Consider now Sturge Moore, our bewilderment in trying to ascertain what you wish us to think about such things as these, and consider too a transposition of the first line of a well-known poem about a Tiger, to read, “Consider now the Tiger.” The group to Yeats has one called _The Phantom of a Rose_. An explanatory footnote tells us that a girl returning from a ball drops a rose from her bosom and dreams that a youth, the perfect emanation of the flower, rises and invites her to dance. She ached to rise, she yearned to speak, She strove to smile, but proved too weak; As one in quicksand neck-deep, Wild with the will, has no power to leap; Her limbs like a sunken ferry-boat Lay logged with sleep, and could not float. She had danced too often at the ball, She had fluttered, nodded, and smiled too much. Tears formed in her heart: they did not fall. * * * * * He rose, and danced a visible song; With rhythmic gesture he contended Against her trance; and proved so strong That the grapes of his thought wore the bloom of his mood, While her soul tasted and understood. “Her limbs like a sunken ferry-boat.” A happy simile! We recognize the sensation. In _Judith_, one of the group to Moore, a vigorous note is sounded. This is good, and maybe the rest is too; I do not know. It rolls above my head. _The Spirit of Life_, a series of nine essays by Mowry Saben (Mitchell Kennerley), is the kind of book that makes me savagely controversial and then cross for heeding it at all. Its platitudinous optimism meanders along through some two hundred and fifty pages under various chapter headings: Nature, Morals, Sex, Heroes, etc. The first sentence is: “There are many great Truths that can be expressed only by means of paradox”; and the last, “If life means nothing, if the universe means nothing, then reform is only an illusory word, which has come to confuse us upon the highway of Despair; but if in our highest ideals we may find the real meaning of our personal lines, because they are the quintessence of the spiritual universe, whose avatars we should be, there is nothing too glorious for the heart of man to conceive.” All in between is just like that. All persons, and there are many, who are determined willy nilly to believe the world a nice place; who, confronted with the unlovely, the stark, gaping and horrid, cast down their eyes exclaiming “It is not there,” will take solid comfort in _The Spirit of Life_. It is like the millions of sermons droned out one day in seven all over the land to patient folk who no longer know why they come nor why they stay to hear. But this is a review, not a diatribe—so “consider now” the Spirit.