sonnets, perhaps, indeed, whose writings of any kind—are known, if at all, only to professional students of poetry. Even Shakspeare's sonnets are read mainly by those who have been attracted to the subject in connexion with the various theories of origin and purpose. These sonnets are interesting because they are Shakspeare's and because they involve an insoluble literary puzzle; otherwise, they too would have been familiar to none but exceptional readers. The same has to be said of Milton's sonnets, which Johnson disposed of with faint praise that was not altogether unmerited. The author of "Paradise Lost" like the author of the " Faerie Queene," and the author of "In Memoriam," had not room to work in the sonnet. His method was too expansive, his reach too wide, and his harmonies too elaborate and voluminous for the unyielding limits of the Petrarchan poem. Milton in the sonnet is as much out of place as a cathedral organ would be in one's parlour; there is no possibility of hearing him, should he express himself to the full, and he simply trifles with his energies by exerting himself in such circumstances at all. Had sonnet-writing been fashionable in the eighteenth century fine work would undoubtedly have been done by Gray and Collins, the former of whom has left one chaste specimen in his "Death of Richard West." These are poets whose sonnets would have been appreciated by readers of the class that can discover excellent poetical composition under whatever form. Yet it is not likely that, though each had written two sonnets for every ode he produced, their popularity would have been much wider than it is. Gray would have still have been known to every reader for his "Elegy," while Collins would have remained in the dignified obscurity that has always formed a halo about his memory. Shelley and Keats and Coleridge all wrote beautiful sonnets, which, however, give one the impression of having been the pastime of the poets while disengaged from heavier work.

Fancy in Nubibus," despite its subtle sublimity of aspiration, and "Ozymandias" with all its massive grandeur, add nothing to the reputation of the authors of the "Ancient Mariner" and "Prometheus Unbound." "On First looking into Chapman's Homer," receives a factitious interest from the touching narrative of which it is the climax and glowing

synopsis ; it tells so much about Keats that it gets a popularity not all its own. Blanco White's grand sonnet, in virtue of which he achieved a reputation like that of the renowned "single-speech Hamilton," has not been sufficient to hand him down to posterity outside of the most strictly literary circles, and they are the very elect of readers who know Hartley Coleridge. Wordsworth's sonnets are as exceptional as everything else he wrote; they have the same beauties and the same flaws as his " Excursion," the same philosophical dignity and chasteness of expression, the same occasional tendency to prosaic commonplace and sturdy egoism. Of all English poets Wordsworth has the best claim to write the sonnet of reflection and sentiment. He would have failed had the fashion in his time still been that of the Elizabethan poets, namely, to produce conventional homage to his Lady, and to ring the changes on the old and worn out theme of the amourists. But with the privilege of doing as seemed good in his own eyes Wordsworth could do excellent work in the sonnet. It was little more trouble to arrange the recognized staves in the legitimate (or for that matter the illegitimate) form than to compose a paragraph of the "Excursion" or draw out the apotheosis of the "Leech Gatherer." Thus Wordsworth has turned the sonnet to account in a most admirable way. Fault may be found with him sometimes in regard to form, or melody, or unity of idea, and the like, but there cannot be a question as to the excellence of his treatment if the sonnet is once accepted as a convenient means of occasional poetical expression. Ordinary readers, of course, do not know Wordsworth's sonnets, but then ordinary readers know nothing of Wordsworth in any sense. It is probably true that, even in this case, little real fame has been added by the sonnets themselves, but there is this at least to be said for them that they are quite as characteristic of the author as his more expanded work. It is not with Wordsworth as with Shakspeare and Milton. You do not find one man in the more elaborate writings and another in the sonnets. And that is wherein lies the strongest defence of Wordsworth as a sonneteer. One thinks less of the mere poetical experiment in reading his sonnets, and more of the natural expression of the philosophical mind.

This is exactly what the judicious reader will find in reading the sonnets of Mr. Charles Tennyson Turner. They come of an inspiration similar to Wordsworth's, and partake little of the Elizabethan and Italian revival that may be noticed in Mrs. Browning's "Sonnets from the Portuguese" and Mr. Rossetti's "House of Life." House of Life." Mr. Turner's sonnets are not all English in form, but they are English in character and tone, pure, and fresh, and bracing, with more of the rich pensiveness of the blackbird in their sentiment than the indefinite melancholy of the culver. Just as the Rev. Gilbert White of Selborne produced out of his own limited neighbourhood a book of natural history altogether unique, so the Rev. Charles Turner has made Grasby and its amenities the foundation of some beautiful and elevating sentiment and thought; set forth, moreover, in a style of chaste and suggestive simplicity. The insight and quick grasp of the poet are seen in the seizure and transfiguration of little incidents, in the delicate yet firm setting of sudden and even random currents of thought, in the appreciation of something unusually beautiful or noble in scenery or character. There is always poetry at one's hand for the making, if one could just observe the right purpose and have sufficient inspiration to trust to. There is a delusion abroad that literature of the first quality is not possible apart from great cities and books. Such a fantastic conception entirely overlooks all that has been so wisely laid down about" books in the running brooks," as well as the fact about the origin of works like "Venus and Adonis," the "Faerie Queene," and "The Excursion." It is easy to see that poetry like the "Dunciad" and "Absalom and Achitophel" could never have been produced apart from social and political and literary issues of the most imperative kind, but it is also quite evident that much of what is interesting in works like these belongs exclusively to the times in which they were produced. On the other hand, there is a perennial interest about the coming and going of that harbinger of Spring the roaming and romantic cuckoo. What any poet says in an interesting way of such a subject will remain as long as things are what they are, till,in the words of the enthusiastic lover,

