—words which bear a sort of resemblance, in their foolish. and reckless no-meaning, to that passage in Mr. Swinburne's writings wherein the Devil is described as "playing dice with God" for the soul of Faustine. Next comes a piece entitled "Les Litanies de Satan," a prayer to the evil one:—
"Père adoptif de ceux qu'en sa noire colère
Du paradis terrestre a chassés Dieu le Père!"
and in conclusion a few lines called "Prayer:"—
"Gloire et louange à toi, Satan, dans les hauteurs
Du Ciel, où tu régnas, et dans les profondeurs
De l'Enfer, où, vaincu, tu rêves en silence!
Fais que mon âme un jour, sous l'Arbre de Science,
Près de toi se repose, à l'heure ou sur ton front
Comme un Temple nouveau ses rameaux s'épandront."
It will hardly be contended that Mr. Swinburne has surpassed this, although his effusions are wilder and more distorted; and we may well rejoice, meanwhile, that our contemporary blasphemy, as well as so much of our contemporary bestiality, is no home-product, but an importation transplanted from the French Scrofulous School, and conveyed, with no explanation of its origin, at second hand.
Of a similar character to Baudelaires "Fleurs de Mal" are his "Petites Poèmes en Prose," in which this cynic of the shambles touches on many themes besides lust and ennui, and touches none that he does not darken. There is here, as in the "Fleurs," an occasional delicacy of touch, a frequent delicacy of perfume, which deepens the prevalent horror and despair of the surrounding chapters. In one piece he compares the public to a dog, which flies in horror when offered some delicate scent, but greedily devours
