The Literary World

BOSTON 24 DECEMBER 1898

Entered at the Post Office at Boston, Mass., as second-class mail matter

EDITORS:

EDWARD ABBOTT,

MADELINE VAUGHAN ABBOTT.

man of about twenty-seven. He has indefatigable energy and resource, and he has already had the kind of success that is almost certain to go on increasing. With both Pearson and Harmsworth in the field, what lively times we should have here!

sympathy, and in many cases this will lead to practical efforts toward ameliorating the terrible conditions that the two volumes portray so vividly. The very ingenuousness of the record is one of its chief sources of strength. When I first read these essays I said to myself, "What a superb thing a literary artist could do with A remarkable character died in Brooklyn the this material - —a man like Howells, for exam- other day. His name was Harlan P. Halsey, ple!" But I don't feel so sure of that now; and he was the author, it is said, of seven hunthe work might be less effective if it were liter- dred novels. He wrote under the name of All communications relating to subscriptions, advertis-ary. To me, the great flaw in the book is the "Old Sleuth," and¡he was a pioneer in the making, or other business matters of the LITERARY WORLD feeling that it occasionally gives, not of the un-ing of American detective stories. According should be addressed to the publishers, E. H. HAMES & CO., reality of the experience, but of the unreality of to a published account of his life he is known to the necessity of the experience. When, for have dashed off a novel in a day! His literary example, Mr. Wycoff was starving in Chicago, pursuits by no means limited his career, for he he might easily have rung the doorbell of the rich was active in politics and in educational work in friend whom he had seen lolling luxuriously by a Brooklyn. He was one of a large band of grate-fire and been received with abundant hos- writers of sensational stories who live in and pitality. Of course his pride, and his grit, and near New York, some of whom, strange as it his determination " to see the thing through" may seem, do excellent work in other lines of kept him from weakening. That is all very fine, authorship. But I imagine that Mr. Halsey outbut it continually reminded me of a very clever distanced them all in productivity. play built on false premises. On the other hand, the gratuitous sacrifice of himself makes Mr. Wycoff's courage the more admirable. It

14 Beacon Street, Boston, Mass.

All communications for the editorial department may be addressed as above, or to the Editors of the LITERARY

WORLD, II Dana Street, Cambridge, Mass.

When do I love you most, sweet books of mine?
In strenuous morns when o'er your leaves I pore,
Austerely bent to win austerest lore,
Forgetting how the dewy meadows shine;
Or afternoons when honeysuckles twine

About the seat, and to some dreamy shore
Of old Romance, where lovers evermore
Keep blissful hours I follow at your sign?

Yea! ye are precious then, but most to me

Ere lamplight dawneth, when low croons the fire ought certainly to make him an inspiring ex

WHEN

NEW YORK LETTER.

|

ample to those students at Princeton, before
whom, in a professor's chair, he is now eluci-
dating the principles of political economy.

Mr. J. Lincoln Steffens took me to task the
other day for referring to him in these columns
as a "writer" for the Evening Post. "At the
time you spoke of,” he said, “I was a reporter
and I wasn't ashamed of it, either. During
that time and since friends of mine have spoken
of the work I did then in terms that showed they
wanted to 'protect' me from being classed as a
reporter, and I didn't like it." Even if I can't
take as high a view of current jour, of
newspaper work, as Mr. Steffens does, I have a
very high respect for him on account of his view.
"There's a man in this town," Mr. Steffens went
on, "who for years has been doing great work
as a reporter and who feels exactly as I do about
it. That's Jacob A. Riis. One of these days I'm
going to write an article on Jacob A. Riis, Re-
porter!" This reminds me that a couple of
years ago an extremely up-to-date young woman
who writes for one of the yellow journals here
published a burlesque interview with Richard
Harding Davis, in which Mr. Davis was made
to speak contemptuously of reporters in gen-
eral. The remarks attributed to him were
quoted all over the country, and taken so seri-
ously that Mr. Davis had to come out with an
indignant denial. Since that time I notice that
he has published a volume called From a
Reporter's Note-Book.

