_Braz Cubas_ and _Quincas Borba_: Machado de Assis. Historical novels dealing with colonial life. _Esphynge_: Afranio Peixoto. Social life of Rio and Petropolis, or _Dentro da Noite_ or _Vida Vertiginosa_, by “João do Rio,” also social life of the Capital. There are also the finely written novels of Brazil’s woman writer, Julia Lopez de Almeida, whose _Fallencia_ is a very skilful piece of work; and no study of Brazilian life would be complete without José Verissimo’s _Scenas da Vida Amazonica_, preserving tales and legends of the Amazon, and the kindly _Memorias da Rua do Ouvidor_, of J. M. de Macedo, telling tales of the early days of Rio de Janeiro. Poets are many. The “Prince of Brazilian poets,” acclaimed by public vote, is Olavo Bilac, whose _Via Lactea_ is a beautiful work: he is one of the most distinguished members of the Academia Brasileira, whose President is the publicist and orator of international fame, Senator Ruy Barbosa. Olavo Bilac is something more than a poet; he has recently made it his mission to sound a “call to arms,” addressed to Brazilian young men, with the object of bringing about physical and moral improvement through military service. His addresses in the capitals in 1915 made a great stir: he later, in the middle of 1916, began a tour of Brazil, penetrating into interior regions as well as visiting coast towns, to repeat his appeal. A most admired and beloved poet, Bilac has prestige which few other people could bring to such a self-appointed task. After Bilac comes Alberto de Oliveira, and a long list of other dexterous versifiers; many produce charming poems, and he who wishes to have an acquaintance with classical Brazilian verse must read the output of Gonçalves Dias, who took the life of the Indians for his theme, as well as that of the lyric writer Gonzaga and the graceful Claudio da Costa. Brazil also has a national stage. I know of no play of first-class importance, but there is an active supply of native Brazilian actors and actresses, and if their work is generally that of playing in the home-made _revistas_, and if these _revistas_ are not very high art, at least they are genuinely Brazilian, and often extremely amusing. I suppose that on the stage, as in the pages of the Brazilian press, there is a limit beyond which the libel law would become active, but I cannot imagine where it is drawn; the audience rocks with laughter when well-known political personages are caricatured upon the stage—as they are lampooned in the press—and no notice appears to be taken of whatever alludes to matters of intimate family concern. Nobody in the public eye is exempt, and the result is that Brazil possesses a lively, home-made stage which is at least a beginning in dramatic craft.