"Till a' the seas gang dry."

Michael Bruce's little song of the bower that is ever green is not likely to be soon forgotten, nor Matthew Arnold's happy allusion to the tempestuous day in early June, and the vext garden trees, and the cuckoo's parting cry amid it all,

"The bloom is gone and with the bloom go I."

Anybody can understand and rejoice in poetical thoroughness and rare idealism of this kind; just too as natures with even a tinge of imagination in them can understand and appreciate Wordsworth's transcription of the boy's notion that the cuckoo is a "wandering voice." It is good earnest of Mr. Tennyson Turner's poetic quality to find him bewailing his disenchantment at seeing a cuckoo in a hedge by the wayside. O cuckoo ! am I of my wits bereft ?

Or do I hear thee in the hedgerow there?
The doves of old Dodona never left
Their oak, to babble near a thoroughfare;
How shall thy mythic character outlive
Thy presence, by thy voice identified?
How shall the fells and copses e'er forgive
Thy gadding visit to the highway-side ?
How art thou disenchanted! self-betray'd!
Back, foolish bird! return whence thou hast stray'd;
A woody distance is thy vantage-ground;

Thy song comes sweetest up from Moreham wood;
Why notify thy claim to flesh and blood?

The Muses know thee as a mystic sound.

Facing that sonnet there is one that shows not only poetical insight but quick fancy and poetical inspiration as well. It is like Wordsworth in his affection for details and its grasp of the moral features that may be found in the study of outward nature and the lower animals, and there is much of Gilbert White in the author's enthusiasm and in the large dimensions and sudden importance that little things assume under his touch. The combination of elements and the delicacy of suggestion and accuracy of finish are the poet's own. The title of the sonnet is "The Sparrow and the Dewdrop." When to the birds their morning meal I threw,

Beside one perky candidate for bread

There flash'd and wink'd a tiny drop of dew,

But while I gaz'd I lost them, both had fled;

His careless tread had struck the blade-hung tear,

And all its silent beauty fell away;

And left, sole relic of the twinkling sphere,

A sparrow's dabbled foot upon a spray;
Bold bird! that did'st efface a lovely thing
Before a poet's eyes! I've half a mind,
Could I but single thee from out thy kind,
To mulct thee in a crumb ; a crumb to thee
Is not more sweet than that fair drop to me;
Fie on thy little foot and thrumming wing.

A sonnet that is particularly well-conceived and worked, and that if not very regular in form, is at any rate fanciful and fairly exhaustive of the single idea is "Emmeline." This one comes as near as any in the collection to what may be called the love-sonnet, and it is a love-sonnet with this very material difference from the ordinary composition of that kind that the love is not subjective. The poet here does not mourn the hardness of his lady towards him, does not complain that she lends a deaf ear unto his entreaties, does not find that when he cries she laughs or doth rejoice at his pine. Now that the sonnet may be used for description and reflection, and not merely for the expression of ideal passion, or emotion that at length tends to be monotonous and mechanical, the sonneteer has privileges that his ancestors knew nothing of. Instead of inditing a sonnet to his mistress's eyebrow, as the forlorn poet was driven in extremities to do, in the days of melancholy Jaques, it is open now to write, say, about the loves of ones neighbours, or the interests of certain daughters that one takes pleasure in observing from day to day. With a gentle humourist like Mr. Tennyson Turner such a privilege is not abused; on the other hand one rejoices in the genial man of middle age" or a little more that can write in this way. Moreover, it is at least the half of a most thrilling love-tale told with all faithfulness and simplicity within the narrow compass of a single sonnet. Notice the emphatic significance of all the epithets, the happy choice of expressive words,and the melody of the movement.

She grows apace, thy darling Emmeline !

Her heart, erewhile but two feet from the ground,

Beats at a higher level, in the line

Of many arches, pressing daily round;

She doffs aside the aim of Jones and Brown;

But, though a surer arrow has been set

By a young marksman from the neighbouring town,

It lingers on the string,-he speaks not yet.