Since The Independent reduced its price from ten to five cents and assumed the magazine form, a few months ago, it is said to have doubled its circulation. Whether this be so or not, it shows unmistakably that the periodical is moving with the times. There have been some notable changes in its staff of late, leading to an infusion of young blood. The Independent has long held prestige for publishing the work of our young writers, on the threshold of fame, as well as the work of those of established reputation. Among our younger poets, for example, it was one of the earliest of our periodicals to bring out the works of Miss Guiney, Bliss Carman, and Richard Hovey.

Mr. Hall Caine has sailed away at last, very much disgruntled, it is said, at his failure as a lecturer. He could not understand how the American public, after receiving with enthusi asm his great novel, The Christian, and his great play of the same name, should not care to gaze upon the brow behind which those wonders were thought out, or even to touch the hand that penned them. We shall probably have him with us again before many years; at any rate, his drama bids fair to libel Christianity for a long time to come.

HEN The Workers, by Walter A. Wycoff, began to be published serially in Scribner's Magazine, about a year and a half ago, I heard a good deal of comment on the papers. After a few months I detected in the comments the note of disappointment. Now that the two volumes have been published, giving Mr. Wycoff's complete experience, I am surprised not to find the work the subject of general discussion. So far, at any rate, it has not made a deep impression. I have read the volumes with astonishment, not so much at the material in them, but at the courage of the man who gathered the material. No one can fail to feel a profound respect for a man of intelligence and cultivation who becomes a common laborer for the sake of meeting other common laborers on their own ground and on their own terms, and learning how they live and think. Nevertheless, so far as literary material goes, I am inclined to agree with the writer who said that in his judgment Mr. Wycoff had not got so much as might have been expected out of his experience. In other ways Mr. Wycoff has probably derived an immense benefit. A former I hear that Pearson, the successful English worker among the poor of the East Side of New publisher of periodicals, is in a few months to York once told me that he hadn't done the poor bring out an American edition of his new magmuch good, but the poor had done him a lot of azine, which is at present the subject of much good. I do not mean to suggest that Mr. discussion in England. This means that our Wycoff's books have not value; they must cheaper monthlies will have a fierce competitor. have great value, even if they have not nearly as Pearson will have an American staff of editors, much value as those of us thought they would and steps have already been taken toward the have when we first heard of his extraordinary securing of features of popular interest in this experiment; they will probably have just the country. I shall not be surprised if Pearson is value he has tried to give them—the value of a followed here by his great English rival, Harmsfaithful record. He has not attempted to phi- worth, who has been cutting a tremendous JOHN D. BARRY. losophize his experience; he has been con- figure in London during the past ten years. tent to present the experience and to let others When I was in London about five years ago I The Atlantic Monthly promises many good philosophize if they choose. No one can read saw Harmsworth, and to my astonishment I things for 1899. Professor William James and The Workers without feeling a quickening of found him to be a smooth-faced, boyish-looking Professor Hugo Münsterberg will contribute

The friends in this city of Miss Elizabeth Robins are delighted to hear that she is the author of The Open Question, the novel that has been much talked about in London of late, and the subject of a very enthusiastic review in a recent number of Literature. Miss Robins is known to be the author of two other novels well received in England in recent years, but this is the first book she has acknowledged. Boston playgoers of a dozen years ago will remember Miss Robins as a young member of the Boston Museum stock company. Since those days she has won distinction in London by her production of plays by Ibsen, whose influence, by the way, has apparently been shown in the rather morbid theme of her book, as well as in the absolutely realistic treatment. Last year Miss Robins paid a brief visit to this country, during which she gave with success a special performance of "Hedda Gabler."

articles of psychological character; the former a series on the psychological aspects of education, and the latter on the wider relations of psychology to art, to natural science, to philosophy, and to history. Mr. Jacob A. Riis will continue his revelations of slum and tenement life. Mrs. Julia Ward Howe's reminiscences, covering the years 1829-1898, will be published in three installments; a number of excellent short stories are promised, and there are interesting features, of which only limits of space forbid mention.

OUR FOREIGN CORRESPONDENCE.

