genuity is almost always entirely perverse, and devoted to the discussion of the non-existent. He would have us believe that the plays of Euripides were not so much great dramatic pieces written with the single purpose that characterises the plays of Eschylus and Sophocles, but rather with a mocking spirit, to poke fun at the national religion and the traditional legends of the Hellenic people. This is not the place to discuss at length his theory and the argument upon which he bases it. Suffice it to say, that his conception of the underlying motive of the Euripidean dramas appears to us worthy of a place beside the Neronian hypothesis as to Persius and Petronius. A hidden meaning that is so much hidden as to leave its very existence unsuspected for more than two thousand years is one whose reality we are certainly justified in suspecting; and to attempt to give it form and substance at this late day is pretty surely destined to be labour lost.

We cannot conceive how Messrs. Way and Williams were induced to waste good paper, a handsome cover, and so much beautiful typography upon Shelley's translation of Plato's Symposium. As a translation it is far less easy and idiomatic than Jowett's, and it is disfigured by the crudity of introducing the Latin names of the gods into a Greek text. Moreover, the most curious and instructive passage of the whole dialogue is omitted. The only word in Greek letters in the whole volume contains two typographical errors. More to be commended is the collection of typical passages from the different dialogues in Jowett's translation, now published by the Clarendon Press, and edited with an introductory account of Plato by M. J. Knight. To it is prefixed the preface that Dr. Jowett wrote for Mr. Purves's Selections; and a brief summary of each dialogue is given in the proper place. While the effect of the whole is rather scrappy, as might be expected of a work intended for University Extension readers, it may prove to be of value in exciting a taste for further reading in Plato; and therefore it can be conscientiously recommended. Granted that its plan is good, that plan has been carried out with judgment and dis

cretion.

Why is it, we should like to know, that, after twenty-four centuries, the

name of Sappho is still so potent a spell to conjure by? A few stanzas of her verse and a stray word here and there preserved in the pages of the grammarians who quote them, are all that remains to us of her poetry, and pretty nearly everything told of her personality is mythical; yet not scholars only, but all sorts and conditions of men, feel an undefined and mysterious interest in her. Only a short time ago, when the present writer happened to be in a little out-of-the-way town in Connecticut, the village lawyer, a hard-faced Yankee as dry as a chip, came to him and asked, with much earnestness, where he could find a translation of the lyrical remains of Sappho. He knew no Greek, and was by no means a man of literary tastes; yet he wanted to know all that was to be known of Sappho. What is, then, the source of this widespread interest? We suspect that it springs partly from the romantic legend of her love for Phaon, which is absolutely unhistorical, and of her tragic death, which is even less supported by any scrap of evidence. Probably, too, the shadow of scandal associated with her name has also something to do with it, and this (pace Welcker and Mr. Wharton) does rest upon some tangible authority. Whatever the reason, Mr. Wharton's dainty volume, which in this, its third edition, is enlarged from 202 to 237 pages, will delight a multitude of "burning Sappho's" admirers, and, like the preceding editions, will prove a boon to the collector of beautiful books. It is as complete as any one could wish. cover is designed by Aubrey Beardsley, its rough-edged paper is of the best, and its Greek type was procured at Berlin by special permission of the Imperial Government. The memoir prefixed to the fragments is erudite and satisfactorily full, telling what is known and what is conjectured regarding Sappho's life and history, with a sketch of the various critical works that have been written on the subject, and of the modern books suggested by it, including even a mention of Daudet's Sapho, which in nothing but its title recalls the fair Lesbian. Each scrap of Sappho's poetry is then given, even to the single words cited by the Greek lexicographers, and many translations and imitations in English are given in their proper place, their authors including Frederick Tennyson,

Its

Michael Field Professor Palgrave, John Addington Symonds, Gladstone, Sir Richard Burton, Swinburne, Edwin Arnold, and many others. A bibliography of editions and works on Sappho fills eighteen pages at the end. There are three fine photogravures-one of Alma Tadema's ideal head of Sappho, one of Mitylene, and one of the fragments of the Fayum parchment brought from Egypt in 1879 and ascribed to Sappho by Blass in 1880, largely, however, through the processes of subjective criticism. Altogether there is little left to be desired. One criticism we feel compelled to make, and that is on the rather childish way in which throughout the prefatory memoir, the quantity of some of the syllables in the proper names has been marked. This has been done in a very haphazard fashion, some of the least known names being unmarked, and some of the best known having the quantity of the penult carefully indicated. We must say that a person who does not know how to pronounce the name of Theocritus is probably not the sort of person who would desire a book of such a char

