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 least of Scotland. The greatest work of Goethe is distinctly modern; so are the works of Hugo and De Musset. Spenser, Chatterton, Landor, and Keats, on the other hand—may one not add Mr. Browning?—breathe more freely in alien, or ideal, atmospheres; but then they do themselves breathe there; they do not merely simulate the accents of those who once did so.

That events of our own time may be treated poetically has been proved by our greatest poetess, Mrs. Browning; although, partly from the fact that England as a nation has withdrawn herself more and more from active participation in events of cosmopolitan interest, our writers of verse have not recently invited attention to contemporary themes; while studious readers have seemed disposed to discourage such attempts. But two or three genuine poets have quite lately made successful efforts to break through a somewhat vulgar, prosaic, and discreditable apathy—though it is one no doubt on which our fashionable petite culture very much plumes itself. In America we