Where the ash is strewn about Strong and earnest, unafraid In the land where, free from pain, This, while yet there lives a Jew, Sleep, thou spirit sweet and rare, Deep-drawn sighs and tear-drops scalding, Night and day are sounding ever Through thy dream; Deep-drawn sighs and tear-drops scalding, Cold and pain, Drag their weary length, like spectres, In thy train. And from cot to grave, unbroken All the long, long way, Stretch whole forest-leagues of trouble, SAND AND STARS Shines the moon, the stars are glowing, I read, and read them once again, Ancient words of promise holy, Lord Almighty, Thou hast spoken, Yes, dear Lord, we're sand and pebbles, But the stars, the bright and sparkling, The stars, the stars-where are they, God? 15 Space forbids me to say more of Dienesohn, whose work bears some resemblance to that of Spektor, or to speak of S. Rabbinovítsh. The latter, besides some good stories, has done excellent work as a critic, in which he is seconded by Frishman. In spite of their unceasing efforts, sensational trash is still piled high in the Jewish book-market. It seems, however, to be more harmful for its unfaithfulness to life and utter worthlessness as literature than for any other reason. It is mostly written in a corrupt Germanised Yiddish of no interest to the philologist. This form of the language was introduced, with the best intentions, by one or two north-western writers early in the last century. If, again, I dwell on the poet Morris Rosenfeld, I shall be led to speak of others who, likewise of Russian birth, have made their 15 These translations are reprinted, by kind permission, from the Jewish Quarterly Review of April, 1902. home in America. They belong to what, for the convenience of the moment, I have termed the Yiddish group of writers. This group is of no small significance, but it lies beyond the limit of this sketch. The American writers have been active in the translating line. The Jargon library of translations, if I may so call it, now includes David Copperfield, Don Quixote, Anna Karenina, certain works of Jules Verne and Zola, stories by Maupassant and others. The Yiddish literature of the eighteenth and preceding centuries was either religious or partook of the nature of folklore. The Maisse Buch of the year 1602 was intended to wean Jewish womenfolk from the Gentile tales over which they pored to the displeasure of the Rabbis. The stories and legends in this volume are mainly of Jewish origin. Meanwhile, unwritten fables and fairy tales, fantastic children of every nation, age, and clime, were circulating by the thousand. Quantities have since been committed to print. The rest continue to lead a winged existence, which becomes more precarious from year to year. The educated Jewish public in Russia is presumably out of touch, for the most part, with the Jargon language and literature. Whether this is to be regretted, as making for a want of fellowfeeling between rich and poor; whether the passionate appeal of Perez for the help of the really intelligent' will find any responsethese are questions which I must leave to others. One thing is certain: the cause of Jargon literature is the cause of the Jargonspeaking people in a very special sense, because of the scarcity of any but religious instruction. Those by no means 'men of leisure,' therefore, who have gladly given time and talents in its interest deserve the gratitude of Jew and Gentile alike. If no individual can be better or worse without influencing the rest of the world for evil or for good, how much more is this true of a whole people? And if true of any race, it is very specially so of the one whose recent literature we have been hastily considering. What civilised nation can afford to be indifferent, at the present day, to the moral and intellectual condition of the Polish Jew? HELENA FRANK. A REMINISCENCE OF COVENTRY PATMORE IN 1870, when a student of medicine, a natural affinity to literature led me to form the acquaintance of another student, possessed of, as possessed by, considerable originality both of phrases and ideas. A friendship began which, I am happy to say, still continues, and which led me to another lasting pleasure-an invitation to his father's house in the Easter of 1872. Coventry Patmore was to me until then a nominis umbra, though for a boy my knowledge of literature was fairly extensive. I remembered how I had been told that his verse was a healthy reaction against the morbid Byronic influence, and at that time it seemed to me that one might as well attempt to drown fire with cups of milk-and-water instead of with pump and hose. I had a quick receptivity (a quality injudicious friends are wont to mistake for ability), and, though deeply interested, I started on my journey that Easter both critical and prejudiced. That my recollection of that visit remains most clear and vivid is not strange. Nothing more curious than the personality of my host could be presented to a boy of my temperament. At Uckfield my friend and I met by chance a good priest, who acted as chaplain to the establishment at Heron's Ghyll. His Would you like to walk?' was accompanied by such a pleasant smile of invitation that we thought we could not decline. For some reason we young ones were already tired out. The walk flagged, and conversation dropped. After some miles the poor priest looked so weary that we expressed a regret for not having driven, when he exclaimed, with half-assumed distress, Ah! if I had only known! You should not be so shy of expressing your preferences in the presence of your elders.' It was not in this way that I was shy. Heron's Ghyll, I believe, was formerly named 'Buckstead,' though I see that Mr. Edmund Gosse calls it 'Brixsted.' It was an improved, and rather obviously improving, estate, with new plantations and new paths, very effectively arranged and well kept. The house also looked new, though much of the old building remained. The windows had stone mullions, and the whole house was fronted with a warm-coloured stone. It stood naked and clean in the landscape. The interior of the hall, with tiled floor and bare walls, was airy and cool, like a model dairy. It was a thoroughly good and comfortable house, well arranged, and manageable with few servants. The arrangements everywhere were simple, but never primitive; a simplicity with distinction. The absence of the ordinary water-drainage system I, rightly or wrongly, took to be the suggestion of the well-known. Sir John Simon, whom I met there during my visit. A lady, very winning and gracious and kind, met us in the hall. She was dressed in a long dark robe narrowly edged with blue, made, I thought, somewhat like a religious habit. I am, throughout this reminiscence, recalling my impressions of the time, and earnestly trust that these may, when unworthy of my subject, in no wise be taken as representing my maturer and later judgment, which, as regards everyone I met in that kind household, is wholly grateful and affectionate. I was steeped in Shelley, romantically Radical in my sympathies, and somewhat of a 'prig.' Moreover, I knew nothing of my host and hostess, who lived in a certain higher and more rarefied atmosphere. I thought I lived on richer soil, more prodigal of flowers, than theirs. Later, when I was in the dining-room, Coventry Patmore entered. My most vivid recollection of him is as he stood in that doorway. It was a living picture. His clothes seemed too loose for his spare frame. He wore a comfortable black velvet shooting' coat, and light check trousers. A thin, rather untidy wisp of black necktie made more distinct the large ends of his upright linen collar, apparently not separable from his shirt, all spotlessly clean and white. He seemed as erect as an arrow, and lithe as an osier; the eyes shone on me brilliantly like a bird's. The lower part of his face, which was devoid of hair, seemed small in comparison with a large and very broad brow, wide at the temples. But the lower part of his face was made ever memorable by his mouth, shaped like a Cupid's bow when fleetingly at rest, but almost incessantly changing in outline. The lips rarely apart, perhaps more rarely to me as one unworthy of his speech, often pressed together by some inward thought, then shooting forwards with a sort of prehensile rapidity! But his eyes were kind, and had wit and humour. He shook hands and at once I was at ease. Never perhaps did grey hairs seem so young. Two girls slipped in, shy and silent. The younger, fragile and more like her father than the elder, looked extremely interesting; the elder was beautiful. Shyly they sat down at table, and all we younger ones looked down at our plates, speaking only when spoken |