. . . . .
When mem'ry turns the key
Where time has placed my score,
Encased 'mid treasured thoughts must be
The dear old knocker on the door.

The cynic may mock at the subject of these verses, but we do not. Why
not an ode on a knocker? Does not Victor Hugo's tragedy of Lucrece
Borgia turn on the defacement of a doorplate? Mr. Furlong must not be
discouraged. Perhaps he will write poetry some day. If he does we would
earnestly appeal to him to give up calling a cock 'proud chanticleer.'
Few synonyms are so depressing.

Having been lured by the Circe of a white vellum binding into the region
of the pump and doormat, we turn to a modest little volume by Mr. Bowling
of St. John's College, Cambridge, entitled Sagittulae. And they are
indeed delicate little arrows, for they are winged with the lightness of
the lyric and barbed daintily with satire. AEsthesis and Athletes is a
sweet idyll, and nothing can be more pathetic than the Tragedy of the
XIX. Century, which tells of a luckless examiner condemned in his public
capacity to pluck for her Little-go the girl graduate whom he privately
adores. Girton seems to be having an important influence on the
Cambridge school of poetry. We are not surprised. The Graces are the
Graces always, even when they wear spectacles.

Then comes Tuberose and Meadowsweet, by Mr. Mark Andre Raffalovich. This
is really a remarkable little volume, and contains many strange and
beautiful poems. To say of these poems that they are unhealthy and bring
with them the heavy odours of the hothouse is to point out neither their
defect nor their merit, but their quality merely. And though Mr.