MUNICH, December 4, 1898. Holiday books and plays are appearing with such rapidity now that one scarcely knows which to choose to write about. Certainly the Bismarck Memoirs are the excitement of the hour. The French papers are terribly bitter in regard to these post-obits. In a biting article Figaro accused Bursch of wholesale invention, called him the Wagner to Bismarck's Faust, and discredited the veracity of the book in every possible way. Meantime a Bismarck myth is in a fair way to be created, and countless stories of varying degrees of credibility are being told of him- among others, that he could not bear the sight of ink; rarely used it himself and would not allow it to be used in his presence, and consequently his memoirs were all taken down in pencil. The last successful play in Germany makes Bismarck's Memoirs seem a frivolous work in comparison to its own solemnity. We doubt if the Anglo-Saxon theatrical taste would stand a play whose whole first act is as sordidly dreary as the first act of Gerhart Hauptmann's "Fuhrmann Henschel."

well as

Hauptmann is undoubtedly one of the most original writers in German, and he is capable of powerful work in the ultra-romantic style as in the most materialistic manner. "Fuhrmann Henschel" is a specimen of the latter style, and it is hard to see the hand of the master who gave us "Hanneles Himmelfahrt," that pure bit of poetry, in this unpleasant play. Powerful it doubtless is, but it is altogether lacking in light and shade, and leaves one with a wild longing for the utterly unlife-like romanticism of the most foolish melodrama. AngloSaxons may take their pleasures sadly, but we hope it will be a long while before a play of this type will please them as it is already pleasing enormous German audiences in spite of its sor

did and brutal realism.

This story is too well told and too touching for
us to injure in repetition, since space will not
permit us to insert it as a whole.

Maeterlinck's new volume of essays, La
Sagesse et La Destinée, is an immeasurable ad-
vance on his Trésor des Humbles. In spite of
an English critic's verdict that his absorption in
ethical topics was going to ruin his artistic
career, it seems to us that he has never before
reached such a high artistic plane. His beauty
of style in this book is very striking; there is
also a simplicity of thought and language which
is a marked advance on his former work, and a
continuity of idea which has been conspicuously
lacking in his earlier essays. Altogether this is
a mature and very remarkable production.

In ethical essays the personal equation is so prominent that it is always hard to predict the future of a book given over to the discussion of moral problems, but we venture to say that to certain minds this volume will come as a revelation. There is none of the sickliness and pessimism so characteristic of nineteenth century philosophy in Maeterlinck's new view of life (we must call it "new," for nothing could be more morbid than much of his earlier work), but all is full of hope. We are carried back to that larger, freer air breathed by Marcus Aurelius and Epictetus, and yet there is that touch of mysticism in Maeterlinck which will appeal to those who find the classics too cold.

The ritualistic controversy is still raging in the columns of the London Times and Sir William Harcourt continues to goad to fury various High Church clergy, who are misguided enough to enter into discussion with him. As the chief theme of the combatants at this moment is "sick-bed communions," there is something very unseemly in the temper showed by both parties. In France Father Joseph, the recipient of the French Academy Prize of Virtue and the subject of Pierre Loti's eloquent speech, is receiving much attention in the papers. Many good stories are being told of him; among others, that, noticing one of his parishioners was giving very small contributions, the good father decided to give him an object-lesson in generosity, so from that day for some weeks every beggar who asked charity of Father Joseph was sent to the door of this niggardly parishioner, and most of them brought him a personal letter of recommendation from his priest.

E.

