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ples, these he hated,-and he writes of them accordingly. Prague, Budapest, Belgrade, Sofia and Constantinople are also subjects of his impressionist descriptions, and the volume is charmingly vivid and picturesque, and is no whit the worse for having a good deal of Mr. Symons in it; for no one knows better than the readers of The Living Age how interesting a person Mr. Symons is. There are eight photogravures.

Being called upon last year to give the series of lectures at Harvard University which are provided for by the William Belden Noble foundation, Dr. Charles Cuthbert Hall chose as his subject "Christ and the Human Race," or, more precisely, the attitude of Jesus Christ toward foreign races and religions. The lectures, six in number, are now published in a volume under the above title by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. Dr. Hall's special purpose is to consider the proper attitude of the church of Christ to-day, and especially its teachers and preachers toward Oriental faiths and peoples, and to that end he studies those faiths and peoples to find among them evidences of the moving of the Spirit of God. Dr. Hall's spirit is itself an expression of that more tolerant and understanding view of Eastern ideals and standards for which he pleads, and his conclusions lead, not to the abandonment of missionary endeavor but to the grounding it upon saner views than formerly prevailed.

Mr. B. L. Putnam Weale has written another book on the relations of Russia and Japan, which Messrs. Macmillan will issue as a sequel to "The Re-Shaping of the Far East," by the same author, published about a year ago. Mr. Weale, who has travelled extensively through Manchuria since the war, does not regard the signature of the Ports

mouth Treaty as the inauguration of a permanent peace. He calls his new book "The Truce in the East: and the Aftermath," and maintains that "the Manchurian question is just as acute, under a new and more subtle form, as it has ever been before, and that the germs of great future trouble are there to be discerned." In the appendices are given the terms of the Anglo-Japanese Alliance, the Treaty of Portsmouth, the Japan-Korean Agreement, the China-Japan Peking Agreement, and statements regarding Japan's indebtedness, the cost of the war to Japan, the navies of the Powers and the Japanese Navy, the Japanese Commercial Treaty of October, 1903, and a number of other documents.

"Liberty, Union and Democracy” are the three national ideals of America which Professor Barrett Wendell of Harvard chose to present when he visited France some time ago upon invitation to give addresses to the universities upon the peculiar characteristics of America. Later, in a somewhat different form, but with no fundamental changes, he gave the lectures before the Lowell Institute, and it is in this form that they are now-published by Charles Scribner's Sons. In the opening lecture on "American Nationality," Professor Wendell emphasizes the truth that, in spite of the multitudinous and seemingly incongruous elements which enter into our body politic, there really is a distinctly American nationality and an American type of man; and he argues ingeniously by the citation of one after another eminent American, from Lincoln to Increase Mather, that this type is not of recent creation. His exposition of the three national ideals of which he treats in the remaining three lectures is candid and clear-cut, and is not vitiated by brag on the one hand or by exaggerated cynicism on the other.

SEVENTH SERIES
VOLUME XXXIV.

No. 3263 Jan. 19, 1907.

FROM BEGINNING
Vol. CCLII.

CONTENTS.

1.

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11.

Boston. By Charles Whibley.
BLACK WOOD'S MAGAZINE 131
Of Certain English Old China. By J. H. Yoxall, M.P..

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CORNHILL. MAGAZINE 137

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Amelia and the Doctor. Chapter IX. The Good Health of Miss
Vera and Il Health of the Colonel. By Horace G. Hutchin-
son. (To be continued)

147

IV.

Leslie Stephen: A Review. By Sir Frederick Pollock

V.

VI.

VII.

The Zionists. By C. R. Conder
Herr Robinsoni. By Evelyn Sharp
To America in an Emigrant Ship. By Vay de Vaya and Luskod

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INDEPENDENT REVIEW 153 BLACK WOOD'S MAGAZINE 158 PALL MALL MAGAZINE

165

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WHEN THE WORLD'S ASLEEP. When the day is past and ended, and

the daily tasks that men did Have been laid aside unfinished till

the dawn that comes too soon, Children, then it is the playtime of whatever slept by daytime, And the people of the darkness wake and live beneath the moon;

All day, every day in London, till they get what they've begun done, Busy workers fill the City, hurrying daily to and fro,

But when night is there, thereafter, oh,

the ghostly sighs and laughter Of the folks who throng the streets and leave no footprints where they go!

While the moon and the lamps are

alight,

And there's none to look on at the sight,

Oh, what doings begin

When the world has gone in, And the sun has gone out for the night!

For the ghosts of all the fancies, all the dreamings and romances. That throughout the day were penned up in the busy brains of men,

Climb or break their high or low pen and escape into the open

And become as good as real in the quiet City then;

And the statues staid and solemn drop from pedestal and column,

Stretch their stiffened limbs, and live and walk and talk, like me and you,

And the pictures from the hoardings, tired of lodging on their boardings,

Move among them, loving, hating. just as daylight mortals do.

And, as mists that from the sea rose. loving heroines and heroes

Who are all day shut in volumes put away on dusty shelves, Youths and maidens, happy lovers, blithely breaking from their covers,

Meet, and baffle dreadful villains who are roaming like themselves; Fays whose home for evermore is in the realm of fairy stories, Gnomes and elves, and little people who have made us laugh and weep, Dreams that are but empty seeming

until we ourselves are dreaming, Come to life and fill the City when

the world is all asleep.

When the moon and the lamps are alight,

And there's none to look on at the sight,

Oh what wonders begin

When the world has gone in, And the sun has gone out for the night!

A. St. John Adcock.

The Pall Mall Magazine.

