everything before them. Thus, to mention only one episode, we have a long account of the doings of De Ruiter, how he tamed the British leopard, struck terror to the heart of London, and set fire to Sheerness. Nay, it would seem that on one occasion his ghost appeared amongst the Dutch fleet, and that the apparition acted on them so powerfully that the English leopard receded bleeding and powerless. This is rather amusing, but is it not also slightly pathetic? The Dutch Nation is the song of a man living in a more or less imaginary past, because he can nowhere else find alleviation for the sorrows of the present, or hope for the darkness of the future.

But to return to Bilderdijk. His most celebrated poem, dating from the period of the exile, is the Ziekte der Geleerden (diseases of learned men). This curious poem is divided into six cantos. The reader who pictures the muse to himself as a mysterious form of superhuman beauty, clad in dreamy twilight, full of soul and imagination, whispering in soft, broken accents, all the more sublime because slightly unintelligible, will be sadly disappointed; the muse of Bilderdijk is a female M.D. The Ziekte der Geleerden is a pharmacopoeia in rhyme. You will find in it a description of the diseases and illnesses by which humanity is afflicted; you will be invited to listen to a discussion of the several methods of healing, and you will carry away, if you have not meantime fallen asleep, the salutary maxim "That medicine is able to support nature in its work of healing, but unable to restore it." "Believe not in magic," which, being translated into the vernacular, reads thus: Do not trust a quack.

But we must hasten to consider another poem, which, in the opinion of Dutch critics, has raised Bilderdijk next to Shakspeare and Goethe, if not above them. During the days of exile he conceived the plan of writing a great epic poem on The Destruction of the First World. He began it at the

end of the year 1809, and his inspiration was at its very height when unfortunately his labours were interrupted by domestic affliction, followed by great national calamities. The pen fell from his hands never again to be taken up, and his poem remains for ever a fragment, a torso, in which the filling up of outlines, the arrangement of details, and, above all, the completion of the figure, are left to the imagination of the reader.

An epic poem en plein jour of the nineteenth century! It was a bold undertaking. A critical and sceptical age is not an epic age. The atmosphere for the epos, the childlike faith of the men of Homer, or the despairing belief of the contemporaries of Dante, where shall we find it, seeing that we are certain of nothing except of uncertainty? It was the glory of Goethe to write an epic poem in the nineteenth century, and to succeed. But then he had the courage to place on the vacant throne from which Paganism had fallen, and on which traditionary Christianity was unable any longer to maintain itself, a great and noble philosophy-the philosophy of nature. The epos of Goethe is a cry from the heart of nature.

The Dutch poet carries us back to the days of Hebrew mythology: he will tell us of "the destruction of the first world: how the Omnipotent, wearied of the conflict with men, destroyed the earth by means of a flood." A subject like this was worthy of a great poet, and some of the episodes must be ranked amongst the masterpieces of poetry. La pompe des Alexandrins was never more gorgeously displayed than in those cantos of De Ondergang der Eerste Waereld. There is also a loftiness of conception and a vigour of execution which cannot fail to command admiration. And yet, with all its great and undeniable beauties, the poem leaves us unsatisfied. We are so very far removed from that world—and all the art of the poet fails to bridge over the distance!

I have but space for a very short extract, for I have already dwelt too long

on Bilderdijk. Look at the picture of Elpine, one of the daughters of Cain. She is represented to us as an orphan who has lost the innocence of her youth. "It is night: the silvery beams of the moon fall upon the rippling stream, the breeze dances through the forest, or chases the wavelets, or kisses the tear-stained cheeks of Elpine. Alas, nothing can dry those tears. She sits, plunged in deep sorrow, like a marble. statue. The torch of day is well-nigh extinguished, and the stars are about to illumine the darkness. But she has no eye for those things. . . . A brief moment passes. Once more she is in the arms of the youth whose passion had overcome her virtue. She feels the pressure of his arms and the beating of his heart in unison with hers; and, as he touches her lips, and she opens her half-closed eyes, she sees the same heavenly being who had clung to her in tender embraces, and whose pledge of love she carries even now. Her joy is so overwhelming that she feels on the point of death. . . ." The episode concludes with a struggle between Elpine and her lover. Her lover swears that he will forsake his Eden in order to become her husband. She refuses, hesitates, and ends by yielding. But when her lover announces to her that he will become the

"The

leader of a second rebellion, and regain Paradise for humanity, her better feelings are aroused, and she pronounces against that determination. "We have but one hope-it is God's grace, His redemption and restoration. . . . She then leaves the young man to himself."