THE WASTE BASKET. FTER some experience on this side of the Atlantic and this is the seventh time the Waste Basket has been set down over here to catch such scraps as might fall into it - I am inclined to say of Naples that it is one of the most interesting cities of Europe. It deserves to be ranked with London, Paris, Rome, ConBy this time Lord Rosebery's witty and de- stantinople, and Cairo as having marked individlightful speech on his inauguration as President uality, and in many of its aspects it is positively of the Edinburgh Philosophical Society has unique. That there are quieter cities and cleaner probably been widely read in America. Nothing I readily admit; but for picturesqueness, for cleverer has ever been done by that very clever variety, for the combination of scenic beauty speechifier. As a successor to Mr. Gladstone, with human interest, for the presentation of the choice of his topic, "Literary Statesmen,' strange and striking phases of modern life, for was very happy, and from beginning to end his its one exceptional and altogether incomparable speech teemed with good sayings and entertain- opportunity of access to phases of ancient life, ing stories. "Literature is constantly becoming and for its distinguished historical connections less and less necessary for the politician. Dur- and associations, the position and claims of ing the first half of this century a classical Naples are more than respectable. The smiling quotation was considered the indispensable bay, steaming Vesuvius, fair Ischia and Capri, ornament of a parliamentary speech. Greek Sorrento, Amalfi and Castellamare, Pompeii quotations passed long ago into space-found and Herculaneum, the Museum and the Aquatheir way back, perhaps, to ancient Hellas and rium, Posillipo and Camaldoli, Pozzuoli, Baia even Latin quotations may be said to have been and the Phlegræan Plain, and last but not least buried with William Gladstone. The Blue Book the Neapolitan himself or herself- all these has superseded Homer and Vergil is swamped in make up an assortment of attractions which are The Statesman's Year Book." So Lord Rosebery not soon to be exhausted, and which entertain pronounced the funeral oration on "Literary the mind with constant change. If one wishes Statesmen ;" and as a pendant to the old-fash- to look and be enchanted, or to study and be ioned politicians, many of whose careers he instructed, or to watch and be amused, he can do touched upon, from Chesterfield and Carteret either one, or all at once, at Naples and not soon down to the present day, he drew a very able be tired. For the purposes of the present writer portrait of Parnell, who prided himself on his Naples, it is true, is but a place of pause before ignorance of everything in the past, even includ-taking the final and irrevocable plunge into the ing Irish history. Speaking of Parnell brings unknown world of the Far East; but it is a us to his newly published life, which is on every pleasant place for such a fortnight's rest, and body's lips at present. A fine Pandora's box of impresses and stimulates with new effects. troubles has been let loose in political circles by that biography, and one libel suit has already come of it.

To turn to something more amusing, a capital book of gossipy memories, Foreign Courts and Homes, is well worth reading. It is full of amusing anecdotes of court life in various countries of Europe during the earlier days of the centuries. The author's father was minister to the old Duke of Hanover, and "A. M. F." has many an amusing reminiscence to give of that swearing, ill-tempered potentate. One of her An encouraging fact for those interested in most amusing stories is of a walk she once took boys' clubs and People's Palaces has just been with the great Duke of Wellington, whom she commented on in the English papers. Out of remembered as a cross old man, to whom every-seven natural science scholarships awarded at body bowed, who never spoke, and would not let Oxford in the past six months, three have fallen her go near puddles "for fear of soiling his white to boys educated at the London People's Palace trousers!" Another interesting story is the Technical College. The scholarship at Magdamemory an old Frenchman preserved and in his len College was won by a boy of sixteen, and old age related to the author, of having as a boy those at Christ College and Merton College by carried water to Marie Antoinette in the Temple. | boys of seventeen.

Literary Naples.

Not much is to be said, one might hastily think, for points of literary interest in or about Naples, but there is much more to be mentioned under that head than hasty thought would make room for. To begin with, I am filling this Waste Basket in a house under the heights of Posillipo, which reputable tradition, if not actual history, verifies as having been once the home of the magnificent Lucullus. The house is manifestly very ancient; and its walls of immense thickness, its vaulted ceilings, and its general

money and time. It is the only excursion from Pompei possible for Ladies because any otherone hours over ashes and ragged lava with an inclinacomprises a very rough march of more than 2 tion of 40% 60%.

M. B Fiorenza alone can offer these advan

tages to Tourists, the road being exclusively his
from Pompei as far as Boscotrecase (foot of to
property. The excursion is made by carriage
mountain) where horses (with special saddles for
Ladies) that, the abovesaid road briugs Tourist
right up the crater without making a step.
turn trip is made in exatzly the same way.

*

#

*

We have this day made the ascent of Mount Vesuvius, myshelf with my daughter by the new route constructed by S. G. B. Fiorenza ad we are antirelle y satisfted in every respect particularly with the attention we received from the guides. It gives ut great pleasure to expres this satisfaction in as much as we had been adstopped, not to make the ascension by any other vised by the hotel-peuple in Naples, where we route than by the We have made the ascent for half the money iu less. than half the time and with greater care and pleasure than we possibly could have done by the -route

Amalfi.

