MR. ALLINGHAM'S POEMS.* To any one who has travelled in

many countries, or even mixed much with men at home, has it not often happened to meet and to associate for a certain period with specimens of humanity for whom

* Ziongs,Ballads,and stories. By W. Allingbain. London : George Bell and Sons. it was impossible to have any but a kindly feeling, despite the most utter disapprobation of their general practices, and often the most clear knowledge of their total rascality? There are books which we meet which appeal to a critic in a similar way to that in which these easy-going scamps appeal to the traveller. His judgment tells him that he should condemn and spare not, and yet he hesitates. A man should not be associated with unless he have at least a few rags of respectability still clinging to him, and a book of poems should, in the first place, contain some poetry. And yet the man's easy bonhomie and knowledge of the world charm you in spite of yourself, and the book contains so much honest effort and nice feeling, that it seems hard to condemn it because it lacks all the divine fire which is so rare a gift. So, not to carry the metaphor too far, does this volume of Mr. Allingham's appeal to us, and we have lingered over its pages long, in the hope of finding some piece which might mitigate our judgment.

Mr. Allingham was previously favourably known to us as the- editor of one of the most charming selections of English lyrics which we have ever seen. His book, entitled Nightingale Valley, is, we believe, out of print, but many of our readers must have seen it, and admired the exquisite taste with which the selection of pieces had been made. And in the volume before us the element of good-taste is still almost universally present. There is, we say it fearlessly, not a vulgar expression or a coarse thought to be found in the book ; and this is no slight praise, at a time like the present, when vulgar expressions are generally considered chic, and coarse thoughts and innuendoes "good style." Our author, whatever may be his faults, has escaped all touch of the two great contaminations of the present day ; he judges neither by the standard of money, nor the standard of fashion. He evidently, for his poems betray much of his individuality, dares to lives his own life, in his own way.

There are about a hundred and thirty poems in this volume, of various kinds, as the name says, songs, ballads, and stories, some of which have been printed before, though we do not remember to- !lave met with them. We will give our readers a specimen of the best we can find of each kind, and we think it will be clearly seen how, in spite of the graceful fancy, pleasant English, and tender, homely sentiment, the one thing needful is not there,—the vivify- ing power which turns rhyming words into burning verse or mournful poetry has never been attained :— " HaLs WAKING.

"I thought it was the little bed I slept in long ago,

A straight, white curtain at the head, And two smooth knobs below.

I thought I saw the nursery fire, And in a chair, well known, My mother sat, and did not tire With reading all alone.

If I should make the slightest sound, To show that I'm awake, She'd rise and lap the blankets round, The pillow softy shake."

Now, no one can take much exception to a poem like this, except that it is not poetry,—it is nice and kindly, and might have been written from school to a fond parent by a well-brought-up lad of

fifteen or thereabouts,—and so written would have been in its right place ; but it is not a poem, never gets beyond the bounds of rhyme and common-place sentiment. Indeed, this latter is the rock on which Mr. Allingham almost always splits. All his sentiments are common-place, and seem to be merely faint echoes of the copy-book morality which has in its time impressed us all so much. It is certainly impossible to write some dozen times in one's best hand-writing that "beauty is a fading flower," with- out being profoundly certain of the fact, but that is no reason why we should desire a repetition of the sentiment in after-life and while admitting that the outpourings of a religious mind may be profitable reading, we think that, except for a very few of the most gifted souls, they would be better expressed in prose than verse. As an instance of what we mean, the following verse, from.

a poem called "Cross-Examination," forms a good example:— " What knowest thou of this eternal code? As much as God intended to display.

Wilt thou affirm then knowest aught of God ?

Nor, save his works, that creature over may.

Is not thy life at times a weary load ?

Which aimless on my back he would not lay."

And so on, for a dozen or so verses. This sort of thing does not, in our opinion, approach to the nature of poetry at all. It isr controversial religion in rhyme, and very poor rhyme, too. Per- haps where Mr. Allingham shows to the greatest advantage is in the following section of the book, that devoted chiefly to Ballade,

which he has the good-taste to see lies at the root of the charm of this species of poetry, he frequently descends into the most unutterable bathos, as, for instance, in the following verse from "The Nobleman's Wedding :"-

"She sat in her place by the head of the table,—

The words of his ditty she mark'd them right well ; To sit any longer this bride was not able, So down, in a faint, from the carved chair she fell."

And again,— " Napoleon's thoughts in that last look

It were in vain to seek, Ho had enough to think upon If he had gazed a week."

The best of these ballads are, perhaps, "A Wife," "Thistle- down," and "The Dirty Old Man," but none are more than second-rate, and we cannot quote passages of real melody from any. The longer poems with which the third section of the book is filled are open to the same criticism as the former ones. They fall short, not far, but apparently quite inevitably of poetry ; they have more in common with the Legends and Lyrics of Miss Proctor than any other verse which we remember, though they do not possess the somewhat sad cadence which distinguished so much of her work. "The Music-Master " is probably the best, as it is the most interesting of these last poems,—a love-story, written in a somewhat heavy metre :—

"Till Gerald burst the silence, and exclaimed,

With the most poignant earnestness of tone, 0 nurse! I loved her, though I never named The name of love to her, or any one.

'Tis to her grave here,'—he could say no more, Bat these few words a load of meaning bore."

But our author's greatest fault, and the one which the reader and critic will alike find it difficult to excuse, is his use of the most abominable rhymes and phrases, only inserted for the sake of rhyming. For instance, in one short ballad, entitled "King Henry's Hunt," we have the following jaw-breaking rhymes :— "Sunny-shady," and ready ;" " mounted " and "hunted," "heavy" and " leavy," " avoided " and "enjoyed it," " sullen " and" Anne Bullen," not to speak of such rhymes as "away time" to match with "May-time," "began on" for "cannon," and "glee more" for "Seymour." It seems almost inconceivable that a man of any taste and culture could make such blunders as

these, unless it was a matter of mere carelessness ; and there is other internal evidence that Mr. Allingham estimates his poems sufficiently highly to dispense with their careful elaboration,— indeed, he says as much in the prefatory verses to the book. After one of the most trivial poems in this collection, is printed—

we should imagine, by some demoralised printer's devil—" ad infinitum," and a more just remark could not be made on these

verses generally. There is no reason why,with health and strength, a man should not go on pouring out verse of this description just as a sausage-mill turns out sausages, till the machine wears out or remains unsupplied with material. The best thing we can say for them is that they are totally innocent in intention, and they may perhaps have a further usefulness, in warning young

would-be poets against the facile expression of common-place thoughts.