tion, and almost rebounds with the sense of relief that comes with certainty, even though the assurance be that of impending death. In the pause there is time and opportunity for the recognition of surrounding circumstances which have been, as it were, overlooked in the yearning for life. The clearness of mental vision, the cognizance of detail displayed at such a moment, are remarkable, not only on account of the strange circumstances under which they occur, but in degree. Men and women who have for some time previously exhibited no trace of delicacy or refinement exhibit characteristic traits of thoughtfulness. They are, so to say, lifted out of themselves and placed in new conditions calculated to awaken feelings of courtesy, which seldom fail to respond. The mental state of a criminal during the hours preceding execution presents features of intense interest to the psychologist, and, rightly comprehended, it is to be feared they would throw new light on the supposed preparation these unfortunate persons evince for a fate which, being inevitable, they at the final moment are able to meet with a composure in which hypocrisy or self-deception find the amplest scope.— The Lancet. SPENSER.-Of Spenser, the "poet's poet,' our knowledge is so slight that the assured facts of his biography may be recorded in a page or two. He was accounted a divine poet by his contemporaries, he was the friend of great men, like Sidney and Raleigh, the Queen made him her Laureate, and when he died he was buried in Westminster Abbey. Yet we know not who were the parents of this splendid poet, or whether he was an only child; the date even of his birth is not absolutely certain, and the writer who undertakes to tell the story of his life is forced to feel his way, by the help of probabilities and conjectures, and by references to his poetry. Mr. Hales, the editor of the Globe Spenser, states, indeed, that the poems are his one great authority for the biography prefixed to that edition. Dean Church, while admitting that our knowledge is imperfect and inaccurate, observes that more is known about the circumstances of Spenser's life than about the lives of many men of letters of that time. This may be so. Biography was not encouraged in the Elizabethan age, but considering what Spenser's fame was in his lifetime, considering the publicity of his career in Ireland, and how, after the comparative silence of two centuries, his poetry raised him to the height which hitherto had been occupied by Chaucer alone, a height which he still retains -our ignorance about this great poet may be accounted extraordinary. We may know a little more of Spenser than of some of his poetical contemporaries, but remembering how honored the man was in his own time, and how, with one grand exception, he towered above them all, our knowledge is strangely limited. "His hearse," writes Dean Stanley, in a passage which Spenser's latest biographer might have quoted with advantage, "was attended by poets, and mournful elegies and poems, with the pens that wrote them, were thrown into his tomb. What a funeral was that at which Beaumont, Fletcher, Jonson, and in all probability Shakespeare attended! What a grave in which the pen of Shakespeare may be mouldering away!" What a pity, we may add, that instead of throwing elegies into Spenser's tomb, one of these brother poets had not told the world what they knew of the man who ranks third, according to Hallam, some readers may be inclined to say sixth, in the poetical literature of England. There is probably no English poet save Shakespeare who has exerted a wider sway. Many a noble poet and many a writer of high impulses has acknowledged Spenser as his master. "The Faerie Queene," says Mr. Stopford Brooke, "has never ceased to make poets," and the poets and men of letters who have borne witness to its power among the most honored names in our literature. It was by reading the "Faerie Queene" that Cowley became irrecoverably a poet." The sage and serious author of this imcomparable poem was the poetical guide of Milton, the delight of the youthful Pope, the dearest friend of Scott and Southey, of Landor and Leigh Hunt. 'Spenser," said Scott, "I could have read for ever. Southey read the great allegory through thirty times, and regarded Spenser as incomparably the greatest master of versification in our language. 'Do you love Spenser?" writes Landor-"I have him in my heart of hearts" and it may be safely said that there is no living English poet of eminence who will not acknowledge his indebtedness to this richlyendowed poet. ALONE. ALONE by the ocean at even to wander, When soft o'er the waters the moonbeams are cast; To hear some sweet voice in the billows' deep thunder, And dream of the fast-fading scenes of the past. To live o'er again through the days that are numbered, With all the bright visions too quickly dispelled; To call back sweet dreams from the grave where they've slumbered, And fancy the pleasures that Fate has withheld. Man thus is not lonely-for time cannot sever The charm that unites us in Memory's chain; The friends and the loves that by distance are hidden, |