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, Miss Dora were coming or not. I had passed the whole morn at the station 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 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 When one has felt simply benighted At the coming of her that is Fair. Her sire remarked he was voracious, It is strange how your conscience grows spacious "Oh, only a minute or so." But what if some reader is saying, But where does the Idyll begin?" I have very much pleasure in saying. More softly the sunlight was dancing In my soft gliding punt, yclept Nelly, 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. In a voice with a rising inflection By yon blue vaulted Heaven above. 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 She-nay, draw a veil o'er the rest. A. J. C. ILLUSIONS PERDUES. Characters. GERARD VYVYAN. VERNON WINGFOLD, author of Orphic Dreams. 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. |