Lyrics (1896), Harvest Tide, and many other books of verse, besides articles and addresses. In 1877 he was made an honorary Fellow of his old college; in 1895 he was made a knight-bachelor; and he holds a Greek decoration and some other honours. Edward Burnett Tylor was born at Camberwell in 1832, educated at the Friends' school, Grove House, Tottenham, and starting from Cuba in 1856 with a friend, made a scientific journey through Mexico, one result of which was his Anahuac, or Mexico and the Mexicans (1861). He was recognised as the most philosophical of English anthropologists and one of the moulders of the science when, already F.R.S. and an honorary graduate of Oxford and St Andrews, he was appointed successively keeper of the Oxford University Museum (1883), Reader in Anthropology, and Professor of Anthropology; and he has been Gifford lecturer at Aberdeen and president of the Anthropological Society. His Researches into the Early History of Mankind (1865) and Primitive Culture (2 vols. 1871; 3rd ed. 1891) stand first among works of their class, in learning, arrangement, grasp of principles, and breadth of view. The foundation of his philosophy of man is involved in the significance he finds in the various ideas, rules, and usages that accompany or flow from animism, the child-like apprehension by the primitive savage of disembodied spiritual existences, as the minimum of religion and the basis of culture. One of the best introductory handbooks to a subject ever written is his attractive, luminous, and comprehensive Anthropology (1881). Sir Edwin Arnold, the son of a Sussex magistrate, was born in 1832, and was sent to school at Rochester, to King's College, London, and to University College, Oxford, where he was elected a scholar. He won the Newdigate (1853) with a poem on Belshazzar's Feast, for a while was second master at Birmingham, and afterwards became principal of the Deccan College at Poona. Returning to England in 1861, he joined the staff of the Daily Telegraph, with which, as editor and otherwise, he has been since identified. He published a volume of poems in 1853, and as early as 1875, in The Song of Songs of India, was busy with his life-task of interpreting in English verse the life and thought of the East. His most important book is The Light of Asia, or the Great Renunciation (1879), a verse rendering of the story of the life of Buddha, with an exposition of Nirvana and Karma and the rest of his teaching, and, incidentally, descriptions of the scenery and manners of ancient India. His statement of Indian philosophy has not been accepted by experts as impeccable, and his fluent and sometimes grandiose blank verse was by critics generally regarded as lacking in distinction; but the work attained great popularity, and by the end of the century had gone through sixty English and eighty American editions. In The Light of the World (1891) he attempted, more audaciously and less successfully, to do for Jesus Christ's life and teaching what he had done for Buddha. The subject was less unfamiliar, the inadequacy of the treatment more generally recognised, and the not infrequent infelicities more inevitably conspicuous. There was little to rivet attention, the paraphrases of the gospel story were found pedantic or purposeless, and, spite of much fine writing in smooth and copious (but monotonous) blank verse, the whole failed of effect. Other works are Pearls of the Faith; With Sa'adi in the Garden (translations from the Gulistan); The Tenth Muse, and other Poems; SIR EDWIN ARNOLD. Potiphar's Wife; Adzuma, or the Japanese Wife (a play); The Voyage of Ithobal. He has visited India and Japan, and given readings in the United States; and has written books on his travels, some of them originally articles in his paper. He is C.S.I. (1877) and K.C.I.E. (1888), and has Siamese, Japanese, Persian, and Turkish decorations. His third wife is a Japanese lady. Lord Avebury had made his name in literature as Sir John Lubbock long ere he was created a peer (1900). The son of the astronomer Sir John William Lubbock (1803-65), he was born in London in 1834; from Eton he passed at fourteen into his father's banking-house; in 1856 became a partner; served on several educational and currency commissions; and in 1870 was returned for Maidstone in the Liberal interest, in 1880 for London University-after 1886 as a Liberal Unionist. He was the means of passing more than a dozen important measures, including the Bank Holidays Act, the Bills of Exchange Bill, the Ancient Monuments Bill, and the Shop Hours Bill. He holds honorary degrees from Oxford, Cambridge, and several other home and foreign universities; was vice-chancellor of London University 1872-80; and has been president of the British Association, vice-president of the Royal Society, president of the London Chamber of Commerce, chairman of the London County Council, and president of many scientific associations at home and honorary fellow of many learned societies abroad. Distinguished for his original researches