MANY youths of poetic sensibility have railed against the worldly powers; but perhaps among them there are as few that openly defy law as there are that become great poets. Francis Villon is probably unique, seeing that as he grew up he not only became a real poet, but a member of a gang of burglars. Strange to say, his poems possess such striking qualities that they cannot be wholly ignored. And as

he died, at little more than thirty years of age, something over four centuries ago, only those of us who have an uncommon pedigree can possibly claim to have the chance of any grudge against him now on the score of damage to our inheritance. He was born of poor but respectable parents near to Paris, was adopted and brought up by a rich ecclesiastic, and took degrees in arts and theology at the University. Thus ends that part of his life which alone has the slightest claim to be called respectable. He led a bad life among bad companions; was disappointed in a love affair which might haply have redeemed him; killed an ecclesiastic who forced a quarrel on him; was outlawed, and drawn into active connection with bands of thieves and robbers; was pardoned, arrested for fresh burglaries, and condemned to be hanged. His punishment, by the intervention of powerful friends, was commuted to

banishment.

After some years' exile he returned, and was arrested for a theft from a church. He was thrown into a dismal water dungeon, where he passed some months, and was then released by Louis XI., who had just come to the throne, and was passing through the town where was the castle that contained the dungeon. After this release he composed his most im portant poetical work-his cynical sarcastic testament-and died in obscurity, it being supposed that early dissipation and the damp dungeon together brought on a premature decay.

To

It is not a pleasant life to tell of, and in the poems themselves there are passages that reflect with graphic faithfulness the evil of it, the coarse outspokenness of the brothel, and the unblushing profanity of Villon himself and his companions. It is well that the book has been issued only to subscribers of the cultured class. these the exquisiteness of the poetic form in which this utter scapegrace wrote, the biting wit of his satire upon the church and the world, and the cultured power of his mind, so forcibly appeal for recognition, that it becomes necessary to widen the limits of acceptance, and take Villon at least as a fact, if a sad and significant one.

Mr. Payne's version is very spirited, and shows a really remark

able power over language, rare indeed in a translator. A fair specimen may be found in the wellknown ballad whose exquisite refrain is "Mais où sont les neiges d'antan?" The term ballad, it is to be remembered, with a French poet of this period, and with the modern school of art-purists, is no general word, but signifies a form of verse quite as exact as that of the sonnet.

BALLAD OF OLD-TIME LADIES. Tell me in what land of shade

Dwells fair Flora of Rome, and where Do Thaïs and Archipiade

Hide from the middle modern air? And Echo, more than mortal fair, That when one calls by river flow

Or marish, answers here and there? But what has become of last year's snow? Where is Heloïsa the staid,

For whose sake Abelard did not spare (Such dole for love on him was laid)

Manhood to lose and a cowl to wear? And where is the queen whose orders

But where are the snows of yester-year? Where's Héloise, the learned nun,

For whose sake Abeillard, I ween, Lost manhood and put priesthood on? (From Love he won such dule and teen!)

And where, I pray you, is the Queen Who willed that Buridan should steer, Sewed in a sack's mouth down the Seine ?

But where are the snows of yester-year? White Queen Blanche, like a queen of lilies,

With a voice like any mermaiden,— Bertha Broadfoot, Beatrice, Alice,

And Ermengarde, the lady of Maine,And that good Joan whom Englishmen At Rouen doomed and burned her there,Mother of God, where are then?

they

But where are the snows of yester-year? Nay, never ask this week, fair lord, Where they are gone, nor yet this year, Except with this for an overword,

But where are the snows of yester-year?

Villon's "Ballad of Slanderous Tongues," recounting the horrible compounds in which he would have them fried, would provide the witches in Macbeth with a larger stock of nastiness than Shakespeare gives them. The "Ballad of Good Doctrine to those of Ill Life " might have been written by a moralist, but it is Villon's characteristic that he knows himself degraded, and while sometimes he seems to repent, more often, with sardonic humour, he bitterly mocks :

Smuggle indulgences, as you may,

Cog the dice for your cheating throws; Try if counterfeit coin will pay,

At the risk of losing your ears and nose. Deal but in treason, lie and glose,

Rob and ravish, what profits it? Where do you think the money goes? Taverns and wenches, every whit. Flute and juggle and bugles play; Follow the mountebanks and their shows, Along with the strolling players stray, That wander whither God only knows. Act mysteries, farces, imbroglios,

Earn money by cards or a lucky hit At the pins-however it's got it goes: Taverns and wenches, every whit.

