So he rode a great wallop till he came to the fountain (p. 45, col. 1). He came towards them a great wallop (p. 30, col. 1). But canter has a less obvious etymology. Káv0os is the felloe or tire of a wheel; κάνθων, κανθήλιος, were terms for horses that went at the wheel, i.e. were used for draught. Hence the Latin canterius, as in Plautus, Captivi (iv. 2, 35):— Qui advehuntur quadrupedanti crucianti cantherio, where the epithet crucianti, jolting, is suggestive of a quickened pace, perhaps that kind of half-trot, half-walk, which we call fidgefadge. Mr. Wedgwood says that if this were the true derivation, it would have been found in the continental languages, which is not the case. The word turf is of some interest also. We use it in two rather different senses, for the green sod or sward as it grows in the field, and for the black decomposed vegetable material which is used for fuel. The root of this word is seen in Tuρßáčɛw and turbare, and in our phrase topsy-turvy. It implies the taking up and inverting a spadeful of earth, as turf-diggers treat the peat for the purpose of drying it. The adverb rúpßa (Latin turba) first occurs in a fragment of Eschylus,22 where it is applied to a sow that turns up the ground with its snout. If any doubt existed as to the identity of turf with turba, it would be removed by the word turbary, which means a place where turf may be dug.' Turbarium was the mediæval Latin term for the same thing; and this must obviously be referred to turbare, meaning as it does a plot of land that might be disturbed or left rough and irregular, as contrasted with the level surface of the cornfield. The familiar words plough and harrow suggest some curious combinations. It may seem singular that an idea so simple as ploughing should not in our language contain the well-known root (except indeed in the verb 'to ear,' already noticed) that appears in arare and aratrum, åpoûv and äpovpa. The commonly given etymology of plough from plug, or pointed stick, has, of course, something to be said in its favour, though it seems rather far-fetched; and the Saxon ploh, 'corn-land,' would be an odd derivative as plugland.' It might be suggested that plough really contains the same root as πλέω, I sail (also πλώω, πλο). It is curious that a common vulgar pronunciation is pluff. The resemblance between the progress of a plough, turning up and throwing off the earth in front, to a ship which dashes off the foam from its bows, is so obvious, that poets often speak of ploughing the main,' vastum maris æquor arandum,’ TOMUS TÓνTOS йpón Sopi.23 It is not, therefore, surprising that we πολὺς πόντος ἠρόθη δορί. should express the process of ploughing by the notion of skimming over a level surface, and so making a channel in it. Mr. Peile observes 24 that the Sanscrit aritra is the Greek perμòs rather than arare; and he accounts for the anomaly by remarking that the two ideas of ploughing and rowing are special applications of the more general idea of propelling.' Even in Greek it might be alleged with a fair show of reason that πλοῦτος and πλούσιος come from the same root, as oẞos and oλßios, well-to-do,' appear to contain the root of onai, i.e. inf, 'flour.' 25 We have two Greek words, or we might say three, which exactly represent our verb 'to harrow.' These are Tapáoσew, Opáσσew, 'to thrash,' and xapáσoev. Yet it would be rash to assume that there is any real connection, i.e. more than accidental resemblance, between them. The last of these was pronounced with a strong guttural, and seems identical with our word to harass.' A large class of words more or less directly belong to the same root, the meaning of which is to scratch up or roughen by a pointed instrument.' This very word 'rough' (Saxon hreof), and the Greek ypápew, xpaívew, xpav Ev, are of the same family. Dr. Donaldson has well observed, 26 that Xápağ, 'a vine-prop,' is connected with xapáσoev, both involving the idea of a point stuck into the ground. Now, our word harass,' in the sense of 'vex,' annoy,' is precisely Tapáσσev, and we trace the connection of ideas in the intermediate form χαράσσειν. ταράσσειν. We talk equally of harrowing a field' and 'harrowing the feelings,' 'a harrowing sight,' &c., meaning one disturbing the peace or equable state of the mind. In other words, to harrow' has both an æsthetic and a moral, a physical and a metaphysical sense. This is also the case with Tapáσσev. Pindar,27 in describing the happiness of the good in the Isles of the Blest,' says that they live a life without toil, οὐ χθόνα ταράσσοντες—οὐδὲ πόντιον ὕδωρ, ‘not stirring earth or sea. There are points of resemblance between xapácoεiv (the origin of our word character,' itself a pure Greek word) and тaράσσειν, and yet the interchange of ταρ and χαρ, a dental and a guttural, seems in itself improbable. We have thus seen that our English farmers unconsciously talk in language of a perhaps prehistoric antiquity. The majority of the words they use were inherited from their Aryan or Indian forefathers, who farmed the sun-lands of the east thousands and thousands of years ago. 24 Introduction to Etymology, p. 82. F. A. PALEY. 