summer in Europe. Every one is rather glad that he was successful, for Mr. Dana is a national institution; yet there is a sort of unholy curiosity as to what would have befallen him in Washington if he had been taken (or "dragged," as he would say) to that city for trial. The editor of the Evening Post would have been especially interested in the result, and would have written some of his most feeling editorials of condolence.

The Sun and the Post are probably the most individual journals that are anywhere published. People read them even when they disapprove of their utterances, and read them all the more carefully when they disapprove. It is curious

that while their general standpoints are diametrically opposed to one another, the general effect which they make upon the mind of the reader is pretty much the same-a fact which gives point to an epigram ascribed to a well-known jurist, and which we here set down with apologies to the respective editors, who can themselves hardly fail to be amused by it. The aforesaid jurist having heard one of his friends denouncing the general demoralisation of New York, broke in with," Well, what can

ever goes to bed without reading!"-a saying which beautifully combines the antidote with the bane.

Bliss Carman was born at Fredericton, N. B., on April 15th, 1861. On his fa

you expect of a city with two such leading newspapers-the Sun in the morning making vice attractive, and the Post in the evening making virtue odious!" The same gentleman, who has occasionally fallen under Mr. Godkin's chastening displeasure, once characterised the Post as that pessimistic, malignant, and malevolent sheet, which no good citizen

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ther's side he is descended of the Carmans who came to New Brunswick from Long Island and founded St. John. His mother belonged to the Bliss family, also Loyalists, who took a leading part in the Revolution. Daniel Bliss's sister, a progenitor of his, was Emerson's grandmother, so that Mr. Carman's residence in the United States is,

Stone and Kimball in launching the ChapBook, which took its rise from his suggestion, though its attractive form and dress were due to Mr. Stone's good taste. Since he left the Independent Mr. Carman has held no permanent office. He usually spends his summers in Nova Scotia and his winters in Washington, D. C., occasionally visiting his friends in Boston and New York. Mr. Carman acknowledges the great liberators in literature to be his masters, among whom he gives precedence to Emerson, Matthew Arnold, and Browning.

Bliss Carman's first published book of poetry was Low Tide on Grand Pré (first edition, C. L. Webster and Company, November, 1893; second edition, Stone and Kimball, March, 1894, with three additional poems). His next volume, Songs from Vagabondia, was written in collaboration with Mr. Richard Hovey (Copeland and Day, September, 1894). A Seamark; A Threnody for Robert Louis Stevenson, was published by the latter house in April of this year. But before his first book made its appearance Mr. Carman had printed for private circulation in cheap broad sheets, in June, 1894, a ballad entitled Saint Kavin. It is a satirical skit, cleverly written, but of a personal nature that debars it from publication. We are able to reproduce the pen-and-ink title-page design by B. G. Goodhue, which was not reduced in electrotyping the original.

The report comes from London on apparently good authority that Mr. George Moore is about to marry Mrs. Pearl Craigie (John Oliver Hobbes),

whose divorce we lately chronicled. If this be true, it is a perfectly ideal match, and should, we assert, establish a precedent, so that hereafter men and women writers of the erotic and pessimistic school of fiction will marry one another rather than ordinary mortals who are still possessed of scruples and beliefs.

Messrs. Copeland and Day are about to add a volume to the literature of the tenement, which is making a field for itself here as well as in London. Moody's Lodging-house and other Tenement Sketches, by Alvan F. Sanborn, is the result of careful research and observation. Like Arthur Morrison, whose Tales of Mean Streets has been so popular on the other side (published here by Roberts Brothers), Mr. Sanborn has brought to his work the training and experience which his official labours in settlement institu

tions, and especially at Andover House, have given him. He has also travelled a good deal and has studied tenement life in London, so that his work has the savour of great expectation, and will be eagerly perused when it appears. Mr. Sanborn's name will not be unfamiliar

to readers of the Arena and the Forum.

Jacques Damour, and other Stories, translated from the French of Émile Zola by William Foster Apthorp, which we announced some months ago, has now been published. The publishers have made the binding after the French manner in yellow cloth, with the title-page reproduced in black on the cover, making it a delicate piece of book-work. Most of

the stories in the book have been translated for the first time. A new volume of poems entitled The Magic House, by the Canadian poet, Duncan Campbell, is also about to issue from the same house, and in October there will appear the initial volume of a series of small books of verse. The series has not yet been named; the first volume is entitled Dumb in June, and is by Richard Burton.

The name of the new poet on whose discovery by Messrs. Copeland and Day we commented last month is William Lindsay, and the title of his book of poems, which will not be published probably until November, is to be Apples of Istakhar. The following quatrain indicates the drift of his title :

A fruit half sweet, half bitter-baned doth bring; Shade-cursed and sun-caressed by turns they are: Shade cursed and sun-caressed the songs I sing."

"My Mother's Picture" is finely conceived :

"Out of an oval frame there looks at me

My mother's face; a dawning womanhood Serves to enrich its girlish gaiety

With earnest gaze, dream of God's greater good."

Here is a dainty bit of New England coquetry in verse :

"I tyed Kate's shoe, she paused a lyttle space, And shewed to me ye truant sylken lace, Lyfting a flounce of flowering brocade, And lawnie skirts, where fragrant odours played. 'Wilt tye my shoe?' she asked, and paused apace."

The author of A Dead Man's Diary, Sorrow and Song and A Book of Strange Sins has written a strange and fascinating little volume. "In God and the Ant," says Ian Maclaren, “Mr. Kernahan has addressed himself to the problem which exercised the minds of the Psalmists and lies as a burden on the most sensitive thinkers of to-day. He creates a daring situation-the arraignment of God by

the victims on the other side of the grave-and uses it with strength and reverence, with earnestness also and conviction. His answer is that which commends itself to many as the only light on the darkness. This is a book to be read."

The Joseph Knight Company have just published a volume containing half a dozen remarkable psychological stories by L. Clarkson Whitelock. Mr. Edmund C. Stedman, to whom A Mad Madonna, and other Stories is dedicated, in gratitude for his appreciation and enIn a letter, he says, writing of them, “I couragement, is enthusiastic over them. have read these tales with singular interest. They are really prose poems of a high order."

We have a hearty welcome for the dainty edition of Dr. Norman Macleod's little classic, The Starling, with which this firm has started their Round Table Library. The four half-tones taken from the original edition are exquisitely true and characteristic of the parts selected for illustration. Except for an edition which Anson D. F. Randolph and Company imported at one time we are