Gustave Kahn took counsel of the past, and he has successfully avoided everything that even a hostile critic might be tempted to term an idea; and for this I am grateful. Nor is his volume a collection of miscellaneous verses bound together. He has chosen a certain sequence of emotions; the circumstances out of which these emotions have sprung are given in a short prose note. "Les Palais Nomades" is therefore a novel in essence; description and analysis are eliminated, and only the moments when life grows lyrical with suffering are recorded; recorded in many varying metres conforming only to the play of the emotion, for, unlike many who, having once discovered a tune, apply it promiscuously to every subject they treat, Kahn adapts his melody to the emotion he is expressing, with the same propriety and grace as Nature distributes perfume to her flowers. For an example of magical transition of tone I turn to _Intermède_. "Chère apparence, viens aux couchants illuminés. Veux-tu mieux des matins albes et calmes? Les soirs et les matins ont des calmes rosâtres Les eaux ont des manteaux de cristal irisé Et des rhythmes de calmes palmes Et l'air évoque de calmes musiques de pâtres. * * * * * Viens sous des tendelets aux fleuves souriants Aux lilas pâlis des nuits d'Orient Aux glauques étendues à falbalas d'argent A l'oasis des baisers urgents Seulement vit le voile aux seuls Orients. * * * * * Quel que soit le spectacle et quelle que soit la rame Et quelle que soit la voix qui s'affame et brame, L'oubli du lointain des jours chatouille et serre, Le lotos de l'oubli s'est fané dans mes serres, Cependant tu m'aimais à jamais? Adieu pour jamais." The repetitions of Edgar Poe seem hard and mechanical after this, so exquisite and evanescent is the rhythm, and the intonations come as sweetly and suddenly as a gust of perfume; it is as the vibration of a fairy orchestra, flute and violin disappearing in a silver mist; but the clouds break, and all the enchantment of a spring garden appears in a shaft of sudden sunlight. "L'éphemère idole, au frisson du printemps, Sentant des renouveaux éclorent, Se guèpa de satins si lointains et d'antan: Rose exilé des flores! Le jardin rima ses branches de lilas; Aux murs, les roses tremières; La terre étala, pour fêter les las, Des divans vert lumière; Des rires ailés peuplèrent le jardin; Souriants des caresses brèves, Des oiseaux joyeaux, jaunes, incarnadins Vibrèrent aux ciels de rêve." But to the devil with literature! Who cares if Gustave Kahn writes well or badly? I met a chappie yesterday whose views of life coincide with mine. "A ripping good dinner," he says; "get a skinful of champagne inside you, go to bed when it is light, and get up when you are rested."