st, doubtless because he is
here drawing upon his memory[93] and not his imagination. The old
gentleman, very different from his prototype Eubulus, moves quite
humanly among his bees and flowers, and tells the graceful story of his
love with a charm that is almost natural. And, although he checks the
action of the story for thirty-three pages, we are sorry to take leave
of this "fatherlye and friendlye sire"; for he lays for a time the ghost
of homily, which reappears directly his guests begin to "forme their
steppes towards London." Having reached the Court, in due time
Philautus, in accordance with the prophecies of Euphues though much to
his disgust, falls in love. The lady of his choice, however, has
unfortunately given her heart to another, by name Surius. The despondent
lover, after applying in vain to an Italian magician for a love-philtre,
at length determines to adopt the bolder line of writing to his scornful
lady. The letter is conveyed in a pomegranate, and the incident of its
presentation is prettily conceived and displays a certain amount of
dramatic power. The upshot is that Philautus eventually finds a maiden
who is unattached and who is ready to return love for love. Her he
marries, and remains behind with "his Violet" in England, while Euphues,
less happy than self-satisfied, returns to Athens. The interest of the
latter half of the book centres round the house of Lady Flavia, where
the principal characters of both sexes meet together and discuss the
philosophy of love and the psychology of ladies. Such intellectual
gatherings were a recognised institution at Florence at this time, being
an imitation of Plato's symposium, and Lyly had already attempted, not
so successfully as here, to describe one in the house of Lucilla of the
_Anatomy of Wit_.

[93] Mr Bond thinks it a picture of Lyly's father.

In every way _Euphues and his England_ is an improvement upon its
predecessor. The story and plot are still weak, but the situations are
often well thought out and treated with dramatic effect. The action
indeed is slow, but it moves; and in the story of Fidus it moves
comparatively quickly. Such motion of course can scarcely ruffle the
mental waters of those accustomed to the breathless whirlwinds which
form the heart of George Meredith's novels; but these whirlwinds are as
directly traceable to the gentle but fitful agitation of _Euphues_, as
was the storm that overtook Ahab's chariot to the little cloud