Well, then, compare the Elpine of Bilderdijk with the Marguerite of Goethe, since the parallel is forced upon us. The glory of the maiden of Goethe is her divine ignorance. She is as pure after her fall as she had been before. Elpine, on the other hand, is a woman such as the world has often seen. Granted that the picture is intensely dramatic, and contains touches of subtle psychological analysis, we are still left to ask, which is the greater of the two, Elpine or Gretchen? But tell me which is grander, a calm evening of spring, or a stormy, wintry night?

The volumes, with the fantastical titles, which Bilderdijk published in later days, contain evident tokens of poetical decline. But he had done enough to have his name placed alongside of a Vondel, and to be ranked amongst the greatest men of Holland. Had he done nothing more than write the fragment, entitled, The Destruction of the First World, he would have had a right to claim a place amongst the princes of poetry.

A. SCHWARZ.

THE town of Kisawlee-as the geography books would say contains a population of upwards of nine thousand. I should say the town to which I will give the name of Kisawlee-for it would be time thrown away to search for its whereabouts in Keith Johnston or any other modern atlas-even if they deigned to give poor Canada a map worthy of the name. The chances are that if you consult an ordinary atlas you will find a space near the end devoted to a Map of North America generally; or in a fuller edition for more advanced students, perhaps the United States and British Possessions would be allowed a whole page to themselves, an honour shared by Sardinia and Corsica, Norway and Sweden, or the islands of the Grecian Archipelago. The names of great States, containing several millions of the Anglo-Saxon race, and half a dozen cities, larger than many of the smaller European capitals, are printed in precisely the same type as collections of mud huts on the preceding page, while our own great Dominion would be denoted by a red smudge in the top corner, with Lake Ontario standing on its head, Lake Erie looking as if it were not quite certain where it ought to be, and Superior making off (to use a native expression) in a bee-line towards the Rocky Mountains. "British Possessions" are written in a general way from Toronto (probably still put down as "Little York ") to the Atlantic Ocean, and the country behind, where manufacturing towns stand thick, where shorthorn stock grazes, is cut off with the simple designation of "Unknown Territory," or the long-forgotten and obsolete name of "Prince Rupert's Land." Very good maps of Canada can be procured from the emigration agents, but it is not to be expected that

schoolroom governess or the knickerbockered child of ten, which may be put down as the most advanced age at which it is thought necessary to instil into British youths a knowledge of the physical geography of the world they inhabit. So the United States and Canada are dismissed with the same number of useless marks as Crim Tartary and Siberia. The youth goes to school, and even that little is forgotten.

Who can wonder, then, when educat ed Englishmen ask which is Upper and which is Lower Canada, whether South Carolina touches the Canadian frontier, and have a general idea that the country is inhabited by Yankees, Indians, and polar bears, or that they do as one individual I know of didcome straight from an eminent British seat of learning to the longest settled part of the oldest state in America, bringing with him an enormous chest of carpenter's tools in the expectation of having to build his own house and sleep in the open air till it was finished. The feelings of the Canadians are being continually ruffled as instances come before their notice of what a terra in cognita their land (of which they are so Froud) is in the mother country. The Yankees are not so sensitive, and they only "guess the stranger is behind the times some," and pity him forthwith. But I must cry peccavi for having rambled so far from my subject, which was to endeavour to give a description, however feeble, of the manners and customs of the Canadians, taking a provincial town as my model rather than the old beaten route by way of Quebec, Montreal, and Toronto. Kisawlee, as I before said, boasts of a population of nine thousand and has considerable social pretensions. When the towns of A-, B——, or C▬▬ give

1

on Bilderdijk. Look at the picture of Elpine, one of the daughters of Cain. She is represented to us as an orphan who has lost the innocence of her youth. "It is night: the silvery beams of the moon fall upon the rippling stream, the breeze dances through the forest, or chases the wavelets, or kisses the tear-stained cheeks of Elpine. Alas, nothing can dry those tears. She sits, plunged in deep sorrow, like a marble statue. The torch of day is well-nigh extinguished, and the stars are about to illumine the darkness. But she has no eye for those things. moment passes.