acter as this; while the indicated longs and shorts are an eyesore to the scholar. It is related of a certain distinguished man that he learned the Latin language in order to be able to read for himself the story that was partly told in certain fine old illustrations that interested him when a boy in an edition of Lucan. In like manner we think that any true book lover would almost be willing to learn both Greek and Latin for the pleasure of reading the exquisitely beautiful texts contained in the two vol umes of the Messrs. Macmillan's Parnassus Library now before us. They are a delight to the eye, and lure the lover of the classics to peruse once again the two greatest epics that the world possesses. Dr. Leaf has employed the heavy-faced archaic type from the new font that he so much admires, and in his preface has a fling at the spidery Aldine typography. For our part, a good, clear, beautifully rounded font of Porsonian type is the perfection of Greek printing; yet Dr. Leaf's pages are so elegant as to satisfy the most exacting connoisseur. H. T. P.

THE ONE WHO LOOKED ON. By F. F. Montrésor. New York: D. Appleton & Co. $1.25.

Miss Montrésor has a distinct quality among story-writers. It is safe to predict a more conspicuous and lasting success for her than for many who have equal mental and imaginative gifts and even more interesting material to work on. It is a spiritual rather than an intellectual distinction hers, and it is the more powerful. The stuff out of which her two books have been mainly woven is not of certain interest; her characters, if they presented themselves to us in life, we might like to argue with or we might disapprove of. But introduced by her, we accept them and judge them from their own standpoint.

She

has the same effect on us as a sympathetic voice. It is not easy more closely to define what made many readers to whom the religious novel is distasteful, and others whose artistic fastidiousness was far from being satisfied, read Into

the Highways and Hedges with unusual pleasure. Whatever it was, it is present here again in this slighter book, which is less directly religious in its subject and treatment. Gentleness or tolerance in her dealings with humanity might sum it up, but perhaps quietism, unattached to any particular doctrine, most nearly describes its effect. It would be unfair to compare the two books. The first was elaborate, am bitious, varied. This one is shorter, slighter, more limited in theme and in cident.

But it is substantial enough to contain one real character, perhaps two -only Sir Charles was within the power of a great many able writers to create, and Susie of very few. The good people in novels who are as living as the wisely-foolish, golden-hearted Susie, are not numerous. We take this opportunity again of commending to our readers the work of a new writer which has been deservedly popular in England, and to which no meretricious

qualities contributed.

One looks to Miss Montrésor's future with mingled confidence and curiosity.

A SON OF THE PLAINS. By Arthur Paterson. New York: Macmillan & Co.

$1.25. Twenty years ago, so Mr. Paterson tells us, the Santa Fé trail had not yet encountered its deadliest foe-the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fé Railway-and the man who embarked on a journey across the plains carried his life in his hands. Many grim adventures were the lot of travellers who traversed the trail at that time; some never got to the end to tell of them, borne down by drought and weariness, or massacred by Arapahoe Indians, while their wagons blazed around them. Mr. Paterson's story opens in the summer of 1873 gon the Santa Fé trail, and before many pages have been read we are already bent on a most exciting adventure. Two young ladies have been captured by the Arapahoes, and their daring rescue by Nat Worsley leads to an interesting love story, which mingles with the subsequent adventures of Nat and his friends ere they arrive at their destination in safety. Even then there is misunderstanding and playing at the serious game of cross purposes, and the tale flags a little until interest is whipped up again in Nat's bold, single-handed attempt to recover Maizie from the vile clutches of Sandy Rathlee and Nan in the saloon at Amenta. There are some vivid descriptions in this portion of the book, and the narrative quickens the pulse as the movement gains rapidity and grows exciting. The climax is well reached and handled, and the book is laid down with a glow of satisfaction. Mr. Paterson has told his story well, and the fighting scenes and graphic descriptions of life, the portrayal of character, and the startling tactics resorted to at momentous stages in the story denote a close acquaintance with the subject, as well as force of imagination and the ability to record his impressions in a direct and vivid manner. There still are traces of crudity in the manipulation of his characters, and the sisters, Maizie and Bel, are not clearly realised at first; indeed, they seem to suffer from a masculine lack of comprehension and an obtuseness concerning women. But the story once begun will not fail to hold the reader's attention, for its merit

lies in the human interest which we are compelled to take in the fortunes of its characters.

BEATRICE OF BAYOU TÊCHE. By Alice Ilgenfritz Jones. Chicago: A. C. McClurg & Co. $1.25.