on primitive man and on the habits of bees and ants, he is almost equally well known as having greatly contributed, by the interest of his exposition, to popularise all the scientific subjects with which he deals; and his treatises on the practical philosophy of life have some of them reached their two hundredth thousand. His selection of the hundred best books in universal literature greatly extended the mental horizon of many Englishmen and Englishwomen. He has given innumerable lectures and addresses, scientific and popular, and contributed more than a hundred memoirs to the Transactions of the Royal Society and other scientific journals. He has also published Prehistoric Times (1865; 6th ed. 1900); The Origin of Civilisation (1870; 6th ed. 1902); The Origin and Metamorphoses of Insects (1874); British Wild-flowers in Relation to Insects (1875); Ants, Bees, and Wasps (1882); The Senses and Instincts of Animals (1888); The Pleasures of Life (1887-89); The Beauties of Nature (1892); The Use of Life (1894); and The Scenery of Switzerland (1896). Sabine Baring-Gould, born at Exeter in 1834, of an old Devon family, in early life lived much in Germany and France. Educated at Clare College, Cambridge, he became incumbent of Dalton near Thirsk in 1866, and rector of East Mersea, Colchester, in 1871; and in 1881 presented himself to the rectory of Lew Trenchard, Devon, having on his father's death (1872) succeeded to the estate there. He is one of the most indefatigable, multifarious, and unequal of authors. His eighty works include, besides several volumes of sermons and theological works, collections of English minstrelsy and west-country songs; books of travel in Iceland, Brittany, and South France; works on Germany, past and present, and its Church; histories of the Cæsars and Napoleon Bonaparte; a whole series of popular antiquarian publications, of which The Book of Were-Wolves (1865) and Curious Myths of the Middle Ages (1866) were the most popular; collections of fairy stories, of historic oddities, and strange events; and a long series of novels, of which Mehalah (1880), John Herring, Richard Cable, Mrs Curgenven, and Nebo the Nailer (1902) are amongst the best known. Chris of all Sorts was the work of 1903. William Morris* was born 24th March 1834 at Walthamstow, not then a suburb of London, and educated at Marlborough and Oxford. His writings form only one part of his life-work as poet, artist, and reformer; in each of these directions he did a full life's work. As artist the volume of original work produced by him or under his direction is enormous, and its effect-striking enough in England already is only now beginning to manifest itself in anything like its true proportion in western and central Europe. As reformer, the result of his life-work has been to revolutionise the decorative instincts of English homes; to emphasise, and to translate for the public, the meaning of decorative art; to bring back into English printing the ideals of an early age, 'printing books which should have a definite claim to beauty and at the same time should be easy to read and should not dazzle the eye or trouble the intellect of the reader to eccentricity of form in the letters;' and even in the Socialist agitation which took up so much of the latter years of his life, and which embodied for him so many of his ideals, to redeem it from the narrowness which characterises so many of the European Socialist parties, and to bring it into line with the aspirations common to the thinking men of all political parties. His influence is apparent not in the work of his imitiators only, but even more in the general Renaissance of style, the substitution of a truer feeling for beauty of line and colour in all the ordinary surroundings of life. He died 3rd October 1896. As a writer, Morris belongs to the Romantic school at its best and healthiest. The PreRaphaelite movement, of which his work is but the direct expression, is a phase of the great romantic development, which, arising in our country, finding its first expression in the poems of Ossian, the Percy Ballads, and the work of Chatterton, spread to the continent of Europe, made itself deeply felt in Germany and in western Europe generally, while pursuing in England a course freed from some of the excesses of disordered imagination which characterised it abroad. As Mr Watts-Dunton, in formulating his theory of the Renascence of Wonder, has finely pointed out, the English Romantic school did not aim merely at the revival of natural language; it sought rather to reach through Art the forgotten world of old Romance that world of wonder and mystery and spiritual beauty of which poets gain glimpses through Magic casements opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. When Morris was beginning his career as a writer by his contributions to the Oxford and Cambridge Magazine, Tennyson had written his best poems, Browning was at his finest and freshest, Ruskin and Carlyle were applying a vigorous criticism in life and art. The