with some historical basis; the unwonted background of Norwegian fiords makes part of the setting for a tragic romance among the Quakers. Of Taylor’s dramatic poems we shall hazard no discussion; besides “The Masque of the Gods,” he published “The Prophet” (1874), whose scene is laid among the Mormons, and “Prince Deukalion” (1877), a piece of symbolism in which the author tried to objectify his total conception of human life both here and hereafter. He felt as sure of the other world as of this. In such assurance he possessed the most vitalising belief that can inspire a poetic soul. Why, then, is his poetry now disregarded? Why is it that the production for which the present age is most ready to thank him is his version of Goethe’s “Faust”? A tentative explanation is this. Taylor’s life was full of disquiet. He never enjoyed the solitude necessary to the maturing of poetic sentiment. He was betrayed by temporal ambition into posting over land and ocean without rest. He was too determined to achieve fame. There are times for action, and there are times for a wise passiveness. They also serve who only stand and wait. _Walt Whitman._--His belief in immortality, in the absolute and eternal value of each individual person and thing, constitutes the main element of permanence in the writings of Walt (= Walter) Whitman. He too had in his veins a strain of blood from the Quakers; though he was born (May 31, 1819) in a family that took little cognisance of religion. His mother, Louisa Van Velsor, was of mingled Dutch and Welsh descent, illiterate, but in the eyes of her second child, the poet, always “perfect.” When this child was four years old, his father and name-sake, a good carpenter and of honest Connecticut ancestry, but a slipshod householder, removed from West Hills, Huntington Township, Long Island, to the “village,” as it then was, of Brooklyn; not before the impresses of rural life had entered unawares into the heart of the child; and not too late for the life of the future metropolis to become an imperishable part of his experience. The poet’s formative years were passed in the midst of the growing population centred at New York. He attended the public schools of Brooklyn until he was thirteen, then, with a scanty knowledge of reading, writing, and arithmetic, entered a lawyer’s office as errand-boy, his employers giving him access during free hours “to a big circulating library.” “Up to that time,” he says, “this was the signal event of my life.” “For a time I now revel’d in romance-reading of all kinds; first the ‘Arabian Nights,’ all the volumes, an amazing treat. Then, with sorties in very many other directions, took in Walter Scott’s novels, one after another, and his poetry.” From errand-boy he became typesetter, varying his desultory labours for _The Patriot_, and _The Star_, by excursions on Long Island, by contributing “sentimental bits” to local newspapers, and by active participation in several debating societies. At eighteen