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BOOKISHMESSA

"THE QUALITY OF MERCY."

ONE always feels the inevitableness of human actions and events in

the stories of Mr. Howells, and in his later works one feels more than ever that in the long run the results of the inevitable are somehow irresistibly converging to what is good.

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Why not call it Law?" asks Dr. Morrell in the author's latest novel. To which Putney (the inimitable lawyer who reappears to delight the readers of "Annie Kilburn ") replies: "Well, I don't like to be too bold. But, taking it by and large, and seeing that most things seem to turn out pretty well in the end, I'll split the difference with you and call it Mercy."

That is the core of it all-the very "Quality of Mercy" which is the title and motive of the novel. For how can a man be other than charitable in his judgments of his fellow men if he believes that all are under a great Law the end of which is the "far off divine event to which the whole creation moves?" He may have the most rigorous ideas as to the personal accountability of each man for his deeds, good and evil, but if he grasps the idea of inevitableness, there will always lurk in his severest judgments the quality of mercy, because he knows his inability to draw the line between what part was circumstance and what part volition in any man's actions.

Putney sums up the case for Northwick, the defaulter and central figure of the story, when he says: "I don't know that he's much of a warning. He just seemed to be a kind of-incident; and a pretty common kind. He was a mere creature of circumstances-like the rest of us! His environment made him rich, and his environment made him a rogue. Sometimes I think there was nothing to Northwick, except what happened to him."

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IT is Broomfield Corey (the most delightful character Mr. Howells

has created) who steps into the book for a chapter to remind his old friends, in that gentle, satirical way of his, that the eternal and tragical interest of such unpleasant facts is not in the things which visibly happen but in the "slow and long decay of a moral nature which precedes them." In tracing that pathetic decline Mr. Howells displays his subtlest art.

But one must not conceive the novel as so entirely psychological; there is, indeed, very little "pumping of motives" in it. The people reveal themselves in their talk-in that simple, natural dialogue which is so characteristic of the author that you want to meet the people for the sole pleasure of talking with them. It is never "tall talk," never histrionic. Perhaps it is best at Hilary's dinner when Corey and Bellingham reappear. You get one of the few glimpses of the real good-fellowship of elderly men which is so seldom used in fiction. When it does appear it is often coarsened with conviviality of a kind which goes with youth and not with age. In reality there is little in human nature that is finer than the gentle, undemonstrative attachment of elderly men of the same class for one another. When they are beyond selfish aims, and successful enough to be content, they form these little coteries out of genuine fondness and similarity of tastes.

But the traditions of the drama and novel insist that when two or three fine old men meet they must slap each other on the back, dig their fingers into their friends' ribs and laugh like roaring idiots!

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LA DERNIÈRE RESSOURCE.

Garçon: AH! MONSIEUR, HE SIT UPON ZE FLOOR. WHY HE NOT SERVE HIMSELF OF ZE CHAISE?

Stout Tourist: BECAUSE I'VE PAID THE LAST SOU I'M GOING TO FOR SMASHING FEEBLE-MINDED AND DECREPIT FRENCH CHAIRS.

except with each other. Of course, parents and brothers and sisters appear traditionally at certain times to balk the villain or, perhaps, to throw an impossible obstacle in the way of the union of two lovers. However, they are little more than lay figures.

You can't get at the real pleasures of life (and annoyances also) as Mr. Howells does, unless you put each character in a social environment and show how it affects him, and how he affects it.

That is why a man who lives in a bachelor apartment, and thinks he knows the world, is apt to be a poor judge of motives.

MY

NEW BOOKS.

Droch.

Y GUARDIAN. By Ada Cambridge. New York: D. Appleton and Company.

Christ vs Christianity. By a Modern Lawyer. Boston: American Elzevir Company.

Potiphar's Wife and Other Poems. By Sir Edwin Arnold. New York: Charles Scribner's Sons.

Marriage and the Home. By John L. Brandt, D. D. Chicago: Laird and Lee.

Grania. By the Hon. Emily Lawless. New York: Macmillan and Company.

A Fellowe and His Wife. By Blanche Willis Howard and William Sharp. Boston and New York: Houghton, Mifflin and Company. Vain Fortune. By George Moore. New York: Charles Scribner's

Sons.

Money, Silver, and Finance. By J. Howard Cowperthwait. New York and London: G. P. Putnam's Sons.

The History of David Grieve. By Mrs. Humphry Ward. Library Edition. Two Volumes. New York: Macmillan and Company.

