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saintly maiden whom the angels name Lenore"? A poem dealing with the Crucifixion were just as beautiful and far more melancholy than this. Again, he devotes a page or so to an attempted explanation of his choice of the word "nevermore," but to the end he leaves us very largely in the dark as to its origin. Beyond that, the essay is wholly true and reasonable. Beauty, melancholy, and "nevermore" were temperamental in their source. From them, by means of an exquisite technique, he has translated temperament into what is both literature and art. He is not only a creative genius; he is also a conscious creative genius. That is the only difference between him and more favored artists, to whom technique belongs and by whom it is employed well-nigh unconsciously, and certainly through divine rather than human right.

This consciousness of Poe's genius is, unfortunately, responsible for what seems so mathematical in many of his stories, a quality which frequently obtrudes itself on our otherwise thoroughly genuine enjoyment of them. His method of dealing with craftsmanship, then, overemphasizes its artificial side. And this theory is very likely to become pernicious. It leads, on the one hand to the tour de force, on the other to the abandonment of art by the man of genius in favor of a more literary form of expression. We see this danger illustrated in Poe's own work. Many of his stories are so excessively logical, so like a page torn from Euclid, as almost entirely to vitiate their literary value. We see it again in the later work of a painter like Puvis de Chavannes, who was so proud of his discovery that a wall was flat (to use Mr. Huneker's expression) that his whole genius was absorbed in demonstrating its flatness. On the other hand, we see it in Mr. Sargent's painting, where his technical ability has led him to exchange the creation of art for the creation of the literary picture.

Poe has of course contributed several other valuable ideas to the corpus of critical theory. He has, in the first place, shown to perfection that a "long poem" is a contradiction in terms, since sustained spiritual elevation is nearly impossible both for poet and reader. In this idea he has been of much assistance to modern critics who insist that poetry must be judged by

moments,—a theory with no little evil influence when applied to short and supposedly sustained pieces, but of great value when judgment is to be passed on the artistic merit of longer compositions. Who could make use of other criteria when reading Lycidas, for example? Then, too, Poe has given us one of the best or at least one of the most cited definitions of poetry. "The rhythmical creation of beauty," although it is a phrase almost equally applicable to music, still lays needed emphasis on what is so often overlooked by those who insist on "the didactic,' that beauty is the end and aim of poetry; as well as on what is so often overlooked by our modern imagists, that that beauty must be rhythmical, whether or not it be conventionally metred. Finally, in The Rationale of Verse, Poe has contributed an extremely thoughtful if not altogether exhaustive study of English verse-form, a study which suffers from Poe's carelessness in distinguishing between the quantitative and accentual metrical systems.

Poe is not without faults as a critic. His style tends to overelaboration. His language is, as we have noted, frequently florid. But worse than either of these defects, Poe's opinion on individual pieces of poetry was not very sound. Tennyson no doubt is one of the outstanding poets of the English-speaking world, but to call him "the noblest poet that ever lived" is nothing short of absurd. Many of the citations in The Poetic Principle by which he seeks to illustrate his theories scarcely deserve to be called poetry at all, and would tend to throw grave doubt over the whole essay, were not Poe's thinking so intrinsically clear and logical. Perhaps both his florid language and bad judgment can be ascribed to the fact that he himself was a poet. At any rate, we gladly forgive his questionable taste for the sake of his own exquisite lyrical gift and the stimulating æsthetic doctrines of which he is the originator.

He has furnished us a basis for relating and distinguishing literature and art. He has helped us to discover the dual character of poetry. He has mediated, so far as it is possible, between the Platonists and the Aristotelians. He has shown us at least something of the place of technique in the resources of the creative genius. For all these contributions to critical

thought he deserves only our gratitude and admiration. That his æsthetic theory has not exerted so great an influence as have his poetry and prose fiction is due rather to the vast superiority of his prose fiction than to anything specious or inferior in his poetry. This our modern æstheticians should be the last to deny.

Cambridge, Mass.

SUMMERFIELD BALDWIN.

LOUIS BOTHA: BOER AND BRITON

On May 31, 1902, in the presence of the joint representatives of the British and Boer governments, the Treaty of Vereeniging was signed. When the last name had been written Lord Kitchener rose and held out his hand to General Botha. "We are good friends now," he said. It was Great Britain speaking to South Africa. Though Botha's answer is unrecorded, his actions since have proved how fully he endorsed that statement, for at this moment of her need, Great Britain has no son more deeply loyal or more widely worthy than this man who, born under an alien flag, was in former years her bitter foe. It was he who, but a few months since, crushed out rebellion in the Transvaal and Cape states. It was he who conquered for His Majesty, George V, Germany's South-West possession in the Dark Continent, comprising a territory of 320,000 square miles. It is as certain as is to-day the present fact that it will be this same staunch imperialist and sane statesman who will stand shoulder to shoulder with those foremost few who will soon be putting forth united efforts in the reconstruction of the "AllRed" Empire in answer to new needs.

It is but a short fifteen years ago that this Louis Botha was desperately fighting the Empire he now upholds. When peace was declared he laid down his sword, unsheathed and even against his better judgment. None the less on these accounts was he wise enough and big enough to act a Briton as well as a Boer in cementing the bond of harmony between the races. Fine were both the spirit and the words with which in the Colonial Parliament, at the present war's commencement, he moved a resolution supporting England. "We form to-day," said this ex-foeman, "part of the British Empire; we are an ally of the British Empire; and that Empire being involved in war, South Africa is, ipso facto, also involved in war with the enemy. There are only two possibilities. The one possibility is of faith, duty and honor. The other is dishonor and disloyalty."

In these ringing phrases, this champion of "faith, duty and honor" sounded the keynote of his own individuality.

He is

distinctly magnetic, but it is a magnetism that springs from heart rather than intellect. The instant verdict is that he is to be trusted without reserve.

Three days after the British Government had issued its declaration of war against the Central Powers it "invited" the administration of the South African Union to "seize such part of German South-West Africa as will give command of Swakopmund, Luderitzbucht, and the wireless stations there or in the interior." Three more days sufficed for the answer that General Botha and his colleagues "cordially agreed" to do this. On the one side was no command, on the other no hesitation. And when Botha gave it out that he was going to take the field, the scenes of enthusiasm were remarkable. He called up thirty-five Dutch officers who had served with him in the Boer war, and told them he wanted fifteen to march against Germany under his orders; they were to decide among themselves which should go and which should stay. Five minutes talk sufficed. When the general returned he was told: "Take whatever fifteen you want. The other twenty intend to go anyway, as privates." What cannot one do with men like that!

By Christmas day the Union forces were masters of Walfisch Bay. In another fortnight they had seized Swakopmund, thus securing the only practicable harbors and closing the eight hundred miles of coast which was the invaded territory's only outlet to the sea and to Europe. To the north were the proEntente Portuguese. Inland lay the British protectorate of Bechuanaland. To the south, the Orange River and the pitiless onset of Botha's three columns. By the middle of May, Windboek, the capital, had handed over its keys. By the end of June the last German flag had been hauled down in a rich and promising territory of a third of a million square miles.

On the side of the invaders the casualities were, relatively, a mere handful, thanks to the all but incredible celerity of their movements, and to the infallible perfection of their commissariat, equipment, and preparation,-all the work of General Smuts, till yerterday in charge of the British operations in German East Africa, Berlin's last foothold in the continent. When Botha received the submission of the German governor,

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