and not inferior pleasure to Seaman, Graves, and Godley. And as we and our fathers enjoyed in company the extravaganzas of Planché, so have we sat and laughed with our sons over the libretti of Gilbert wedded to the music of Sullivan. In this, as in other matters, we of the nineteenth century have had much to be thankful for.

Two or three stand out among the younger group of living poets whom we have deliberately forborne to estimate. Let us now name them-Mr. Watson, Mr. Phillips, and Mr. Kipling. Their genius is undoubted, and each will take the rank found due to him, as time develops his powers and accumulates his productions. That we do not attempt to appraise them comes not of failure to appreciate or reluctance to acknowledge. But we think that they more properly belong to the twentieth century, and we hope and believe that when the chronicler of the new epoch makes up his treasures their names will each have an honored place upon the roll.

And now, what is the sum of the matter? Is it not that at the dawn of the last century, after a brief period of slightness and estrangement from high purpose, Poetry did rouse herself, The Edinburgh Review.

shake her plumes, remember her mission, and set herself anew to the serious problems of life; to this end, touching the lips, and not in vain, of Crabbe, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Byron, Shelley, Tennyson, and Browning? Have not all these great men caught fire from their epoch, illuminating it in turn with the coruscations of their own uncoinmunicated genius? And has there not been beside them a long and still brilliant company of lesser lights, grouped in easy gradation of achievement, from the high level of Swinburne, Arnold, and Patmore, down to that of some of those who are at work to-day? Mankind may hereafter shake their heads when they read some of the more unmeasured of contemporary eulogies, but it will always be conceded to the nineteenth century that, while it was an age in which eternal questions and issues had become more complex and more difficult than they had been or seemed to be during its predecessors, it produced poets able and zealous to attack them, and who, while they laid bare their own doubts and self-conflicts, were still fit to register every pulse and stereotype every phase of the moral, social, and intellectual movement that surged around them.

There are various streets in London each of which is known to its frequenters as "The Lane." Mincing Lane is an example. What the portly merchant may call it a humble scribe dares not speculate; but his light-hearted clerk would stare at you in amazement if you referred to that place of tea otherwise than as "The Lane." So, too, Petticoat Lane is known to its votaries as "The Lane." There is little fear

Petticoat Lane

of misunderstanding. would be as grossly insulted by being confused with Mincing Lane as would Mincing Lane by being confused with Petticoat Lane. "The Lane" in each case keeps itself to itself, and regards a rival claimant to the title with haughty disfavor. In the heart of London is another "The Lane," not to be identified with either of the other lanes -a lane with a long and varied history

behind it; famous as the starting-point

of the Great Plague; famous because Mr. Charles Booth has singled out some of its tributary streets for detailed description, house by house and room by room, that posterity may know to what depths London descended in the closing years of the nineteenth century; famous in the pages of Dickens, thrice famous in the annals of the stage. In "The Lane" is a large club where we pass our nights at play.

You

The club is not bow-windowed. do not ride past it on the roof of an omnibus and look enviously upon redleathered arm-chairs or small tables suggestively covered with snowy linen. No stalwart porter in uniform whistles for hansoms to bear its habitués homeward. The latest gossip and the latest story do not fleet round its whisperinggalleries. Two narrow houses tucked closely side by side shut out the sky as you walk past; a dusty inscription informs you that this is an institute and working-men's club; and the noise from within makes you aware that it is in working order. Over the door flares a lamp like those which hang outside public-houses, and its light shines upon a notice-board setting forth the manifold attractions of the place. Doubtless they are many and compelling; but the inscription is somewhat faded, and it seemed better, when first we saw it, to step inside and inquire than to puzzle out the writing in the chill evening wind outside. At the worst the casual visitor could but be requested to retire

Clearly we had entered a coffee-bar. A long counter, loaded with steaming urns, thick mugs, plates, glasses, shut off the body of the room from shelves covered with good things. A brisk trade was being carried on-this coffeebar seemed to do well. On the wall were numbers of notice-boards. "Dramatic Society," "Harriers," "Lecture and Debate," "Football Club," "Feder