THEO GRIBI Chicago U. S. A.

plan may well carry its age back to the first cen- that treasures may yet be unearthed exceeding tury B. C. We can readily picture it as the in interest anything that has yet been found. home of the lettered ease and the luxury with One of these recent additions to our knowledge which Lucullus surrounded himself when from of the ancient town is a very extensive, complete, public affairs, where he had had his part as sol- and beautifully decorated private house, to which dier and successful general, as curule ædile noted has been given the name of "Casa Nuova." Its for his magnificence, as prætor, and last of all walls, generally speaking, are in a state of good as consul, he turned aside into private life to preservation, the roofs have been restored, and pass his days in the enjoyment of his princely many of the frescoes retain their freshness and fortune, in conversations with philosophers and beauty to a remarkable degree. As an example men of letters, in the collection of a valu- of the private dwelling of a rich citizen of a able library, in the writing of his history of Latin town in the first century the "Casa NuGreece - now lost-and in that unsparingly ova" far surpasses anything that Pompeii has lavish entertainment of his friends and clients yet had to show, and is already the center of that made his name a by-word for splendor ex-attraction in this silent labyrinth of roofless traordinary. The villa rises from the water's walls and deserted chambers. The hospitable edge of a little cove, against the terraces which vestibule, the spacious and elegant atrium with have been built along the curving face of the the large money chest still standing in its place, cliffs at this point; the waves as they come roll-the sunny central court with its fountain and its ing in through the mouth of the bay dash un- statues, the dining room with its graceful mural ceasingly under its windows; and these same paintings, the kitchen, and the other apartments balconied windows command an enchanting of the house, all are here in a measure of comview, ranging from Vesuvius on the left to pleteness and perfection which leaves little to Capri on the right. Lucullus had another villa the imagination to supply. The "House of over the hill toward the sea; the theater belong- Pansa," which hitherto, perhaps, has held the ing to which, with its rows of seats hewn out of first place among the features of Pompeii, is left the solid rock, is still shown. If we take in, as far behind by the "Casa Nuova,” and who can tell we are doing, the environs of Naples, at Cuma what further and even richer stores are awaiting was planted 1,000 B. C. the first Greek colony the curious shovel-hoes of the diggers in the in Italy, the soil in which sprouted the first seeds precincts still hidden beneath the Vesuvian of Latin literature, and whose fame Pindar helped shower? It was interesting, not to say exciting, to celebrate. From these same scenes Homer to stand today in sight of a band of workmen and Vergil drew much of their inspiration; Lacus as, under the keen eye of an official in uniform, Avernus yonder was adopted by the poet of the they hewed their way into the bank of ashes, Eneid as the gate of entrance to the infernal scoria, and pumice stone, not knowing but that regions; his immortal works were written on at any moment they might "strike a vein." And these heights, where he had a villa; and here, by at the present rate of advance many years must his own explicit direction he was buried. The pass before the whole of Pompeii lies revealed ancient columbarium associated with his last to view. resting place remains among the vineyards on the hillside. Horace celebrates the beauties of the Bay of Baiæ. What is now Pozzuoli was And the old Capucinian Convent hotel is still the "Puteoli" of St. Paul (Acts xxviii: 13), There is a new way up Vesuvius, but leading | here, as quaint and picturesque, as neat and where also Cicero had a villa, and where Anto- as it does up the back side of the mountain, or ninus Pius exhibited his public spirit by restoring rather the south side, it is not visible from a dilapidated pier. Coming down to Naples, and as it is not yet thoroughly adverrecent times, Thomas Aquinas had a home in tised, it escapes the attention of many visitors. Naples near the end of the thirteenth century. For years the greater conveniences for the ascent Tasso was a native of Sorrento, and his memory have been monopolized by a famous firm of is preserved by the name of one of the streets of tourist managers, and carriages for one part of Naples, where he was kindly cared for when ill the way and a "funiculaire" for the other have and in need. Vittoria Colonna, poet and friend conveyed parties to and fro between Naples and of Michael Angelo, once had a home on Ischia. the summit with a minimum of exposure and Naples was the birthplace of Jacopo Sannazaro, fatigue. The new road starts from a restaurant who wrote his idyls, elegies, and epigrams in about half way up the mountain, and winds itself Latin, and whose memorial is a church in one up to the edge of the crater by means of long of its prominent thoroughfares. In the vestibule zigzags, which to the spectator at Pompeii look of another church lie the remains of another like a silver ribbon laid against the volcanic still more famous poet, Leopardi, who died here mass of green and gray. The new road is passin 1837, and whose tomb is about to be "re-able for equestrians only, not for carriages, and stored." Finally, do we not all remember the Waste Basket shall help to bring it to the 'Agnes of Sorrento?"