moral and * Copyright 1903 by J. B. Lippincott Company to the selection entitled "The Wedding Path," page 667. We emotional life of the nation had been stimulated by the Tractarian movement and the Russian war, and he himself, prepared by a lifelong interest in medieval architecture and in such romance as was open to the reader of the day, had just made the acquaintance of Malory and Froissart. It was at this time that The Blessed Damozel and Hand and Soul fell into his hands. We have heard him describe their thrilling effect upon him, and when this was reinforced by the remarkable personal influence of Rossetti and his paintings, the young poet found his bent determined. owe to the acquaintanceship and intimacy then. formed many of the more distinctive poems-such as The Defence of Guenevere, King Arthur's Tomb and The Blue Closet, and the Tune of Seven Towers-but Morris even in these owed little to Rossetti, except subject and a sort of courtly and intense note in the diction: the two minds were essentially unlike. He was much more influenced by Tennyson and by Browning, but his poems were fresher and less conscious than those of Tennyson, while Browning had taught something of his own insight without lending his fine worldliness to the observation of the younger mind. In that sensitivity to the outward circumstances of things which we call sensuousness Morris approaches Keats. 'Riding Together,' 'Summer Dawn,' or 'The Haystack in the Floods,' should, any one of them, have established the poet's reputation: they did not. The little volume was spoken of 'as a curiosity which shows how far affectation may mislead an earnest man towards the fogland of Art.' Nearly ten years passed before Morris published his Jason, a poem originally designed to take its place in the framework of The Earthly Paradise, but which had outgrown in the making the limits of that scheme. His early verse 'had gradually gained for itself an increasing audience amongst men of imaginative taste,' to quote again the words of the greatest critic of our days. It was followed by the Earthly Paradise itself, the collection of poems with which Morris's name is most often associated. The device by which twelve classic legends are alternate with as many mediæval ones provided the poet with an opportunity of which he took the fullest advantage, while the introduction and the poems of the Months which connect the stories are little masterpieces: no one who understands the charm of English country can be unmoved by them. These works mark the second stage in his development as a writer. The early poems are all edge; these are distinguished by a flow so smooth and easy that 'the happiness of epithet and of local colouring, the picturesque detail and the appropriate phrase which give life and individuality to his pictures, are for the most part known only by their effects and only fully appreciated in the retrospect.' Love is Enough, published in 1872, was a bold innovation in point of form, written with a pas sionate quality such as one found in his earliest work, a much more mature balance in carrying out his scheme. It is perhaps the least popular of his works, and at the same time it is the most instructive for the student of his work, with its ordered intricacy, its architectural construction of four receding planes. In it real things are seen through a medium of strange and deceptive splendour, not enhanced but transformed, while the skill with which the difficult Middle English metres is handled enlarges the limits of English verse. The third period of artistic development, dating from his visits to Iceland, is marked by a series of translations from the Icelandic, culminating in his epic of Sigurd the Volsung, perhaps his finest work. More masculine than Jason, more vigorous and romantic than the best of the stories in the Earthly Paradise, it will take its place among the epic poems of the world.' A comparison of the way in which the subject of Sigurd was treated by Ampère among the French, Fouqu among the Germans, and Morris among the English would present an instructive study of the development of the Romantic school in these three countries. Translations of the Eneid, the Odyssey, and Beowulf mark another development of his energies. Virgil was brought from Classical Art straight into Romance; but after all this was but just, as the Æneid is the fountain-head of Romanticism. In writing of his version of the Odyssey, we may again quote from Mr Watts-Dunton : 'The two specially Homeric qualities-those, indeed, which set Homer apart from all other poets eagerness and dignity. That Tennyson could have given us the Homeric dignity his magnificent rendering of a famous fragment of the Iliad shows. Chapman's translations show that the eagerness also can be caught. Morris could not have given the dignity of Homer, but then, while Tennyson has left us but a few lines speaking with the dignity of the Iliad, Morris gave us a literal translation of the entire Odyssey, which, though it missed the Homeric