straining his ears to catch the least sound in that insupportable, time-measured silence-and then-the entry of the mysterious visitor: the offer of the choice: and the murderer at the last instant overcoming himself and the baseness of his nature, and delivering his body into the hands of justice at the moment when he opens the door to the maid-here Mr Stevenson's mighty genius wings its highest flight. Markheim may be of his earliest work; it is his supremest success.

And, now that we have reached the most perfect point of that genius-a flawless gem, faultless in style, brave and bold in execution, it is time to stop. What Mr Stevenson has for us in the future, we cannot tell: he is still in the meridian of his life, his reputation continues undiminished, he stands at the head of the confraternity of letters beside the great men of the past and the few brilliant lights of to-day. For the score of volumes he has already given to the world, we are grateful beyond measure. But gratitude has no bounds: and a further score, equal to the last, can greatly increase it. If this is not to be, we must be satisfied to let the great creator survey his work, resting on his laurels. Imperishable fame, a blameless life, the satisfaction of having given delight to all sorts and conditions of men-what can man wish for more?

A. H. T.

A RIVER IDYLL.

(By a river Idler).

THERE is nothing so weary as waiting,
When the day is appallingly hot
And the weather is most enervating-
To see if she's coming or not.
There is surely no harm in my stating
That I was most keenly debating
Whether that sweet fascinating

Miss Dora were coming or not.

I had passed the whole morn at the station
In the midst of the smoke and the din,
And for hours 'twas my sole occupation
To watch for the trains to come in.
If you follow my recommendation,

It is better by far in vacation

To read Ciceronian oration

Than to watch for the trains to come in.

I was angry and stiff and rheumatic,
I had put many pence in the slot,

I had shot with those pop-guns erratic,

Which is death-when the weather is hot.

I repeat, though it be iteratic—

Yet one cannot be too emphatic-

You don't feel divinely ecstatic

When the weather is fatefully hot.

At length in the distance I sighted
The smoke of a train in the air,
It arrived, and oh joy! there alighted
Her mother, her sire, and the Fair.

When one has felt simply benighted
And regarded one's prospects as blighted
One naturally feels quite delighted

At the coming of her that is Fair.

Her sire remarked he was voracious,
The train was confoundedly slow,
She hoped I'd not waited-"Good gracious,"
I said, "just a minute or so."

It is strange how your conscience grows spacious
To contain such a statement mendacious
When uttered in manner vivacious—

"Oh, only a minute or so."

But what if some reader is saying,
With captious ironical grin,
"It's all very well to go maying

But where does the Idyll begin?"
From the theme I am really not straying
In blatant hysterical braying:

I have very much pleasure in saying.
Next line doth the Idyll begin.

More softly the sunlight was dancing
On the shimmering waters in front,
And I said, at her loveliness glancing,
"Would you care to come out in a punt?"
When the shadows of night are advancing
The coolness and stillness enhancing
There is nothing so purely entrancing
As to dream for a while in a punt.

In my soft gliding punt, yclept Nelly,
We crept 'neath a shadowy grove,
And we talked of the poems of Shelley
And others who dream about love:
The music romantic of Kelley
(So charmingly sung by Trebelli),
And the novels of Marie Corelli

Are also connected with love.

But as I was softly employing

That language that some might call bosh, A launch whistled by all-destroying

And sent us the wave of its wash.
It is hard to find aught more annoying
Than when you are sweetly enjoying
The rapture of carelessly toying
With locks, to be tossed by a wash.

In a voice with a rising inflection
I told the sad tale of my love,
And vowed everlasting affection

By yon blue vaulted Heaven above.
I may say to you in this connection,
I admit to a great predilection
For swearing eternal protection

By yon blue vaulted Heaven above.

I called her an angel, a peri,

I said she was fair as the light, Her lips were more red than the cherry Her eyes were like stars of the night. At my words perhaps you will make merry, And your face in your handkerchief bury, But I thought it felicitous very

To call her eyes "stars of the night."

She blushed in a manner transcending
And drooped her head down on her breast,
Like a lily: then suddenly bending

She-nay, draw a veil o'er the rest.
It is best at the risk of offending
The critic or kind or unbending
To bring this sweet tale to an ending
By drawing a veil o'er the rest.

A. J. C.

ILLUSIONS PERDUES.

Characters.

GERARD VYVYAN.

VERNON WINGFOLD, author of Orphic Dreams.
Sir GILES PORTINGTON, M.P. for Stockborough English.
MALCOLM STUDLEY.

Lady VYVYAN.

Miss ARLINGTON.

Place.

Vyvyan Hall, in the East Riding.

SCENE I. The billiard-room. Time, 9 p.m. GERALD VYVYAN and Sir GILES are playing billiards. STUDLEY marks for them, while WINGFOLD lies at full length on a lounge.

Sir GILES. My dear Gerald, that's the third easy cannon you've broken down at. What on earth is the matter with you to-night?

GERALD. Merely abstraction, Sir Giles. I beg your pardon.

Sir GILES. Pshaw! What has abstraction to do with billiards? I wonder if I can play this. Ah, too fine!

STUDLEY. Yes, you ought to have hit it fuller.

WINGFOLD. I sympathise with you, Gerald. But, my dear boy, you are really too engrossed with your thoughts. A man should be engrossed with nothingnot even with billiards, Sir Giles.

Sir GILES. Nobody could accuse you of concentration.