Pompeii.

more

64

Was there ever-is there anywhere - the world over just such another spot as Amalfi? Is it not almost like an edge of heaven? The blue Mediterranean filling to the brim the broad Salernian bay, the bluer masses of the hills that stretch away into the southern distance, the bold and rugged headlands near by on either hand with their variegated tints of green and gray and brown, the white walls of the buildings clinging to the cliffs as they recede, the slender fringe of surf, the soft and tender azure of the sky deepening into red and amber as the sun goes down behind the overhanging mountains, and over all the indescribable and incomparable haze of the Italian sea and shore - these are the features of a scene which seems to me to have an even greater English as She is Spoke" and Printed distinction of beauty than the Bay of Naples. in Italy.

notice of the public by quoting these passages
from the English columns of the prospectus
which is distributed in the streets of Naples :

A visit to Pompeii after a lapse of seven years I. Excursion Pompei and Vesuvius Rail road shows the steady progress which is being made tickets Naples- Pompei, and back, Lunch entrance with the excavations, upon which some four in the Ruins of Pompei, and excursion to the hundred men are now employed, under intelli-mount Vesuvius, price 25 lire. gent and skillful directions. In all only about one-half of the original area of the buried city has been recovered, if, to indulge in an Irishism, we may use that word to denote that which has

been uncovered; while the discoveries of the past two years alone furnish reason to believe

II. Vesuvius alone price lire 15.
Recommended by the guides:

Baedecker of 95 pag. 111 e 117.
Maye, Gsell- Fels of 95 pag. 268.

Detken local guide of 95 pag. 120.
The advantages of this new road are very
evident, for tourists can now, very conveniently
visit Pompei and Vesuvius in one day at half the

trim, as tasteful in all its appointments, and as
faultless in all its excellence as it was when last
I visited it, with good Signor Francesco Vozzi
still at its head, saddened by the death of a
brother and a sister two years ago, a little more
gray than he was, but as hospitable and kind to
his guests as ever. And the portraits of Mr.
Longfellow hang undisturbed in their old places,
and the large-print copy of his "Amalfi," printed
as a broadside and framed under glass, keeps the
reading room filled with the music of his verse:
Of a land beyond the sea,

Where the waves and mountains meet,
Where, amid her mulberry trees,
Sits Amalfi in the heat,
Bathing ever her white feet
In the tideless summer seas.
This is an enchanted land!
Round the headlands far away
Sweeps the blue Salernian bay
With its sickle of white sand.
Further still, and furthermost
On the dim discovered coast
Pæstum with its ruins lies;
And its roses all in bloom
Seem to tinge the fatal skies
Of that lonely land of doom.

We sit today again on the vine-clad terrace where the old monks sat, and lean out over the parapet, and study the profiles of the hills with their superb effects of color, and watch the ships and sailboats come and go, and follow the flushing of the sky as the sun rises over the Campanian hills or the fading changes in its tints as the sun goes down behind us, and dream again the dreams which so many have dreamed here be

fore; Mr. Crawford, for example, in his Amalfian romance of Adam Johnstone's Son, a good book to read in this Hotel des Capucines, within whose precincts all its action takes place. How true to the scene itself and to the life which goes on here are the local touches which the author contrives to give to this interesting and rather uncommon story. For example:

They had settled themselves for a couple of months in the queer hotel, which was once a monastery, perched high up under the still higher overhanging rocks, far above the beach and the busy little town; and now, in the May afternoon, they sat side by side under the trellis of vines on the terraced walk, their faces turned southward in the shade of the steep mountain behind them. The sea was blue at their feet and quite still, but farther out the westerly breeze that swept past the Conca combed it to crisp roughness; then it was less blue to southward, and gradually it grew less real, till it lost color and melted into a sky-haze that almost hid the southern mountains and the lizard-like head of the far Licosa..

The

ter is such a character as Dickens would have of an American girl of tory antecedents. The
liked, and quite original — an honest, honorable, most exciting episode of the book is that in
big-souled waif, who not only is the saving of which this girl, Helen Graham, is induced to as-
Paul, but the care-taker of a queer old man and sist in the capture of General Washington at an
the guardian of a foundling. In the end Paul evening party, and goes so far as to entice the
finds his uncle; Sir Jefferson, a father and a for- General to an arbor on the outskirts of the
tune; everybody is happy; and it is all brought lawn; when, her conscience suddenly awaking,
about in a fresh and interesting way. [A. C. Mc- she invents a snake, swoons, is carried by
Clurg & Co. $1.25.]
Washington back to the house, and the plot
is frustrated. [Henry T. Coates & Co. $1.25.]

