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had wandered over literature and England, and shaped a mind that, at first opinionated, had saddened and mellowed. In the end he became a poet and a soldier almost at the same time, and now is dead. His success in prose had always been middling, breeding further discontent; do his poems greatly succeed? Every time I read them I like them better. Lob, his longest effort, was the first I saw; it was perfectly dissociated from him by the assumed name of "Eastaway" and appeared to me full of promise though unwieldy; but in this collected volume his quality does not strike me as like a young man's, but wily, artful and aware of many traps.

Rh