If the author of this story, which recommends itself to the reader by creating an immediate interest in its heroine and her setting, had confined herself to a small canvas, Beatrice of Bayou Têche would have been a distinct gain to the studies and stories of American life. It is disappointing to find the subtle charm, the clever touches, the truthful and beguiling local colour, and the intimate and unusual recollection and portrayal of childhood's sensations, which are expressed in the first seven chapters, degenerate into mere mediocrity. She makes the fatal mistake of becoming so interested in the people of her imagination, that she loses the editorial faculty of suppressing unnecessary details, and develops a sentimentality that seems to have been engendered by intimate acquaintance with the three-volumed productions of authoresses who always garbed themselves in white with blue ribbons and twined a pink rose or white camellia in their ringlets.

The description of the slave-child Beatrice, connected to an old Southern family by ties of blood, is a strong protest against the institution of slavery; and this child, who "was like a little far-off inland bay, echoing, though it knows not why, the pulse-throbs of the sea," and her limited world in the courtyard of an old mansion in New Orleans, are admirably suggested. The descriptions of the river-journey to the La Scala Place, the plantation, the house, the cabins, and the Southern life are well done; and excellent is the picture of the little house to which Beatrice and her grandmother, Mauma Salome, are consigned upon their arrival. It stands in a patch of bright, rustic flowers, and within is decorated with odds and ends, including pictures pinned upon the walls, a calico quilt on the bed, a battered brass candlestick, and a broken vase, whose crippled side was always next the wall. Here the old woman smokes and plays the banjo to the delighted audience of Robespierre, the cat. It is in such scenes that the au

thor is most happy. Immediately upon the introduction of her hero the note of excellence stops, and the restless moving of her characters from one country to another-they travel everlastingly and the shifting of scenes reveal the weakness of the untutored novelist.

THE CHARLATANS. By Robert Buchanan and Henry Murray. Chicago: F. Tennyson Neely. $1.25.

While we have the publisher's word for it that The Charlatans is not an attack on Theosophists nor a satire on hypnotism, there is sufficient evidence in the context to prove that the authors are not friends of Theosophy. In fact, they show an inclination, by inference, to misrepresent the tenets of the belief. Lord Wanborough and Mervyn Darrell, on the verge of being unreserved converts, reveal remarkable ignorance of the cult not to have discovered the charlatan" in Woodville, almost at his first appearance. A. P. Sinnett and others lead us to believe that nature holds no secrets that adepts of Theosophy have not fathomed. Woodville's speech, during a conversation with Lord Wanborough, and his manner were enough to excite suspicion in the veriest neophyte. He says: "We make no pretence to supernatural power. All we contend is that everywhere around us there are forces which are unexplained, and possibly unexplainable." Woodville so clearly proclaims himself an impostor that it seems superfluous to bring him to confession. The delineation of the character of his companion, Madame Obnoskin, is more consistent, and the study of Woodville's character, the development of his better instincts and capabilities under the influence of Isabel's love, is skilfully drawn. This is especially seen near the close, which is by far the best part of the book. the point of view of art the conclusion might be justified, but we are not convinced. It is a pity that Woodville and Isabel could not have been reconciled, or rather married, as reconciliation, though it did not actually occur, was as good as accomplished." And every reader will speculate regarding the fate of Isabel after her lover's tragic death. The story is founded on the drama of the same name, and, apart from its inconsistencies, is well told, and the in terest in its plot fairly sustained.

From

A CUMBERLAND VENDETTA, AND OTHER STORIES. By John Fox, Jr. New York: Harper & Bros. $1.25.

It is difficult to feel any sympathy with the class of people in this book to whom "moonshine" and pistols are the natural inspirations of every motive in life, and the accompaniments to every event and ceremony; and a shock falls across the reader's mind to realise that such a community of lawlessness should exist in a country that calls itself civilised. This volume does not read like fiction. It seems to have been cut out of the Cumberland Mountains by a bold, firm hand, which, if it give the ruggedness and ferocity of the landscape and the brutal and repulsive traits of the mountaineers, does not forget to add the flowers that bloom upon the precipices, and the primitive and impressive sentiment of violent, untaught natures. The atmosphere of the scenery, the purple seas of mountains that wave over and between Virginia and Kentucky, the wreathing veils of mist, the green and bronze of tree and moss-covered slopes, the cool, green shadows, the sharp, massive, grey boulders, the deep sweeps of valley, the odour of the earth, the dripping, sparkling dew, the notes of birds, and the hints of laurel, rhododendron, and violets could not have been given by any save a son of the soil. Here among such awe-inspiring scenes, depressing to those who are not natives, the people-miners, shiners, and raiders-are as wild as the eagles and catamounts that haunt its lonely crags.

