186 
REVIEW. 
“ emotion reaches a climax. The entire contravention of these 
“ principles results in bombast or doggerel. The insufficient respect 
“ for them is seen in didactic poetry. And it is because they are rarely 
“ fully obeyed that so much poetry is inartistic.” 
It is not too much to say that throughout her present work the 
accomplished authoress has fully and faithfully followed the scientific 
canons of the distinguished author of the Synthetic philosophy. 
The writings of Miss Naden are not unknown in the pages of this 
Journal, and her able expositions of some of the cardinal points of 
the doctrine of evolution in addresses delivered before the Sociological 
Section of the Birmingham Natural History and Microscopical Society 
on “ Special Creation and Evolution,” and on “ The Data of Ethics,” 
have had a wider circle of admirers. Thoroughly schooled in the 
domain of evolutionary teaching—a psychologist of a very high order— 
and a poet by nature, with large sympathies in favour of progress and 
beliefs in its indefinite “survival,” Miss Naden has, in this volume, 
presented her ripest and richest experience. 
“A Modern Apostle” is, of course, the principal subject in the 
work, and it is a poem of great power and beauty, following a noble 
model—the “ Isabella ” of Keats. “ The Story of Clarice ” is a sweetly 
tender and touching lyric, absolutely true to the life of womanhood:— 
“ When pain and anguish wring the brow, 
“ A ministering angel thou !” 
The “Evolutional Erotics,” one of the lesser but not unimportant 
divisions of the book, include some brilliant touches of humour and 
satire, mingled with wisdom. The following splendid example will 
specially commend itself to the acceptance of all Darwinians. 
We hail with gratitude the appearance of this beautiful volume as 
an addition to Miss Naden’s laurels, and we confidently predict further 
triumphs for her both in poetry and philosophy. 
SOLOMON KEDIVIVUS, 1886. 
What am I ? Ah, you know it, 
I am the modern Sage, 
Seer, savant, merchant, poet— 
I am, in brief, the Age. 
Look not upon my glory 
Of gold and sandal wood, 
But sit and hear a story 
From Darwin and from Buddb. 
Count not my Indian treasures, 
All wrought in curious shapes, 
My labours and my pleasures, 
My peacocks and my apes; 
For when you ask me riddles, 
And when I answer each, 
Until my fifes and fiddles 
Burst in and drown our speech, 