BOSTON.

America. the country of contrasts, can show none more sudden or striking than that between New York and Boston. In New York progress and convenience reach their zenith. A short journey carries you back into the England of the eighteenth century. The traveller, lately puzzled by overhead railways and awed by the immensity of sky-scrapers, no sooner reaches Boston than he finds himself once more in a familiar environment. The wayward simplicity of the city has little in common with the New World. Its streets are not mere hollow tubes, through which financiers may be hastily precipitated to their quest for gold. They wind and twist like the streets in the country towns of England and France. To the old architects of Boston, indeed, a street was something more than a thoroughfare. The houses which flanked it took their places by whim or hazard, and were not compelled to follow a hard, immovable line. And so they possess all the beauty which is born of accident and surprise. You turn a corner, and know not what will confront you; you dive down a side street, and are uncertain into what century you will be thrust. Here is the old frame-house, which recalls the first settlers; there the fair red-brick of a later period. And everywhere is the diversity which comes of growth, and which proves that time is a better contriver of effects than the most skilful architect.

The constant mark of Boston is a demure gaiety. An air of quiet festivity encompasses the streets. The houses are elegant, but sternly ordered. If they belong to the colonial style, they are exquisitely symmetrical. There is no pilaster without its fellow; no window that is not nicely balanced by an.

other of self-same shape and size. The architects, who learned their craft from the designs of Inigo Jones and Christo. pher Wren, had no ambition to express their own fancy. They were loyally obedient to the tradition of the masters, and the houses which they planned, plain in their neatness, are neither pretentious nor inappropriate. Nowhere in Boston will you find the extravagant ingenuity which makes New York ri diculous; nowhere will you be disturbed by an absurd mimicry of exotic styles; nowhere are you asked to wonder at mountainous blocks of stone. Boston is not a city of giants, but of men who love their comfort, and who, in spite of Puritan ancestry, do not disdain to live in beautiful surroundings. In other words, the millionaire has not laid his iron hand upon New England, and, until he come, Boston may still boast of its elegance.

But the pride of Boston is Beacon Street, surely one among the most majestic streets in the world. It suggests Piccadilly and the frontage of the Green Park. Its broad spaces and the shade of its dividing trees are of the natural beauty which time alone can confer, and its houses are worthy its setting. I lunched at the Somerset Club, in a white-panelled room, and it needed clams and soft-shell crabs to convince me that I was in a new land, and not in an English country-house. All was of another time and of a familiar place the service, the furniture, the aspect. And was it possible to regard the company as strange in blood or speech?

The Mall, in Beacon Street, if it is the pride, is also characteristic of Boston. For Boston is a city of parks and trees. The famous Common, as those might remember who believe that

America sprang into being in a night, has been sacred for nearly three hundred years. Since 1640 it has been the centre of Boston. It has witnessed the tragedies and comedies of an eventful history. "There," wrote an English traveller as early as 1675, "the gallants walk with their marmalet-madams, as we do in Moorfields." There malefactors were hanged; there the witches suffered in the time of their persecution; and it is impossible to forget, as you walk its ample spaces, the many old associations which it brings with it from the past.

It is, indeed, to the past that Boston belongs. No city is more keenly conscious of its origin. The flood of for

eign immigration has not engulfed it. Its memories, like its names, are still of England, New and Old. The spirit of America, eagerly looking forward, cruelly acquisitive, does not seem to fulfil it. The sentiment of its beginning has outlasted even the sentiment of a poignant agitation. It resembles an old man thinking of what was, and turning over with careful hand the relics of days gone by. If in one aspect Boston is a centre of commerce and enterprise, in another it is a patient worshipper of tradition. It regards the few old buildings which have survived the shocks of time with a respect which an Englishman can easily understand, but which may appear extravagant to the modern American. The Old South Meeting-House, to give a single instance, is an object of simple-hearted veneration to the people of Boston, and the veneration is easily intelligible. For there is scarcely an episode in Boston's history that is not connected, in the popular imagination, with the Old South Meeting-House. It stands on the site of John Winthrop's garden; it is rich in memories of Cotton and Increase Mather. Within its ancient walls was Benjamin Franklin christened, and the building which stands

to-day comes down to us from 1730, and was designed in obedient imitation of Christopher Wren. There, too, were enacted many scenes in the drama of revolution; there it was that the famous tea-party was proposed; and thence it was that the Mohawks, drunk with the rhetoric of liberty, found their way to the harbor, that they might see how tea mixed with saltwater. If the sentiment be sometimes exaggerated, the purpose is admirable, and it is a pleasant reflection that, in a country of quick changes and historical indifference, at least one building will be preserved for the admiration of coming generations.

It is for such reasons as these that an Englishman feels at home in Boston. He is anchored to the same past; he shares the same memories, even though he give them a different interpretation. Between the New and Old England there are more points of similarity than of difference. In each are the same green meadows, the same ample streams, the same wide vistas. The names of the towns and villages in the new country were borrowed from the old some centuries ago; everywhere friendly associations are evoked; everywhere are signs of a familiar and kindly origin. When Winthrop, the earliest of the settlers, wrote to his wife, "We are here in a paradise," he spoke with an enthusiasm which is easily intelligible. And as the little colony grew, it lived its life in accord with the habit and sentiment of the mother country. In architecture and costume it followed the example set in Bristol or in London. Between these ports and Boston was a frequent interchange of news and commodities. An American in England was no stranger He was visiting, with sympathy and understanding, the home of his fathers. The most distinguished Bostonians of the late eighteenth century live upon the canvases of Copley, who, in his son, gave to England a dis

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