dignity, secured the eagerness as completely as Chapman's free and easy paraphrase.' -are As a prose writer his productions fall into three distinct classes-his controversial writings, his translations, and his prose romances. The works of the first class, including his lectures on art and his Socialist tales and tracts, A Dream of John Ball, and News from Nowhere, are written in an English so simple and direct that it has no rival since the best of Cobbett, yet with a distinction and grace all his own. A little sketch, Under the Elm-tree, still lives in one's memory as the very embodiment of poetical ideas, expressed in plain and serious prose. Apart from its tendency, A Dream of John Ball is a work whose beautiful language, whose delicate fidelity to archæological details and mediæval feeling, have conquered for it a place in the affections of many who are as the poles asunder from its author's sympathies. The translations from the Icelandic, which we have already mentioned, are remarkable for their closeness in point of form to the originals, and the same may be said for the three little French romances; but in the case of the latter the Old French lends itself more gracefully to our tongue, of which it is, in truth, a sort of foster-mother. His published prose romances begin with The House of the Wolfings, a form of literary art so new that new canons of criticism have to be formulated and applied to it.' It is the tale of a little Northern tribe attacked by the Romans, and is told in prose intermingled with song-speech-a true WILLIAM MORRIS. From a Photograph by Messrs Walker & Boutall. Northern saga. From that time forward a succession of these tales poured from his pen, The Roots of the Mountains, The Story of the Glittering Plain, The Wood beyond the World, The Well at the World's End, The Water of the Wondrous Isles, and The Sundering Flood. Round their language and diction a storm of criticism raged. A public accustomed to the stereotyped form of the magazine and the newspaper found itself in face of a use of language as individual and striking as that of Carlyle or Meredith, and wondered accordingly. For Morris the use of archaic words and old-world turn of phrase was an artistic necessity, if he were to create the atmosphere he required, to awaken the mind to the expectation of strange surroundings and simpler if unaccustomed motives. He is not in the world of Caxton or of Malory, yet of such surroundings is his tale built up, and his language recalls, but does not copy, theirs. For this age of his romance never existeda fact which no man knew better than himself. Two pasts were always with him: the historical, with its riches of art and its squalid poverty, its high aims and marvellous performances, its misery and vice, its good and bad, and the bad very bad; the other an ideal age, five hundred years behind us and a thousand years ahead. The age in which he loved to move is one which contains only what is fairest and strongest in mediæval life: he peoples with his imagination a little hollow land, sheltered by wide forests and desolate wastes, where his loved ones may live undisturbed, far from the foes of the outside world. Once, indeed, he began a story of the actual past-the adventures of one of his favourite Northmen in the decaying Roman civilisation, but he found the task of portraying its evil too great for what was to be the solace of his leisure hours, and he abandoned it half-done. To the picturing, then, of this ideal world the poet, the artist in words, brought a style wholly new, which places these romances among the most original contributions to pure literature that our epoch has seen. Morris's use of the supernatural, too, is very personal and quite northern in character, avoiding the bizarre, the cruel, the borderland of madness into which so many of the German Romantic school fall. Perhaps the principal defect of these romances is a want of relief to the virtues of almost all the actors therein: even the criminality which occurs is business-like and free from any taint of meanness. That The literary art of William Morris is, as we have said, of the Romantic school; indeed, in many respects it is not too much to say that the school touches its high-water mark of achievement with him. Perhaps no single line of his reaches the haunting beauty of certain stanzas from Keats or the sensuous magic of Rossetti; but, on the other hand, he is free from the mysticism, of the latter, he has a fuller and stronger sweep of wing than the former. Analogies have been sought for him with Chaucer and with Spenser, but though he is a romantic story-teller like Chaucer, he is distinguished from him by the fact that he finishes his stories, and by his deliberate avoidance of humour in his writing, probably in accordance with the theories of art he held. this avoidance was deliberate is known from the suppressed conclusion of Sir Peter Harpedon's End, of which Mr Watts-Dunton has preserved the memory. His points of contact with Spenser are more numerous, but no exact parallel can be drawn. His art as a story-teller was that of the improvisatore, and he carried it to the highest point of which it was capable. The pictorial quality of his work sets him in a class apart from other writers of the Romantic school. His special bent of mind was historic, and there were few questions concerning the Middle Ages which he had not studied. Scott knew history perhaps as well; he had at his finger-ends all that was to be known of olden times, but he did not see as Morris did. He could describe, he could not paint in words. My work,' said Morris. 