Pauline Wyman.

Anything written by Sophie May, whether for little folks or grown-ups, is sure to be of sustained interest, sane and wholesome, with little sparkles of wit. This is a sympathetic story of a sweet, unaffected, lovely New England girl of the type one likes to meet, a self-sacrificing daughter, whose character is developed by her environment and the exercise of the fine qualities she has inherited from a noble parentage.

Grace O'Malley, Princess and Pirate. This is a stirring tale of wild adventure on the west coast of Ireland and adjacent waters in the latter part of the reign of Queen Elizabeth. The heroine succeeds her father in the chieftainship of a semi-civilized clan whose warriors, in three galleys, plunder unfortunate merchant ships that fall into their power. As befits a novel, historical or otherwise, the element of love is not aband there are no extravagant or unnatural situa- Ruari Macdonald, a Scotchman captured when tions. It was necessary to carry out the author's a boy and later made a leader in the band, and plan that there should be a lost will, but the to be rendered into English by Robert Machray, circumstances connected with it are freshly who uses a pleasantly antique diction accordtreated. It is a fascinating story, with fine, sen- ingly. The rapidity of adventure may interest sible, real people in it, by no means overlooking readers, especially boys; but one cannot comUncle Ike and the boy speaker, Dan. The illus-mend the moral tone of such narratives. [Fredtrations are by Victor A. Searles. [Lee & Shep-erick A. Stokes Co. $1.25.] ard. $1.25.]

It was not the first time they had been in The family life is beautiful in all its relations, sent in this. The story purports to be told by Amalfi, and they had ennumerated its beauties to each other, and renewed their acquaintance with it from a distance, looking down from the terrace upon the low-lying town, and the beach and the painted boats, and the little crowd that swarmed out now and then like ants, very busy and very much in a hurry, running hither and thither, disappearing presently as by magic, and leaving the shore to the sun and the sea. two had spoken of a little excursion to Ravello, and they meant to go thither as soon as they should be strong enough; but that was not yet. And meanwhile they lived through the quiet days morning, meal times, evening, bed time, and round again, through the little hotel's program of possibility; eating what was offered them, but feasting royally on air and sunshine and spring sweetness; moistening their lips in strange southern wines, but drinking deep draughts of the rich southern air-life; watching the people, of all sorts and of many conditions, who came and stayed a day and went away again, but social only in each other's lives, and even

that by sympathy rather than in speech. A corner of life's show was before them, and they kept their places on the vine-sheltered terrace and looked on. But it seemed as if nothing could ever possibly happen there to affect the direction of their own quietly moving existence.

John Jasper's Secret.
Readers of Dickens who have puzzled through
the years intervening since his death over the
unsolved Mystery of Edwin Drood will, presum-
ably, be glad to have their curiosity allayed by
this sequel to the story, written by Charles Dick-
ens, Jr., and Wilkie Collins. Some scattered
data and various hints dropped in conversation
as to the plans of the great novelist for the

unravelment of the mystery have supplied the
foundation of the tale; and consciously or un-
consciously the co-laborers have adopted a style
so imitative of Dickens as to almost seem his
own, so that John Jasper's Secret is as good-or

Phoebe Tilson.

A New England Cactus, etc., has won a still Mrs. Frank Pope Humphrey, the author of this story, with its somewhat unusual plot. more decided success by the dramatic power of Phoebe's affianced husband deserts her for a younger girl at the very hour appointed for the then her solitary mania for months are strongly wedding. Her grim dismissal of her guests and told. In time a baby happens to her house;

how she brings up the little girl, and how it planted Phoebe with her lover, is related with a proves to be the child of the woman who sup

of many other characters. A too abundant use

leisurely ease that allows time for the side action

Clare Bowring of the story was here in the as bad-as if it had been written by the hand of dialect is the real defect of the tale, though

this

hotel when we got here, as she is every year, time in the person of a tall, slender, pale American girl; and Mrs. Bowring also, in the gentle

faced, white-haired New England widow who
sits opposite to us at table; and last evening ar-
rived not in a yacht, but by carriage from La
Cava - Brook Johnstone himself, the "Adam
Johnstone's son" of the story, in the shape of a
tall young German, a splendid specimen of phys
ical manhood of the highest type, stalwart, strong,
clean, fair, and ruddy, in civilian's dress, but
fresh from special service in his exalted position
on the staff of the German army, and as fitting a
hero for a romance of imagination as mortal
eyes ever looked upon. And after dinner we all
repaired to the hotel register to find out his name,
just as Clare Bowring did to look for Brook John-
stone's! And the name, it was
November 22, 1898.

