve, and at last steals the coveted first human baby, which dies, bereft of its mother, and so gives Lilith the reputation in legend of being a child-murderess. It is a pretty and pathetic idea, and developed, though imperfectly, still not without beauty and pathos. We illustrate its manner by an extract or two: "And dusky trees shut in broad fields beyond, From topmost boughs adown athwart the day, Far bays and sedgy ponds; and rolling rivers bend. Of palest glamours steeped. And far and low "A luring strain She sang, sweet as the pause of summer rain. And kissed the temptress through the green-leaved space. Whereat fell Lilith snatched the babe and fled, A vastly more pretentious poem, but one really not as good, is Lord Lytton's last, Glenaveril, a rhymed romance which is not without some interest, and has about it a certain neatness in the construction of verse, and an occasionally ingenious fancy. Other wise, it seems to us devoid of much virtue. Even the narrative is hampered by a great quantity of very thin "moralizing," which covers the whole ground of life and society, attempting political satire among other things. It would appear to be written for the same class of readers who have found "Lucile " so delightful, but we do not think it will please them. "Lucile," with all its weaknesses, had qualities that made people really care for it; but this book is pasteboard in feeling, in thought, in rhetoric. The following stanza shows its best, in the neatness of verse and the ingenuity of fancy we have spoken of: 44 Born on the day when Lord Glenaveril died, Was Lord Glenaveril; and the sire's last sigh, Breathing a premature farewell, replied To the son's first petitionary cry. On that dim tract which doth two worlds divide * Glenaveril; or the Metamorphoses. By the Earl of Lytton (Owen Meredith). New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1885. For sale in San Francisco by James T. White. And this is about the manner of the pages upon pages of wise reflections strewed through the book: "And here awhile will I, too, pause, to plead With what sense of relief one steps across the broad interval and takes up Mr. Aldrich. His publishers have just issued a cheap edition of his poems, containing all that have hitherto been printed in separate volumes, and, in addition, his more recent magazine verse. The perfect expression of these poems, the subtle perception of moods and sentiments, the hovering between trifling and padozen or so of the lyrics comprise all of Mr. thos, is admirable beyond words; and if a Aldrich's poetry that possesses in the highest degree these qualities, the others all have them to a very considerable extent. It must that he has written. be an unceasing delight to readers of poetry And yet, when all is said, one is aware of a certain somewhat conspicuous effect of lack and unsatisfactoriness in Mr. Aldrich's verse. It is very dainty and very perfect; but, after all, it is only the daintiest and most perfect of dilettant poetry. The best of the lyrics-"Palabras Cariñosas,"" The One White Rose," "Name less Pain," and a dozen more—must first be counted out, before one can make any such criticism with entire faith in it himself; but when these are omitted, there becomes evident an unsatisfying emptiness about Mr. Aldrich's poetry; a preponderance of form over matter; an excess of the virtue of reticence; a too unfailing artistic consciousness, never by any chance lost in artistic impulse. So valuable is the high artistic conscience that belongs to this artistic consciousness, and so great the defect in this respect in almost all poetry writing outside of the literary centers-so entirely is this the side 4 The Poems of Thomas Bailey Aldrich. Boston Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 1885. For sale in San Francisco by Chilion Beach. on which writers should be advised to err, if error must be that we hesitate to make the criticism. And, indeed, it is not excess of manner, but deficiency of matter, that is the real fault. For instance: The Parca. In their dark house of cloud The three weird sisters toil till time be sped: One unwinds life; one ever weaves the shroud; One waits to cut the thread. There seems to be no sufficient reason why these lines should have been written, and they are by no means solitary instances. Mr. E. C. Stedman has lately called attention to the lack of spontaneity and the attenuation of thought to which current poetry tends, as well as its excellent taste and finish. Mr. Aldrich is to be regarded as the best of this recent school, possessing all its virtues, but none the less illustrating plainly enough its limitations. new volume_ Nothing could better illustrate what Mr. Aldrich is not, than turning to Miss Ingelow's —a rare pleasure of late years; and, indeed, at no time has she given forth poems in great abundance and rapid succession. Yet they show no sign of having been withheld for long polishing and finishing; nothing could be more spontaneous, more frank, more unconscious of art. Art there must be, of course; never without it came so much beauty; but Miss Ingelow has the final gift-the inspiration-call it what you will-that breathes into poetry the breath of free, unstudied life. It is one of the mysteries of literature that this unique and beautiful poetry remains so little read; that since a few of her early lyrics-chiefly "Divided," "Songs of Seven," and "The High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire "-Miss Ingelow seems to be forgotten. She is like no one else; she is full of beauty and tenderness and thought; she is even great; and she has all those qualities of freshness and spontaneity that are so rare just now, and that readers weary for and yet she is not read nor talked about. The few lyrics by which she is known are not better than many other poems of hers. 5 Poems of the Old Days and the New. By Jean Ingelow. Boston: Roberts Brothers. 