olives of Monaco, those solemn and ancient trees, he feels what
surely all men feel who walk at sunset through their shadow--the
memory of a mysterious twilight of agony in an olive garden.

"Et ceux-ci, les pales oliviers, n'est-ce pas de ces heures desolees
ou, comme torture supreme, le Sauveur acceptait en son ame
l'irreparable misere du doute, n'est-ce pas alors qu'il ont appris
de lui e courber le front sous le poids imperieux des souvenirs?"

The pages which M. De Banville consecrates to the Villa Sardou,
where Rachel died, may disenchant, perhaps, some readers of Mr.
Matthew Arnold's sonnet. The scene of Rachel's death has been
spoiled by "improvements" in too theatrical taste. All these notes,
however, were made many years ago; and visitors of the Riviera,
though they will find the little book charming where it speaks of
seas and hills, will learn that France has greatly changed the city
which she has annexed. As a practical man and a Parisian, De
Banville has printed (pp. 179-81) a recipe for the concoction of the
Marseilles dish, bouillabaisse, the mess that Thackeray's ballad
made so famous. It takes genius, however, to cook bouillabaisse;
and, to parody what De Banville says about his own recipe for making
a mechanical "ballade," "en employment ce moyen, on est sur de faire
une mauvaise, irremediablement mauvaise bouillabaisse." The poet
adds the remark that "une bouillabaisse reussie vaut un sonnet sans
defaut."

There remains one field of M. De Banville's activity to be shortly
described. Of his "Emaux Parisiens," short studies of celebrated
writers, we need say no more than that they are written in careful
prose. M. De Banville is not only a poet, but in his "Petit Traite