25 New Cratylus, § 116. MR. SWINBURNE'S TRILOGY. deal with the memory of the Queen of Scots at all is an enterthrough the subtle intricacies implied in the construction of three elaborate dramatic poems marks at once brave daring and intrepid persistency. Whatever may be said of Mr. Swinburne's conception of Mary's character, and of his notions of dramatic propriety and literary good taste, there can be no question as to the thoroughness with which he proceeds in his execution of the task he had early imposed on himself-that, namely, of writing a trilogy on Mary, Queen of Scots. Through protracted dialogue, determined soliloquy, strenuous oration, and lilt of sensuous temper or ominous tone, the course of the dramatic narrative is continued, till at length the culminating scene at Fotheringay gives fitting occasion for bringing the eventful history to a close. The Mr. Swinburne, of course, has sufficient sense of dramatic necessities to know that, though he arranges his studies according to acts and scenes, there is not the smallest likelihood that his work, either in whole or in part, will ever arrest the attention of a manager. This trilogy, in other words, was not written with a view to the stage. One could easily imagine that if, by some accident, say the Bothwell' of the three studies were selected for representation, and that if Mr. Swinburne himself were present during the performance, in the front of the pit or elsewhere, he would (like Charles Lamb in similar stress of circumstances) be one of the most lusty of those that should without fail hiss John Knox behind the scenes. representative of the Reformer would inevitably be condemned for his irrepressible loquacity. Similarly, the persistent conversational powers of chance citizens and other incidental supernumeraries would almost of a certainty exhaust the patience of the most long-suffering house, while the fond dallying and the expressed love languors of the Queen and the iron Bothwell himself would probably arouse anything but the softest sympathies of spectators. It might indeed be affirmed without much hesitation that, even if the three plays were compressed into one, and Chastelard's soft strains were combined with Bothwell's energetic self-will, Mary Beaton's subtlety, and Knox's virtuous indignation, so as to prepare a rapid and terrible fifth act, with Elizabeth, Babington, Walsingham, and the rest hurrying on the fatal doom, still the overwhelming prevalence of mere utterance as contrasted with poverty of action would be fatal to theatrical success. At once, then, the thought of mere scenic display may be dismissed in connection with these three dramas. Mr. Swinburne, like various other poets of his time, has written less for the love of dramatic effect and more for the charm of lyric movement. Sentiment and melody are more to his liking than strenuous activity and the terrible irony of events. The cushion and the carpet are vastly more important features in his work than the sod and the saddle. The activity of the plays that is best depicted, that has anything to do indeed with the leading movement of the theme, is of the kind of which one hears from inner chambers, or sees at nearest over some languid damsel's shoulder from a balcony. Even all that bears upon Carberry Hill is more suggestive of the retirement of Holyrood than the exciting hurry and bustle of a scene that preludes an expected battle. The Queen and Bothwell, though in camp, can still startle with their amazing loquacity. Moreover in the thick of their troublous times they are able to some extent to continue their notorious billing and cooing, and to divulge their lyric sentimentalities when preparing for probable instant action. Bothwell can soften his heroic utterances so as to say while Mary, in a moment of desperation, thrilled with some sense of her own share in the magnitude of the impending crisis, has a feeling for old fitness in her despair, as she suggests a luxurious combination of issues in the appeal Kiss me, and kill