...

A brief Once more she is in the arms of the youth whose passion had overcome her virtue. She feels the pressure of his arms and the beating of his heart in unison with hers; and, as he touches her lips, and she opens her half-closed eyes, she sees the same heavenly being who had clung to her in tender embraces, and whose pledge of love she carries even now. Her joy is so overwhelming that she feels on the point of death. ." The

episode concludes with a struggle between Elpine and her lover. Her lover swears that he will forsake his Eden in order to become her husband. She refuses, hesitates, and ends by yielding. But when her lover announces to her that he will become the

leader of a second rebellion, and regain Paradise for humanity, her better feelings are aroused, and she pronounces against that determination. "We have but one hope-it is God's grace, His redemption and restoration. She then leaves the young man to himself."

Well, then, compare the Elpine of Bilderdijk with the Marguerite of Goethe, since the parallel is forced upon us. The glory of the maiden of Goethe is her divine ignorance. She is as pure after her fall as she had been before. Elpine, on the other hand, is a woman such as the world has often seen. Granted that the picture is intensely dramatic, and contains touches of subtle psychological analysis, we are still left to ask, which is the greater of the two, Elpine or Gretchen? But tell me which is grander, a calm evening of spring, or a stormy, wintry night?

The volumes, with the fantastical titles, which Bilderdijk published in later days, contain evident tokens of poetical decline. But he had done enough to have his name placed alongside of a Vondel, and to be ranked amongst the greatest men of Holland. Had he done nothing more than write the fragment, entitled, The Destruction of the First World, he would have had a right to claim a place amongst the princes of poetry.

A. SCHWARZ.

THE town of Kisawlee-as the geography books would say contains a population of upwards of nine thousand. I should say the town to which I will give the name of Kisawlee - for it would be time thrown away to search for its whereabouts in Keith Johnston or any other modern atlas-even if they deigned to give poor Canada a map worthy of the name. The chances are that if you consult an ordinary atlas you will find a space near the end devoted to a Map of North America generally; or in a fuller edition for more advanced students, perhaps the United States and British Possessions would be allowed a whole page to themselves, an honour shared by Sardinia and Corsica, Norway and Sweden, or the islands of the Grecian Archipelago. The names of great States, containing several millions of the Anglo-Saxon race, and half a dozen cities, larger than many of the smaller European capitals, are printed in precisely the same type as collections of mud huts on the preceding page, while our own great Dominion would be denoted by a red smudge in the top corner, with Lake Ontario standing on its head, Lake Erie looking as if it were not quite certain where it ought to be, and Superior making off (to use a native expression) in a bee-line towards the Rocky Mountains. "British Possessions "

as

are written in a general way from Toronto (probably still put down "Little York") to the Atlantic Ocean, and the country behind, where manufacturing towns stand thick, where shorthorn stock grazes, is cut off with the simple designation of "Unknown Territory," or the long-forgotten and obsolete name of "Prince Rupert's Land." Very good maps of Canada can be procured from the emigration agents, but it is not to be expected that

Who can wonder, then, when educat ed Englishmen ask which is Upper and which is Lower Canada, whether South Carolina touches the Canadian frontier, and have a general idea that the country is inhabited by Yankees, Indians, and polar bears, or that they do as one individual I know of didcome straight from an eminent British seat of learning to the longest settled part of the oldest state in America, bringing with him an enormous chest of carpenter's tools in the expectation of having to build his own house and sleep in the open air till it was finished. The feelings of the Canadians are being continually ruffled as instances come before their notice of what a terra in cognita their land (of which they are so Froud) is in the mother country. The Yankees are not so sensitive, and they only "guess the stranger is behind the times some," and pity him forthwith. But I must cry peccavi for having rambled so far from my subject, which was to endeavour to give a description, however feeble, of the manners and customs of the Canadians, taking a provincial town as my model rather than the old beaten route by way of Quebec, Montreal, Montreal, and Toronto. Kisawlee, as I before said, boasts of a population of nine thousand and has considerable social pretensions. When the towns of A-———, Bor C―― give