Of the stories, the first, "A Mountain Europa," is the best. It is melodramatic, but such life is hardly to be exaggerated. Briefly, it is the story of a moonshiner's daughter, who wins the heart of a young engineer from New York, and is killed immediately after her wedding by her drunken father, receiving a shot intended for her husband. The other tales are "A Cumberland Vendetta," its sequel, "The Last Stetson," and a short dialect sketch "On Hell-ferSartain Creek."

BUNCH GRASS STORIES. By Mrs. Lindon W. Bates. Philadelphia: J B. Lippincott Co. $1.25.

With two exceptions this collection is composed of sketches of Western life; ambitious sketches they are too, with

occasional rhetorical touches that betray more of affectation than of art. The two exceptions are "Inspiration at the Cross Roads," a tale of an artist's psychological evolution in the time of Louis XIV. of France; and "The Black Shell," a gruesome narrative, with the sacrifice of Agamemnon's daughter before the siege of Troy as the pivotal episode. The eight stories are interestingly told, and show uncommon skill in constructive art; but all leave the same unsatisfactory impression as of something striven for by the author, and not quite attained. The something lacking arises from a certain crudity of expression and raw experience of life. Situations are overdrawn, facts are falsified for the sake of effect; character is sketched with vigour, but without regard to fidelity of portraiture. Everywhere, however, there is evidence of latent strength, nor is this so far obscured as to be beyond development by the writer. More practice, keener study of motive, a clearer recognition of the common rules of art and the courage to cut out fine phrases would enable the writer to form a style, and to get an outlook on life which should prove of more than ordinary power.

takes up Stolen Souls will find time slip easily away as he finishes one story, only to begin the next, wondering whether Mr. Le Queux's ingenuity and inventive fancy will ever fail him. Stolen Souls is for the most part Russian in background, with secret societies and Anarchists mixed up in the horrible yet fascinating compound, for, as has already been hinted, there are horrors and surprises galore abounding in these queer stories, but they are pleasant horrors, and we are too conscious of the cleverness of the artist to feel profoundly the startling effects and tragic climacterics of his strangely wrought tales. Stolen Souls will be welcomed among the ephemeral books which ungrudgingly contribute to our entertainment and help us somewhat to unstring the bow of life for a brief season.

FETTERED, YET FREE: A Study in Heredity. By Annie S. Swan. New York Dodd, Mead & Co. $1.25.

There is a fascination for most of us in the bare thought of Scotland, the land of mists and cakes, of romance and porridge; and some of us feel a personal interest in any study of heredity that has to do with its hard-headed,

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"Anybody who likes hypnotism and Nihilism,' says Anthony Hope, and secret murder artistically performed by exotic drugs, ladies of great beauty and smail scruples, and an astonishing dénouement to every story, cannot do better than try Mr. Le Queux's Stolen Souls. The book is downright sensationalism, of course, but I do not know why I (or Mr. Le Queux either) should apologise for that; it is good and even gorgeous sensationalism, and therefore well justified of existence. We, or the sensible among us, like all sorts of people, and we ought to like all sorts of books also, so long as they are good of their sort.'

Perhaps it is unusual to quote one novelist's estimate of the work of a brother of the craft, and its superfluousness as criticism may be suspected by many who consider the novelists in league with one another; but in the present instance Mr. Hope's appreciation describes more faithfully than we can hope to do the nature and extent of Mr. Le Queux's work. The reader who

distaste with which their Calvinistic souls, nourished on Free Will and Election, must recoil from the thought of an inherited ban. It was surely a Scotswoman who said: “I was a liar by nature until I found out that lying ran in the family, and that cured me." There are, however, usually two parents in every household, and we are as likely to inherit good from one as evil from the other; moreover, we are not sent into the world altogether finished as to character, but are left room to develop into correspondence with our environment and along lines largely determined by our own volition. This is the philosophy which is expressed by Miss Swan's title; and in the working out of her thesis, that humanity, though fettered by ancestral traits, is yet free in great measure to determine its own ca. reer. She has given us a very charming picture of life in the "Kingdom of Fife," and some very human characters. It must be admitted that she is a trifle prolix; the book would be improved by cutting down; yet even diffuseness