BALLAD OF THE WOMEN OF PARIS.
Though folk deem women young and old
Of Venice and Genoa well eno'
Favoured with speech, both glib and bold,
On lovers' messages for to go,
I, at my peril, I say no!
Though Lombards and Romans patter
well:

Savoyards, Florentines, less or mo,-
The women of Paris bear the bell.
The Naples women (so we are told)
Are pleasant enough of speech, and so
Are Prussians and Austrians. Some folk
hold

Greeks and Egyptians sweet of show; But, whether they hail from high or low,

Castille or Hungary, heaven or hell,

For dulcet speech, over any I know, The women of Paris bear the bell. Switzers nor Bretons know how to scold, Nor Gascony women: well I trow, Two fishfags in Paris the bridge that hold Would slang them dumb in a minute

or so.

Picardy, England, Calais, St. Lô. (Is that enough places for one spell?)

Valenciennes, wherever you go, The women of Paris bear the bell.

ENVOI.

Prince, after all the prize must go

To the ladies of Paris for speaking well:

If Italians be sweet of speech or no,

The women of Paris bear the bell.

To translate old French in so strict a measure, and yet with so free a swing, argues no small capacity of language.

We will conclude our extracts with another of Villon's soberer poems:

BALLAD OF THINGS KNOWN AND UNKNOWN.

Flies in the milk I know full well:

I know men by the clothes they wear: I know the walnut by the shell: I know the foul sky from the fair: I know the pear tree by the pear: When things go well, to me is shown: I know who work and who forbear: I know all save myself alone.

I know the pourpoint by the fell:

And by his gown I know the frère: Master from varlet can I tell :

And nuns that cover up their hair: I know a swindler by his air, And fools that fat on cates have grown : Wines by the cask I can compare :

I know all save myself alone.

I know how horse from mule to tell:
I know the load each one can bear:
I know both Beatrice and Bell:

I know the hazards, odd and pair:
I know of visions in the air :

I know the power of Peter's throne,
And how misled Bohemians were:
I know all save myself alone.

ENVOI.

Prince, I know all things: fat and spare,
Ruddy and pale, to me are known;
And Death that endeth all our care:
I know all save myself alone.

It is pleasant to see the old form of subscription editions reviving again, in cases where the work to be printed is of value but not of popular value. One hundred and fifty-seven only is the number of copies printed of the work before us, and with their hand-made paper and vellum cover, they are likely to be worth more than their subscription price for many a year.

LAELIA'S father was a painter, a gentleman, a genius, a man whom all around him loved and respected, but eccentric-at least, so some people said. It is true that he sometimes entertained odd notions as to whether people who had supplied him with goods, but had been churlish or ill-mannered, deserved to be paid, and he had a way of resenting their claims as a personal affront if made with any vehemence. At the same time he held the most lofty ideas with regard to spiritual rectitude, and he brought up his daughter Laelia to look upon life as an art, and a grand and sacred one.

Laelia had no mother, and had never grieved for that loss, except perhaps in her dreams. In all actual life the gray-haired, broadshouldered, wise, genial, erratic old artist was to her father and mother

in one. She spent her childish hours playing about his easel or reading books beyond her understanding, curled up in a big armchair in the studio. Growing older, she needed more definite education than the reading of any book she chose, and the taking into her childish memory her father's utterances upon art.

So he began to teach her, after a fashion, himself. For he hated girls' schools and governesses, judging a little too largely perhaps, as was his wont, from his personal experience. He was determined that at all events his girl should be ignorant of the common feminine weaknesses and naughtinesses.

This quaint girl was interesting, as may be supposed, to the artists who visited her father's house. Laelia had unwittingly figured in many a young man's fancies; but most of them were a little afraid of the strong, simple nature which looked out of her eyes. Artistic souls, especially when young, are often soft all over, so that anything extreme or severe hurts them. They like abundance of beauty to adore, with all hard things kept discreetly in the background.

And there was a certain severity in Laelia's character, although no sign of it showed in her delicate face and gentle eyes. But her father found out before long that the soul he had undertaken to train