1885. For sale in San Francisco by Strickland & Pierson. : Who reads, quotes, or talks about "Brothers and a Sermon," or "A Story of Doom "? and yet where in all our literature is the same sort of thing done so well? Who knows Miss Ingelow's sonnets? and yet they are beautiful ones, with a sort of quaint and grave sweetness entirely their own. She does all the things that other people cannot do nowadays-ballads that are not forced; countryside idyls of the "Walking to the Mail" sort that are not crude nor artificially simple; meditative poetry that is not dull. She has singular originality, a voice all her own, and an ever fresh and sweet voice it is. The peculiar charm of it baffles analysis. Much of it is due to the great sincerity of her verse, which has preserved it from any of the common vices, such as imitating herself, or forgetting matter for manner; yet one does not find breaches of taste nor lack of reticence in her. The nearest approach that she makes to any such fault is in over-use of refrains and obscure phrases-apparently not in any Rossetti-like affectation, but because she tried to make the poetry take too far the function of music, that of rendering indefinite feeling; so that her poetry laid itself justly open to the clever parody "(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese,)" and the others scarcely less clever, in “FlyLeaves." In the present volume, it would not be possible to say that there is anything equal to the best of her earlier work ; yet it is Jean Ingelow still, without any sign of weakening or failing; it is Jean Ingelow, as "Aftermath ” was Longfellow, or as the later work of Whittier and Holmes shows no "Snow-bound " or "One Hoss Shay," and yet nothing that seems a failing of the powers. There is much meditative verse; much idyllic, with the special appreciativeness of child-life that Miss Ingelow has always had; something of dramatic monologue. It is all worth having and reading. Here is a bit out of the child world: "Ay, Oliver! I was but seven and he was eleven ; He looked at me pouting and rosy. I blushed where I stood. They had told us to play in the orchard (and I only seven! A small guest at the farm); but he said, 'Oh, a girl was no good.' So he whistled and went, he went over the stile to the wood. It was sad, it was sorrowful! Only a girl--only seven! At home, in the dark London smoke, I had not found it out. The pear trees looked on in their white, and blue birds flashed about. And they, too, were angry as Oliver. Were they eleven? I thought so. Yes, every one else was eleven-eleven! "So Oliver went, but the cowslips were tall at my feet, And all the white orchard with fast-falling blossom was littered; And under and over the branches those little birds twittered, While hanging head downwards they scolded because I was seven. A pity. A very great pity. One should be eleven. But soon I was happy, the smell of the world was so sweet. And I saw a round hole in an apple tree rosy and old. Then I knew! for I peeped, and I felt it was right they should scold! Eggs small and eggs many. For gladness I broke into laughter; And then some one else-oh, how softly!-came after, came after With laughter with laughter came after." This was Echo; and when, years after, Katie, in the same orchard, is on the eve of going over to the little low church, in white, and with Oliver, For gladness I break into laughter And tears. Then it all comes again, as from far-away years; Again some one else-oh, how softly!- with laughter comes after, Comes after-with laughter comes after." "In the beginning-for methinks it was- "And I could walk, and went, heaven, A beauteous place it was, as might be seen, This thought of child-life comes constantly in the volume. But here is a different mood: "To show the skies, and tether to the sod! A daunting gift!' we mourn in our long strife, And God is more than all our thought of God; E'en life itself more than our thought of life, We are not satisfied, we have wanted all. A lifted veil, an answering mystical. We do not feel disposed to pass over the volume without saying that it is, we believe, absolutely the worst punctuated that we have ever seen from a respectable house. It looks as if there had been no proof-reading on it. Commas and periods are disposed quite accidentally, and as the constructions are not seldom quite involved, the resulting confusion to the mind is considerable. ETC. THERE is no reason why California should feel humiliated by the Wyoming outrage, committed, so far as we can learn, by the worst class of European immigrants upon Asiatic immigrants. No one has a right to hold California's demand for exclusion of Chinese laborers responsible- as some of the Eastern journals are