ation Competitions"-such were the headings that caught our eyes and showed that the inscription outside was not calculated to deceive. From an adjoining room came the click of billiard-balls and a babel of talk. In front was a doorway leading-whither? The door had a ground-glass plate, across which mysterious shadows were flitting. Curiosity dragged us to and through that door. It led into a hall where boxing was in progress. A ring was roped off, two lads were pounding each other scientifically and effectually, the instructor watching them critically, other lads sitting round in perfect silence, while the timekeeper kept one eye on his watch and the other on the boxers. "Time!" he called sharply. Instantly the two ran to their corners, fell into chairs, stretched out their legs, and flung their arms restfully over the ropes of the ring. Then the seconds took them in hand. The well-punched faces were dabbed with wet sponges, and cooled and dried by towels used as punkahs. "Time!" was called again, the seconds scrambled out of the ring, the boxers shook hands (this being their last round) and commenced sparring once more. We seized the opportunity to look round. The ring was surrounded by working men and lads, some of whom, to judge by their appearance, had been boxing earlier. The instructor was a tall and slender man with long, wiry arms, and dark eyes that gleamed and blazed as he watched the sport. A dangerous man to offend, we decided. A stoutly built man in his shirt-sleeves was talking in low tones to the timekeeper, addressing him as "Mr. President." The door opened, and a young clergyman came in and whispered something to one of the bystanders, who nodded and went out. the clerical eye fell interrogatively upon us. An explanation on our part was clearly desirable, and we thought it best to throw ourselves on the mercy

Then

of the court and to confess that pure curiosity was our introduction. The plea was accepted. "Wait a minute; I just want to see the instructor take on a new member, and then I shall be delighted to show you round the place. Let me introduce you to our secretary."

Accordingly, the round being now ended and the combatants having disappeared to dress, we were introduced to the sturdy man who had been talking to the president.

The secretary appeared to be an enthusiast, and launched out into the merits of the various champions of the district, past and present. Then a hush fell on all. The instructor had taken his place in a corner of the ring, close to where we were sitting, and was putting on the gloves. In the opposite corner was a powerful-looking young fellow, who purported to be a complete novice. The secretary looked glum. "I've seen that chap before somewhere," he muttered; "he ain't a novice. Tom," he added, leaning over the ropes, "keep your eyes open. That chap's warm, I reckon." The instructor only winked, and "Time!" was called. For three long minutes the instructor was in a succession of warm corners. The novice followed him all over the ring, lunging heavily, now at his head, now at his body, but in vain. Tom might have been a snake, so rapid and sinuous were his movements. His head and his body were everywhere but in the particular place where his opponent's fist happened to be. It was a splendid exhibition of self-defence, and also of self-control, for not once did he attempt to hit back. Nevertheless, he must have been glad when "Time!" was called. From his corner he beckoned to the secretary, and we overheard the conversation. "Look here, Charlie; I can't go on like this. He'll have me out by accident directly, and that won't do, you know." "Well, you know what

to do, don't you? Put it on him. Give him the one-two, and I'll tell him to keep himself a bit quieter next time he has a lesson." "Time!" We expected that something was going to happen, and watched closely. The novice, as before, made a rush. The instructor leaned lightly to one side, and hit his man under the guard on the body. Instinctively the latter bowed forward, and received a smart blow right on the point of the chin. It was all over. The instructor, after one lightning glance, walked quietly back to his place. The novice stopped as if he had been shot, and then collapsed in a heap upon the floor. "By Jove!" said a voice at our elbow, "that's the neatest knockout I ever saw." Apparently no one was badly hurt, for the novice was already recovering consciousness under the expert care of the secretary.

With our clerical friend we left the hall. As we reached the door the first headings of the secretary's sermon to the repentant novice fell upon our ears. "Come and see the rest of the institute," said the clergyman; and we accompanied him to see a tournament in various indoor games against a neighboring club which was in progress. He took us first into the downstairs billiard-room, which opened out of the coffee-bar. Some forty or fifty men were crowded round the table, leaving barely enough room for the players, who were the objects of all eyes, to take their strokes. Both the players were surprisingly good, and the game was keenly contested. All good strokes and breaks were warmly applauded, and we were glad to notice that the applause was independent of the side represented. "A hundred and seventyseven plays a hundred and ninetyseven," said the marker, as "Plain" broke down at N difficult cannon. "Spot" chalked his cue carefully, for two hundred up was the game. He made a shot, failed to secure the pock

et, but scored a surprisingly fluky can

non.

When the jeers from his supporters had subsided the marker's voice sung out, "Two to Spot." Another stroke, and the red dropped quietly into a pocket. "Five to Spot," said the marker; and a rustle went round the room, for the balls were now beautifully situated for a long break. "Ten to Spot," as the red was again pocketed and a pretty cannon scored at the same time. "Plain" put away his cue ostentatiously, as who should say, "I know how to lose like a sportsman." "Twenty-one to Spot," said the marker, and "Spot" prepared to make the winning stroke. Alas! in the excitement of the moment he hit his ball a shade too high; it took à course quite different from that intended, hung trembling for a moment on the edge of a pocket, and then dropped in. "Plain wins," said the marker, and there was a burst of applause from the victorious club. "One for the loser!" cried somebody, and everybody cheered and clapped, while the opponents shook hands cordially. Talk buzzed cheerfully, and the game was played all over again in conversation by the bystanders, till the next pair of players tossed a coin to see which should break the balls.

