of another until the fabric of his poem is completely hidden
beneath luxuriant flowers of speech. Either they hide it from the
author himself; or, conscious of his lack of architectonic skill, he
deliberately trails these creepers over his ill-constructed walls. I
think the former is the true explanation, but am not sure.

Let me be cautious here, or some remarks I made the other day upon
another poet--Mr. Hosken, author of _Phaon and Sappho_, and _Verses by
the Way_--will be brought up against me. Defending Mr. Hosken against
certain critics who had complained of the lack of dramatic power in
his tragedies, I said, "Be it allowed that he has little dramatic
power, and that (since the poem professed to be a tragedy) dramatic
power was what you reasonably looked for. But an alert critic,
considering the work of a beginner, will have an eye for the
bye-strokes as well as the main ones: and if the author, while missing
the main, prove effective with the bye--if Mr. Hosken, while failing
to construct a satisfactory drama, gave evidence of strength in many
fine meditative passages--then at the worst he stands convicted of a
youthful error in choosing a literary form unsuited to convey his
thought."

Not in the "Plays" only.

These observations I believe to be just, and having entered the
_caveat_ in Mr. Hosken's case, I should observe it in Mr. Davidson's
also, did these five youthful plays stand alone. But Mr. Davidson has
published much since these plays first appeared--works both in prose
and verse--_Fleet Street Eclogues_, _Ninian Jamieson_, _A Practical
Novelist_, _A Random Itinerary_, _Baptist Lake_: and because I have
followed his writings (I think from his first coming to London) with
the greatest interest, I may possibly be excused for speaking a word
of warning. I am quite certain that Mr. Davidson will never bore me:
but I wish I could be half so certain that he will in time produce
something in true perspective; a fabric duly proportioned, each line
of which from the beginning shall guide the reader to an end which the
author has in view; something which

"_Servetur ad imum
Qualis ab incepto processerit, et sibi constet._"

_Sibi constet_, be it remarked. A work of art may stand very far from
Nature, provided its own parts are consistent. Heaven forbid that a
critic should decry an author for being fantastic, so long as he is
true to his fantasy.

But Mr. David