My Lady's Dressing Room. By Harriet Hubbard Ayer. New York: Cassell Publishing Company.

Lazy Thoughts of a Lasy Girl. By Jennie Wren. New York: The Waverly Company.

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In the Background: I HEAR YOU ARE GOING TO MARRY MISS BULLION. 1 SHOULD THINK YOU WOULD MARRY GOLDIE STERLING; SHE IS JUST AS RICH AND MUCH YOUNGER.

YES, MY DEAR BOY, BUT MISS BULLION'S PAPA IS MUCH OLDER.

LIFE is wondering whether His Satanic

Majesty is the original author of the saying all women believe in, that unless they deck themselves with something new on Easter they will go ragged all the year. He

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probably was. About the other
holidays he has grouped other
temptations, such as conviviality
and bibulousness, designed to ap-
peal to the animal instincts of the
sterner sex. Easter, being essen-
tially a church festival, does not
lend itself as readily to the old gen-
tleman's purposes; so, remem-
bering his experience with Eve,
he has chosen Easter for renew-
ing his clothing business. In-
cidentally, however, and entirely
as a side issue, he manages to
snare a few men when the bills
for the Easter adornment of
their spouses come
in. Of course this
doesn't count for
much of a winning

in His Satanic Majesty's books,
but it all goes with the festival
of Easter.

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Mr. S. Tayleure Smythe: DID YOU SEE, DON'T YE KNOW, THAT WALES LOST ONE OF HIS MOST TREASURED DECORATIONS THE Mr. E. P. Unum: No. WHO WON IT?

OTHER DAY?

H

LIFE'S FAIRY TALES.

THE ADVENTURES OF TWO CRIMINALS.

UNKY was a bad boy and his dog was a bad dog. Their manners, morals and antecedents were all bad. Hunky's father had been hanged for murder and his mother, at the time of this story, was residing in a public institution as a common drunkard.

Grips, although he looked like a bull dog, was of varied and confusing ancestry. His expression was blasé and dissipated.

Both Hunky and Grips had brusque, unvarnished manners, ugly faces, crooked legs, and hoarse voices. Their past experience was such as to make them suspicious of everything except each other. Hunky had inherited several tendencies that were actively discouraged by the police; but crime possessed no terrors for Grips and he had stuck by him through thick and thin. Hunky was a liar and a thief. Grips was a thief and a bully; with the power of speech he would probably have been a more expert liar than his

master.

One morning in May, when neither had eaten anything since the previous noon, they stopped in front of a grocer's just to look at the display and realize what fun there was in store for those who were to eat it. As an old gentleman, who happened to be beside him, took out a handful of money to pay for his purchases, Hunky's empty stomach furnished him the courage for a daring deed. With his brain dazzled by the ice cream and cocoanut cakes those bills would buy, and the pounds of raw meat they would procure for Grips, he snatched them and darted away. As he rounded the nearest corner with the cry of "Stop thief!" in his ears, he ran straight into the arms of a policeman. In vain he struggled to get away. Grips realized the necessity of immediate action, and fastened himself with painful enterprise upon a tender portion of the public guardian. Swiftly were the fingers loosened from Hunky's collar; and the latter, knowing that Grips had always been able to look out for himself, vanished from the scene with the celerity and skill which are gained only by experience. The report of a pistol, however, told him the worst had happened.

He afterward got possession of the body and gave it a decent burial. In the soap box, which served as a coffin, he laid the stolen purse with its contents, so that Grips, in another world, might secure the nourishment he had so often missed in this one. As he was gently patting down the fresh earth upon the grave and making no efforts to suppress his grief, he heard some one say:

"Phwat are yez that blue about?"

Turning his head he saw beside him a strange little figure, too small even for a dwarf.

"I am sorry about Grips."

"Phwat's the matther wid him?"

"He's dead."

"Begorra, that's something!" said the little figure.

"An' that ain't the worst of it," said Hunky, "for I want to foller him and I dunno where he is."

"I wish I could tell yez," said the short one, "but, bedad! it's a tough one ter answer. Howld on tho', I have an idea. The head of the Church knows everything." And as Hunky watched him he grew taller and taller, his clothes became rich and ample, a tiara sprouted upon his head, and, lo! he was a pope. Hunky had never seen a pope before and was very much astonished. The pope laughed at his amazement and said:

"We've got wisdom by the scruff o' the neck, now, be jabbers! Tell us about yer friend. Was he a Roman Catholic?" "I dunno."

