as, "A new star of brilliant magnitude has risen above the literary horizon in the anonymous author of the exquisite[Pg xvi] book of 'Love-Letters,'" and "These poems are among the most graceful and beautiful productions of modern times," became frequent in the best literary journals, and private opinion concerning the book began to make its influence felt. The brilliant writer and astute critic, George Meredith, wrote to a friend on the subject as follows:—

[Pg xvi]

"The lines and metre of the poems are easy and interthreading and perfectly melodious. It is an astonishing production—the work of a true musician in our tongue."

The Times' special correspondent, Antonio Gallenga, expressed himself at some length on the merits of the "Violinist," and spoke of him "as one who could conjure up a host of noble thoughts and bright fancies, who rejoices in a great command of language, with a flow of verse and a wealth of rhymes. It is impossible to hear his confessions, to follow[Pg xvii] him in his aspirations, to hear the tale of his visions, his trances, his dreams, without catching his enthusiasm and bestowing on him our sympathy. Each 'Love-Letter' is in twenty stanzas—each stanza in six lines. The poem is regular and symmetrical as Dante's 'Comedy,' with as stately and solemn, aye, and as arduous a measure." While the world of art and letters thus discussed the volume, reading it meanwhile with such eagerness that the whole edition was soon entirely exhausted, a particularly brilliant and well-written critique of it appeared in the New York Independent—a very prominent American journal, destined afterwards to declare the author's identity, and to be the first to do so. In the columns of this paper had been frequently seen some peculiarly graceful and impassioned poems, signed by one Eric Mackay—notable among these being a lyric entitled "The Waking[Pg xviii] of the Lark" (included in our present volume), which, to quote the expression of a distinguished New York critic, "sent a thrill through the heart of America." There are no skylarks in the New World, but there is a deep tenderness felt by all Americans for the little

[Pg xvii]

[Pg xviii]

and Eric Mackay's exquisite outburst of tender enthusiasm for the English bird of the morning evoked from all parts of the States a chorus of critical delight and approbation. The Rev. T. T. Munger, of Massachusetts, wrote concerning it:—

"This strikes me as the best poem I have seen 

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