_Eris: A Dramatic Allegory_, by Blanche Shoemaker Wagstaff (Moffatt, Yard), is, we are told on the cover, “full of vigorous enthusiasm, and embodies the philosophy of Henri Bergson,” to whom on a flyleaf the book is duly dedicated. It is in careful rhythmic blank verse; a dialogue, principally, between “Man” and “Thought,” with “Past” and “Future” now and then interrupting. The allegory is prefaced by a portrait of the author by Helleu; we trust an unfair one. A strangely bovine expression greets us from under a plumed black hat and from over shoulders and arms drawn like a Goops. Helleu made lovely things once; why this? In _Eris_ we find Man hurling defiance at Thought, who taunts him, “You cannot vanquish me while Life endures.” Discussion between them on this point covers some forty pages of melodious argument. Six of these (and they are consecutive) form a fairly comprehensive guide-book to a trip around the world, as Man, distracted, stops off at many well-known points seeking to escape pursuing Thought. In Venice I spread sail with Capulet And plied an oar across the green lagoons The soft air vibrant with the minstrels’ song: I dreamed in Pisa’s woodland and the gulf Of Lerici, where once again I heard The lyrich echo of pure Shelley’s voice. On Pæstum’s glory and on Dougga’s mount I studied metope and fluted frieze— And so on. “Man” finally reaches Mount Parnassus— The mighty throne of Zeus Hides like a cloud-veiled mist within the heavens; I am so near divinity it seems That I could tread the pathway of the stars; but “Thought” comes hurrying along, two pages later. Man cries to him desperately: Envelope me within the cosmic heart Freed of my separate hideous entity, Blown with the wingéd dust from whence I came! They struggle together, and Man plunges over the cliff. Thought, “assuming a sudden intenser magnitude, rises out of the dust of Man” (the stage directions seem a little confused here) and shouts: At last to conquer after æons of strife— The reeling stars man’s silent sepulchre. There are graceful lines and pictures, occasionally a good simile. Technically the lines are too smooth, too neatly finished, each in its little five-iambic jacket. The lyrics lack singing quality. There is a tedious list, two pages, of famous ladies—Helen, Sappho, Salammbo, from Eve to the Virgin Mary—as Man cries to Past, “What woman are you in disguise?” Swinburne did this gorgeously somewhere, making each speak; but these do not—they do not even live.