The translation, which is
from the pen of the Baroness von Lauer, reads very pleasantly, and some
of the illustrations are good, though it is impossible to reproduce by
any process the delicate and exquisite charm of the Tanagra figurines.

M. Paul Stapfer in his book Moliere et Shakespeare shows very clearly
that the French have not yet forgiven Schlegel for having threatened
that, as a reprisal for the atrocities committed by Napoleon, he would
prove that Moliere was no poet. Indeed, M. Stapfer, while admitting that
one should be fair 'envers tout le monde, meme envers les Allemands,'
charges down upon the German critics with the brilliancy and dash of a
French cuirassier, and mocks at them for their dulness, at the very
moment that he is annexing their erudition, an achievement for which the
French genius is justly renowned. As for the relative merits of Moliere
and Shakespeare, M. Stapfer has no hesitation in placing the author of Le
Misanthrope by the side of the author of Hamlet. Shakespeare's comedies
seem to him somewhat wilful and fantastic; he prefers Orgon and Tartuffe
to Oberon and Titania, and can hardly forgive Beatrice for having been
'born to speak all mirth, and no matter.'

Perhaps he hardly realises that it is as a poet, not as a playwright,
that we love Shakespeare in England, and that Ariel singing by the yellow
sands, or fairies hiding in a wood near Athens, may be as real as Alceste
in his wooing of Celimene, and as true as Harpagon weeping for his money-
box; still, his book is full of interesting suggestion, many of his
remarks on literature are quite excellent, and his style has the
qualities of grace, distinction, and ease of movement.

Not so much can be said for Annals of the Life of Shakespeare, which is a
dull though well-meaning little book. What we do not know about
Shakespeare is a most fascinating subject, and one that would fill a
volume, but what we do know about him is so meagre and inadequate that
when it is collected together the result is rather depressing. However,
there are many people, no doubt, who find a great source of interest in
the fact that he author of The Merchant of Venice once brought an action
for the sum of 1 pound, 15s. 10d. and gained his suit, and for these this
volume will have considerable charm. It is a pity that the finest line
Ben Jonson ever wrote about Shakespeare should be misquoted at the very
beginning of the book, and the illustration of Shakespeare's monument
gives the inscription very badly indeed. Also, it was Ben Jonson's
stepfather, not his 'father-in-law,' as stated, who was the bricklayer;
but it is quite useless to dwell upon these things, as nobody nowadays
seems to have any time either to correct proofs or to consult
authorities.

One of the most pleasing volumes that has appeared as yet in the
Canterbury Series is the collection of Allan Ramsay's poems. Ramsay,
whose profession was the making of periwigs, and whose pleasure was the
making of poetry, is always delightful reading, except when he tries to
write English and to imitate Pope. His Gentle Shepherd is a charming
pastoral play, full of humour and romance; his Vision has a good deal of
natural fire; and some of his songs, such as The Yellow-hair'd Laddie and
The Lass of Patie's Mill, might rank beside those of Burns.