We watched the game for a time, but, on being reminded that there were other games in progress upstairs, accompanied our host to other quarters of the house to see what was going on there. Over the coffee-bar we found a second billiard-room, where some of the club members were playing a friendly game; and from this passed into a large room furnished with chairs, in various stages of repair and disrepair, and small square tables. In this room the club competition was in progress.

we

Chess, ye gods! Do working men play chess? They did here, and played it according to knowledge, it would

seem, for the Muzio Gambit unfolded itself before our astonished eyes. We tore ourselves away, and paused to look on at a game of cribbage. Judg-. ing by the scoring-board it was a keenly contested game. One of the players, a delicate-looking lad, was counting. His face quivered with excitement as he glanced from his cards to his score, hastily calculating if he could snatch victory. "Fifteen, two; fifteen, four; pair, six; and run of three-seven," he said. An electric silence ran round the watching group. The player who had not yet pegged his score felt that something was wrong. Had he omitted to count anything? He scrutinized his cards again. "Two, four, six, and three are seven," he said with clouded brow, and marked his points. No one said a word, but we fancied that he would hear more of his arithmetic later on. For ourselves, we passed from table to table, keenly interested in the faces which we saw, and impressed both by the excitement which the match caused and by the courtesy extended by each club to each.

But time was slipping by, and with regret we prepared to depart. The regret was softened by a cordial invitation to come again. "There is a concert here the day after to-morrow; perhaps you would like to come. It might interest you, as it will be given entirely by our own men." We promised to come if possible.

It proved to be possible, though not altogether pleasant, for the rain came down in torrents. We did not anticipate a large assembly of men at that concert. They would probably prefer their own firesides, and had we not been idiots we should have done so too -that was our reflection as a passing hansom cab spattered us with mud from top to toe. But the expectation proved to be wide of the reality. The coffee-bar was crammed with members of the club, attended by their sweet

hearts and wives. "A nice wet night, so we are sure of a good audience," said our host, and explained, ou being questioned, that the average working man does not possess a comfortable library or drawing-room to which to retire when work is done, that his courtship is usually carried on in the street, and that he is not always wanted at home when home consists of two rooms and a small family. It began to dawn on us that wet weather might be a good thing for workingclass concerts.

A tide of humanity flowed, we with it, into the small hall at the back of the house. There was a platform and there was a piano. At the piano presided a tired-looking girl of about eighteen, who was playing vigorously all the popular tunes and marches of the day, while the audience crowded noisily into the seats. The hall was small and ill ventilated, and the rain found means of entry through the roof, making a fine puddle on the middle of the stage. Later on unwary singers were surprised into forgetting their songs by the descent of cold drops upon the nape of the neck. All the men were smoking, and the air was thick. Our host took his place in the chair by a small table on the platform, armed with a small hammer. He rapped the table, called for order, and announced, "Our old friend Mr.

will give us

the first song of the evening." There was applause as the singer in question made his way to the platform. A glass of something effervescing stood on the chairman's table; the singer wet his whistle and called to the pianist, "Sweet Rosy O'Grady, miss." Then he adjusted his hat on the back of his head and surveyed the audience, while the pianist played over a waltz refrain which we seemed to ourselves to have heard on barrel organs. The singer sung his verse and the chorus (in waltz time) concerning Miss Rosy O'Grady.

When he had informed the audience how dearly he and the said Rosy loved one another, the chairman rapped the table with his hammer: "This time, please!" he cried, and the whole audience took up the lilting chorus. It was evidently a favorite, and we trembled for the roof.

The song ended, the chairman called on somebody else, and the scene was repeated. Again the singer named his song; the pianist, whose memory must be extraordinary, played the refrain; the singer drank from the glass on the table, the chorus lifted the roof, and somebody else was called upon. So the evening proceeded. Occasionally the pianist was not familiar with the song selected. At such times the singer leaned over the piano and hummed into her ear. She listened, always with that tired, uninterested look, struck one or two chords, nodded, and accompanied the song with apparent ease.

Most of the songs were either sentimental or of the full-blooded patriotic variety. Now and then there was a comic man, and the type was unpleasant. His first two verses were usually vulgar but harmless; his third verse was disgustingly suggestive. During these fatal third verses we watched the faces of the audience. Some of the listeners were convulsed with laughter, some tittered shamefacedly; nobody seemed indignant, though there were women and girls present. The pianist looked merely bored. The chairman's countenance was a study. Once he leaned forward at the end of the second verse, and said something to the singer, who looked surprised and brought his song to an abrupt conclusion, declining the encore which was vigorously demanded by a section of the audience. The chairman hastily called for the next song. Happily the comic element was small.

After a long hour of concert an interval was announced, and a rush was