CURRENT FICTION.

E. A.

which commenced the work. The question is
whether The Mystery of Edwin Drood was
of taste. [R. F. Fenno & Co. $1.25.]
worth finishing, and that must remain a matter

In the Shadow of the Hills. Something of the simply picturesque quality of Mrs. Molesworth informs these stories of rural English life, by Alison McLean. It is difficult to say which one prefers, all are so charming. 'Mother" is full of true pathos; "A Bunch of Pinks," in which two old sweethearts make up their quarrel, has an original touch in it, and Pine Needles and Brachen" contains a deep and subtle lesson. We commend this little volume to those who are weary of stories all flesh and stories all skeleton, the realistic and the impressionist styles of fiction. [Frederick Warne & Co. $1.25.]

66

Pemberton.

This story by IIenry Peterson is of Philadelphia a hundred years since, during the British occupation, and has a certain interest, as all tales Sir Jefferson Nobody. must have which turn on the War of the RevoluThere are two heroes to this little story by tion, though it lacks the body and versimilitude Effie W. Merriman; first, Paul, who runs away of Dr. Mitchell's recent novel on the same from the hard farmer to whom he is bound, and theme. The tale turns largely on the treason of second, the eccentric city waif who calls himself Arnold and the fate of André, who is made, we by the fanciful name given in the title. The lat-know not with what historical warrant, the lover

the power of a child's love as the central purpose of the book is well sustained. It is a novel very much worth reading, and a pleasure to remember. [Rand, McNally & Co. $1.00.]

The Man Who Worked for Collister. A collection of fifteen folk stories, by Mary Tracy Earle, apparently reprinted from magazines; the scenes are mostly in the South of this country, with characteristic dialect of poor whites, colored people, and creoles. The narration is simple, emotional, perhaps almost pathetic, often with a touch of love introduced. The stories seem, however, at least to a Northerner- and human nature is much the same everywhere - unnatural in characters and improbable in events. [Copeland & Day. $1.25.]

The Changeling.

An ineradicable charm of style attaches always to stories by Sir Walter Besant, even when, as in the present instance, the plot seems a little forced and feeble. This "changeling "' is the son of a deserted wife in extreme poverty, and she parts with her child as the sole refuge offered her from the almshouse. He is purchased by a lady of rank and substituted for her infant son, who has died suddenly; no one suspects the truth, and the spurious heir grows up

sacrifice not to be expected from what has pre- There is some delicate humor - more in situation
ceded. [M. F. Mansfield & Co. $1.50.]
than in words. The character of Capt. Kinloch
is consistently fine throughout. The typography
is very pleasant and the binding artistic h
publishers ought, however, to require the proof
reader to correct more thoroughly the errors in
grammar and punctuation. [R. F. Fenno & Co.
$1.25.]

The unadorned facts of "The Age of Napo-ensburg races and other events, rejoice in a leon" are so much more interesting than the little romance, and are slightly wearied by the long series of novels founded upon these facts, lengthy conversations of some of the characthat we are sorry to see a careful historian turnYet through such prolixity appears the ing aside from the paths of research to write a real state of feeling between the East and work of fiction. We use the word "work" West, for until the herald came east he disafter due consideration, because, except in rare trusted European and eastern sentiment alike. instances, an historical novel is not a sponta- Altsheler fairly presents the principles of the neous, but a labored production. There are a war which vindicated the rights of weak neufew scenes in The Grenadier, by James E. trals on the seas, and is thereby a safe guide Farmer, which show dramatic power. The close in the intricacies of mingled fact and fiction. of the fifth chapter, when Jean leaves Pierre, as [D. Appleton & Co. $1.50.] he thinks to die, is powerful and does stir the reader's blood, but the interest is not sustained