bright as the soul of light, for wings an eagle,
for notes a dove,
Leaps and shines from the lustrous lines wherethrough
thy soul from afar above
Shone and sang till the darkness rang with light whose
fire is the fount of love."

These lines are written of Sir Philip Sidney. Could another man have
written them they had stood even better for Mr. Swinburne. But we are
considering the metre, not the meaning. Now the metre may have great
merits. I am disposed to say that, having fascinated Mr. Swinburne, it
must have great merits. That I dislike it is, no doubt, my fault, or
rather my misfortune. But undoubtedly it is a metre that no man but
Mr. Swinburne could handle without producing a monotony varied only by
discords.

A MORNING WITH A BOOK

April 29, 1893. Hazlitt's Stipulation.

"Food, warmth, sleep, and a book; these are all I at present
ask--the _Ultima Thule_ of my wandering desires. Do you not then
wish for--
_a friend in your retreat
Whom you may whisper, 'Solitude is sweet'?_

Expected, well enough: gone, still better. Such attractions are
strengthened by distance."

So Hazlitt wrote in his _Farewell to Essay Writing_. There never was
such an epicure of his moods as Hazlitt. Others might add Omar's
stipulation--

"--and Thou
Beside me singing in the wilderness."

But this addition would have spoiled Hazlitt's enjoyment. Let us
remember that his love affairs had been unprosperous. "Such
attractions," he would object, "are strengthened by distance." In any
case, the book and singer go ill together, and most of us will declare
for a spell of each in turn.

What are "The Best Books"?

Suppose we choose the book. What kind of book shall it be? Shall it be
an old book which we have forgotten just sufficiently to taste
surprise as its felicities come back to us, and remember just
sufficiently to escape the attentive strain of a first reading? Or
shall it be a new book by an author we love, to be glanced through
with no critical purpose (this may be deferred to the second reading),
but merely for the lazy pleasure of recognizing the familiar brain at
work, and feeling happy, perhaps, at the success of a friend? There is
no doubt which Hazlitt would have chosen; he has told us in his essay
_On Reading Old Books_. But after a recent experience I am not sure
that I agree with