The tragedy of _King Erik_, as Mr. Theodore Watts points out in the admirable critical note which is prefixed to the later edition, is not an acting play; the essence of an acting play is that it should pass firmly from situation to situation. But there is a further defect than even that. From a literary point of view, the images, the metre, the language are skilfully enough handled but the characters lack consistent vitality. King Erik passes from being an elevated, almost superior philosopher into an outrageous Othello, in a manner which, though possibly lifelike, is inconsistent with the dignity of his professions; he is not sincere in his utterances, if his jealousy is so easily awakened and so hardly allayed. And there is a similar want of humanity in many of the characters. Botilda is too mild and tactless, Grimur too amorous, Adalbjörg too venomous. They do not seem to betray their characters so much as to be always keeping them in view. But after all, if Mr. Gosse's dramatic muse is too statuesque, why so are Mr. Swinburne's and Mr. Bridges', and the literary instinct can extract a continuous pleasure from the mellow sequence of line upon line. As a specimen of pictorial art, fading softly into visionary dreams, we would select a very perfect lyric from Mr. Gosse's latest book entitled "Circling Fancies." The poet sits at night by the open window, under the acacia which scents the air, with a lighted lamp, to which the gauzy summer flies come thronging. Around this tree the floating flies Weave their mysterious webs of light; The scent of my acacia lies Within the circle of their flight: They never perch, nor drop from sight, But, flashing, wheel in curves of air, As if the perfume's warm delight In magic bondage held them there. I watch them till I half confound Their motions with these thoughts of mine, That no less subtle bonds have bound Within a viewless ring divine; Clasped by a chain that makes no sign. My hopes and wheeling fancies live: Desires, like odours, still confine The heart that else were fugitive. The poem of "Tusitala" records Mr. Gosse's first meeting with Mr. R. L. Stevenson, four-and-twenty years ago, on a Scotch steamer. He goes on to speak of the novelist's growing fame, the train of suffering that conducted him to glory, his exile in the "ethereal musky highlands" of Samoa, "till," he says, "we almost deem'd you vanished." Vanish'd? ay, that's still the trouble, Tusitala! Though your tropic isle rejoices, 'Tis to us an Isle of Voices Hollow like the elfin double Cry of disembodied echoes, Or an owlet's wicked laughter, Or the cold and hornèd gecko's Croaking from a ruined rafter,-- * * *