disposed to do--for any one's abuse of them. Our State has no reason, we repeat, to feel humiliated by the massacre; and we repeat it in or der to add: It has cause for deep humiliation that this monstrous occurrence has received only lukewarm condemnation among us. Is it impossible for men as open to reason as the typical American is supposed to be, to realize what would be his tone of comment if a gang of Indians had done to the whites what these Wyoming miners have done to the Chinese? And yet, what has the European immigrant upon our shores suffered from Asiatic competition, compared with what these "red demons," "fiends in human form," have suffered from white competition? The world is old enough to have learned at least common decency in justice of judgment, to have outgrown an absolutely frank and simple belief that the raising of a hand against us is of course a monstrous and unpardonable crime, but the infliction of any torture by us on an other, the most proper and natural thing in the world. The Roman historian tells with complacency of the admirable stratagems practiced by the Romans upon the Carthaginians; but when the Carthaginians did the same sort of thing, he calls attention to the treacherous and wicked Punic character. It is to be wished that we had outgrown this sort of obtuseness in two thousand years. The journal or the person that indulges in it, or is so far timid before those who do as to pretend to, should remember that generations go by, and policies are settled, and evils removed, but a stain of this kind never fades from the scutcheon of a people. It grows darker and darker in history year after year. How gladly would Massachusetts now wipe out the Salem witch episode from her annals! or Connecticut the Prudence Crandall affair! or the England that wishes to revere the memory of William of Orange, the record of one massacre! The cruel and monstrous act of a set of ruffians in a remote community need be no stain on our national good fame, nor even on that of the section which is in distinct opposition to Chinese immigration, provided that we disavow and condemn it, in good faith, and that as a nation we use, and as a section encourage, every effort to punish it rigidly. Demonstrations of brutality on the part of the baser elements of society are so closely related to an attitude of apology and tolerance and covert sympathy on the part of the better classes, that it would be almost fair to say they are the direct product of it. Two significant facts are thus far disclosed by the investigation in progress: first, that there was no question of wages involved-the Chinese were not underbidding white laborers, but displacing them because they did better work; and, second, that not one single person concerned in the massacre was a native-born American, some of them not being even citizens. Both these things point to the same conclusion: that we have, in the Wyoming murders, no passionate outbreak of illegal and barbarian resist. ance to danger, but simply the savagery of that class of human beings who, in the midst of every civilized society, especially that of old countries, have managed to remain savages still, possibly depraved and brutalized the more by their artificial life in the midst of civilization. Such men come from Europe to our new land abundantly, and become citizens in good and regular standing; they never doubt that, with all their coarse ignorance and brutality, they are by divine right superior to the most learned and virtuous Chinaman or Japanese that ever spent his days and nights in study, or sacrificed his whole fortune to a scruple of honor, or an impulse of patriotism. They would feel that they exercised the right of a superior in assailing with coarse insult the scholarly and honorable gentlemen who, from time to time, as ministers, students, once as professor in an American university, have come to us from China and Japan. To such men it is reason enough for deliberately going in force to shoot or burn to death unarmed men, that they are of another race, and an unpopular and therefore illdefended one, at that. The cowardice of these massacring exploits, when performed by Europeans, is one of their distinguishing features, and one that places them below the level of Indian massacres; for in however cowardly a way the immediate act of Indian massacre may be done, the attackers have nev er been loth to follow it up in a manner that showed there was no lack of courage in them. All this goes to confirm what THE OVERLAND has consistently said: that wise though the general policy of exclusion would seem to be, it is a mistake to draw the lines by race instead of class. This was recognized, in a somewhat bungling way, by the distinction of classes made in the Exclusion Act. It must be evident to any candid person, that a farther recognition of it, which should admit that the base and brutal element of European society may be a danger, as well as the whole poorer class of Asiatic society, would put us in a more logical position. It is just and reasonable for patriotic American citizens, native-born or foreignborn, to protect American society against any immigration that may be decided injurious; it is not just nor reasonable to fight the battle of offensive and undesirable foreigners from one direction against the |