e.
"The Forester's Children," which is one of the latest of this author's
novels, suffers by comparison with its predecessors, but is yet full of
cleverness and smacks of the soil.

Schandorph's naturalism is not pathological; not in the nature of an
autopsy or a diagnosis of disease. It is full-blooded and vigorous--not
particularly squeamish--but always fresh and wholesome. His shorter
tales and sketches ("From the Province," "Five Stories," "Novelettes")
are of more unequal merit, but are all more or less strongly
characterized by the qualities which fascinate in his novels. Of his
poems "_Samlede Digte_," (1882) I have not the space to speak, and can
only regret that they are written in a language in which they will
remain as hidden from the world as if they had been imprinted in
cuneiform inscriptions upon Assyrian bricks. They are largely occasional
and polemical; and more remarkable for vigor of thought than sweetness
of melody.

J. P. Jacobsen, the second in the group to which I have referred, was a
colorist of a very eminent type, both in prose and verse; but his talent
lacked that free-flowing, spontaneous abundance--that charming air of
improvisation--with which Schandorph captivates his reader, takes him
into his confidence, and overwhelms him with entertainment. Jacobsen
painted faces better than he did souls; or, rather, he did not seem to
think the latter worth painting, unless they exhibited some abnormal
mood or trait. There is something forced and morbid in his people--a
lack of free movement and natural impulse. His principal work, "Mistress
Marie Grubbe," is a series of anxiously finished pictures, carefully
executed in the minutest details, but failing somehow to make a complete
impression. Each scene is so bewilderingly surcharged with color that,
as in the case of a Gobelin tapestry, one has to be at a distance before
one discovers the design. There is something almost wearisome in the
far-fetched words with which he piles up picturesque effects, returning
every now and then to put in an extra touch--to tip a feather with
light, to brighten the sheen of his satins, to polish the steely lustre
of swords and armors. Yet, if one takes the time to linger over these
unusual words and combinations of words, one is likely to find that they
are strong and appropriate. All conventional shop-work he disdained; the
traditional phrases for eyes, lips, brow, and hair were discarded, not
necessarily because t