me! be not wroth, but strike. What has been called the lyric element, then, in contrast to the element of vigorous dramatic action, is that which predominates in Mr. Swinburne's trilogy. It is emotion and sentiment that engage the attention rather than movement and passion. This precludes the possibility of sharp and decisive characterisation, and concentrates the interest upon the poet's force and variety of expression, and his ingenuity of colloquial device and illustrative material, rather than upon the ruthless march of events and the strength of the personalities concerned. It is this that makes the reader feel little or no surprise at the amount and quality of the utterances by the various interlocutors. There seems no reason why Mary Hamilton, for example, should not say the things uttered by any other Mary (with a slight occasional exception as regards Mary Beaton); there is little apparent distinction of individualities anywhere, and especially where several citizens' or 'lords' may be grouped in one scene and discussing the same topic; and, above all, there is no particular reason discernible for any speech, long or short, further than that it suits the poet's purpose in developing his theme. Some of the scenes, for example, in which Chastelard appears might equally well contain Rizzio instead, while others would suit the more massive personality denly put upon the frank expression of their righteous indignation, might very well, to all appearance, figure in the character of Knox, who outstrips them in the end mainly by power of lung and striking volubility. It must be confessed that this weakness of discrimination -this deficiency of dramatic sharpness of definition-retards immediate appreciation of actual merit, and probably prevents even an approximate understanding of the poet's motive and conception. It is a little tiresome to read one long speech after another, especially when there is a striking resemblance both in character and manner of utterance, and to feel all the while that nothing is being advanced by so much talk. Frequently, too, a speaker (whose personality meantime one may have the very dimmest notion of) loses himself in sentences that are long and involved, labouring with inversions and various kinds of subordinate clauses. In this respect Mr. Swinburne shuts himself off from the possibility of giving an impression of direct dramatic precision and intensity. In many passages his blank verse, with something more of clearness and strong resonance of harmonious movement, might be likened to that of Paradise Lost' rather than to that of the great dramatists. One of the best arguments for the use of blank verse in dramatic dialogue is that, from its affinity to prose in form and structure, it makes an excellent colloquial instrument. The hearer is not disturbed by the intrusion of rhymes, while the dignified metrical movement serves to retain the interest and uphold the ideal. But the sentences must not be too long, and the utterance must be as direct and explicit as possible. If there is to be any excuse or exception at all, it should be only for some very palpable reason and in the case of a leading character. Yet Mr. Swinburne puts sentences of some forty lines apiece into the mouths of such minor characters as Paulet and Sir Drew Drury, the latter of whom at one place (Mary Stuart,' p. 145) sustains himself without a period over something like a page and a half. Now, this is excellent for Sir Drew, but how as regards his audience? Even Hamlet does not lose himself in winding recesses of suggested minor considerations, in the parenthetical manner of Mr. Swinburne's characters, but pursues his thought, however fantastic it may be, till he has set it forth in duly consecutive and fairly rounded and explicit periods. One may have to ponder long over some sentence in Shakespeare before grasping its full significance, but the first reading is sufficient to give at least the drift of the utterance. It is otherwise with Mr. Swinburne, who insists on giving even his supernumeraries the power of revelling in elaborate and swelling cadences, which not infrequently detain the conscientious reader far beyond the point at which their intrinsic importance stops. It would thus appear that while this trilogy is not adapted for stage representation, it wants precision in the discrimination and definition of character, and is defective as regards direct and explicit dialogue. Not only would it be impossible to interest spectators in the trilogy, or any part of it, as depicted on the stage, but it is diffi |