"Yer dunno whether he belonged to the Church or not?" "No. He didn't belong to nuthin'-except me."

"Did he never go to mass, or confess, or attind howly service, or any o' them things?"

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"No."

"Then it's a slim show for heaven he has, bad 'cess to him! He's down below."

"In hell?"

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Sure."

Good!" said Hunky.

"Then he was no friend to yez z?"

"Wasn't he though! Only one I had. But I want ter foller him and they'd never take me inter heaven."

"Oi'm not so sure o' that," said the pope; "children have a chance. But Oi have another idea. Oi'll excommunicate yez, and ye'll go to hell, sure."

So he excommunicated him, and then returned to his original shape. Hunky thanked him and they separated, each going his own way.

Hunky had not travelled far before he met an old lady with curls and spectacles who asked him whither he was hurrying.

"I'm goin' ter hell," said Hunky.

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'Mercy on us!" exclaimed the old lady as she threw up her hands, and quivered with excitement; What takes you there?"

"My best friend has gone on ahead, an' I'm a hurryin' ter join 'im." "But how do you know he is there and not in heaven?" "He wasn't a Catholic," said Hunky, "and its only them as goes to heaven."

"Sakes alive!" gasped the old lady. "Is that official?" "Straight from the pope," said Hunky, and he hurried on toward the river. As he ran out on to the wharf he passed very near a barrel standing end up, on the top of which were four fairies playing poker.

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'O' course he wasn't," said Hunky.

"Was he married?" asked a very young fairy who had recently become engaged.

"O ya-a-s," said Hunky, in a sarcastic tone; "dogs is given ter gittin' married."

"O, he was a dog, was he?" they all exclaimed, and thereupon laughed hilariously, but all the time keeping on with the game.

One of them, Beesbelly by name, lost his equilibrium in a fit of mirth and tumbled over backward. Being a fairy of great presence of mind, he turned quickly into a rubber ball when he felt himself going and bounced harmlessly up

again on striking the wharf. Resuming his usual shape as he neared the top of the barrel on the return bound, he slid back into his old seat, took up his cards and went on with the game as if no interruption had occurred.

"Dogs have no souls," one of them explained to Hunky. "When they are dead

that's the end of 'em. They don't go anywhere. Ten better, Bulby."

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Hunky was so unhappy upon hearing this that the fairy felt a great pity for him, and as Hunky turned and walked dejectedly away, he cried out to him, "The first wish you utter shall be granted, so be careful!"

But Hunky was absorbed by his grief at the thought of never seeing his old pal again, and the world seemed such a desolate blank without him, that he did not hear what the fairy promised. In his loneliness and despair he curled up in a doorway, and pulling his dirty cap over his eyes, muttered, "Wisht 'er was dead."

A few minutes later a little crowd gathered about the doorsteps as a policeman lifted in his arms the lifeless body of a ragged, red-headed urchin and bore it tenderly away.

There were echoes of distant music in the air when Hunky opened his eyes upon the golden glories about him. He stood among a group who, like himself, seemed just arrived, but all the others had happy faces as they gazed in wonder upon the splendors that encompassed them. Standing near him was an imposing personage clad in white and gold. As he seemed to be one of the officers of

the vast palace, Hunky went over to him and said, "Soy, Mister, what place is dis?"

"These are the realms of eternal joy."

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"Yes, my dog,' said Hunky. "I think he came this morning," said the man in white, and pointing down the hall he said: "You see the fifth arch on the right with the ruby columns and silver doors? Well, I saw him turn in there not ten minutes ago."

Hunky started off on a run. When he reached the fifth arch he looked through upon a beautiful garden, all gay with flowers and splashing fountains, and there, in a pensive attitude, was Grips, gazing listlessly upon the beauties before him.

Hunky whistled; Grips started, turned his head, gave a cry of joy, then bounded over the grass as if shot from a cannon. He flew into Hunky's arms with such force as to knock him over backward, and they rolled over and over among the flowers. Grips seemed crazy with joy, and Hunky was not sorry.

They never parted again and are still living happily together. J. A. Mitchell.

MISS S.: Some one told me the other day that you had

received seven proposals this winter. MISS P. (complacently): Yes, I have. MISS S: Who is the man?

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NTERVIEWER: Do you think Senator Hill will be nominated for President?

EMINENT STATESMAN: I have nothing to say on that subject.

INTERVIEWER: May I ask why?

EMINENT STATESMAN: Because it's a long time from now till '96.

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