'is the embodi ment of dreams-to bring before men's eyes the image of the thing my heart is filled with.' It was this characteristic-the pictorial view of things -which, in addition to the romantic spirit and the imaginative love of beauty, gave unity and harmony to all his work, artistic and literary. The Wedding Path. He said: 'We shall be home but a very little while after the first, for the way I tell of is as short as the Portway. But hearken, my sweet! When we are in the meadows we shall sit down for a minute on a bank under the chestnut trees, and thence watch the moon coming up over the southern cliffs. And I shall behold thee in the summer night, and deem that I see all thy beauty; which yet shall make me dumb with wonder when I see it indeed in the house amongst the candles.' 'O nay,' she said, 'by the Portway shall we go; the torch-bearers shall be abiding thee at the gate.' Spake Face-of-god: "Then shall we rise up and wend first through a wide treeless meadow, wherein amidst the night we shall behold the kine moving about like odorous shadows; and through the greyness of the moonlight thou shalt deem that thou seest the pink colour of the eglantine blossoms, so fragrant they are.' 'O nay,' she said, 'but it is meet that we go by the Portway.' But he said: Then from the wide meadow come we into a close of corn, and then into an orchard-close beyond it. There in the ancient walnut-tree the owl sitteth breathing hard in the night-time; but thou shalt not hear him for the joy of the nightingales singing from the apple-trees of the close. Then from out of the shadowed orchard shall we come into the open townmeadow, and over its daisies shall the moonlight be lying in a grey flood of brightness. 'Short is the way across it to the brim of the Weltering Water, and across the water lieth the fair garden of the Face; and I have dight for thee there a little boat to waft us across the night-dark waters, that shall be like wavering flames of white fire where the moon smites them, and like the void of all things where the shadows hang over them. There then shall we be in the garden, beholding how the hall-windows are yellow, and hearkening the sound of the hall-glee borne across the flowers and blending with the voice of the nightingales in the There then shall we go along the grass paths whereby the pinks and the cloves and the lavender are sending forth their fragrance, to cheer us, who faint at the scent of the over-worn roses, and the honey-sweetness of the lilies. trees. 'All this is for thee, and for nought but for thee this even; and many a blossom whereof thou knowest nought shall grieve if thy foot tread not thereby to-night; if the path of thy wedding which I have made, be void of thee, on the even of the Chamber of Love. 'But lo! at last at the garden's end is the yew-walk arched over for thee, and thou canst not see whereby to enter it; but I, I know it, and I lead thee into and along the dark tunnel through the moonlight, and thine hand is not weary of mine as we go. But at the end shall we come to a wicket, which shall bring us out by the gableend of the Hall of the Face. Turn we about its corner then, and there are we blinking on the torches of the torch-bearers, and the candles through the open door, and the hall ablaze with light and full of joyous clamour, like the bale-fire in the dark night kindled on a ness above the sea by fisher-folk remembering the Gods.' 'O nay,' she said, 'but by the Portway must we go; the straightest way to the Gate of Burgstead.' In vain she spake, and knew not what she said; for even as he was speaking he led her away, and her feet went as her will went, rather than her words; and even as she said that last word she set her foot on the first board of the foot-bridge; and she turned aback one moment, and saw the long line of the rock-wall yet glowing with the last of the sunset of midsummer, while as she turned again, lo! before her the moon just beginning to lift himself above the edge of the southern cliffs, and betwixt her and him all Burgdale, and Face-of-god (From The Roots of the Mountains.) moreover. Summer Dawn. Pray but one prayer for me 'twixt thy closed lips, the cloud-bars, That are patiently waiting there for the dawn: Patient and colourless, though Heaven's gold (From The Defence of Guenevere.) I know a little garden close. 'And though within it no birds sing, 'There comes a murmur from the shore, For which I cry both day and night, |