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touch as are their descendants of to-day. Among these uncomprehending victims are the miller, John Durston, and his pretty daughter Cicely, whose history is told with. perfect simplicity, and yet always with vividness and force. The fight at Langport closes the tale; for, the mill burned and her father slain, the heroine goes not unwillingly with her better born Puritan husband to seek a new home oversea. We are glad to say that Mr. Raymond does not use the Somersetshire speech to any needless or unintelligible extent. - Hippolyte and Golden-Beak, Two Stories, by George Bassett. (Harpers.) Outside of the novels of Norris, we very rarely find the experienced, observing, cynical, but not unkindly man of the world so excellently presented as in the supposed narrator of these tales. Both stories the first, the evolution and career of a hardly typical Parisian valet ; the second, the strange history of the pretty, underbred, fluent, and amusing young San Francisco divorcée, Mrs. Potwin, and her Japanese and English suitors -are exceedingly well told; so well, indeed, that the improbabilities, to speak mildly, of the latter tale trouble the reader not at all. From internal evidence it would be difficult to say whether the author were a cosmopolitan Englishman, whose knowledge of America was mainly Western or Californian, or a much-traveled and somewhat Anglicized American, as a plausible case could be made for or against either assumption. A Madeira Party, by S. Weir Mitchell. The Rivalries of Long and Short Codiac, by George Wharton Edwards. Both are attractive pocket volumes, so to speak, tastefully bound in embossed leather, and published by the Century Company. In the first, Dr. Mitchell's party of old-time gentlemen celebrate the glories of their "noble old wine" in the quiet and dignified conversation which befits so respectable a subject. Under the same cover, the reader is offered A Little More Burgundy, with its story of the French Revolution. Long and Short Codiac are, of course, inhabited by down-east fisherfolk, who have joys and sorrows much like other people's, in spite of the fact that they say "I cal'late" and "what say," and use dories to get about in instead of bicycles. Messrs. Scribners have issued two new volumes by Q: Wandering Heath, a collection


of stories, studies, and sketches; and Ia, which appears in the pretty Ivory Series. There is no need to speak of the charm and veracity of Mr. Quiller-Couch's tales of Cornwall, and if a few waifs and strays have been gathered into Wandering Heath, whose republication was hardly essential, we are grateful for so heroic a sea-sketch as The Roll-Call of the Reef, and for the pleasant humor of those studies of village politics, Letters from Troy. The Bishop of Eucalyptus is a creditable essay in the manner of Bret Harte, but we prefer the writer on his native coast. The history of Ia, the handsome, strong-natured, untutored serving-maid, — her courting, in very summary fashion, it must be said, of the gentle, refined, weak young Second Adventist preacher, and the consequent results in the character and life of each, is told with

force and feeling, and also with a reticence which is good artistically as well as morally. Some of the fisherfolk who are of the Elect are lightly but very happily sketched.

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A Cumberland Vendetta, and Other Stories, by John Fox, Jr. (Harpers.) Tales of the Kentucky mountains, whose inhabitants do not differ greatly from our familiar acquaintances the mountaineers of the neighboring States, unless it is in a more pronounced element of lawless brutality, and in certain differences in their uncouth English, of which the author spares us nothing, notably the use of superfluous aspirates. Perhaps the best sketch in the book is A Mountain Europa, the usual tale of a wondrously beautiful mountain maid who is loved by a wanderer from civilization, the love in this case ending in marriage. But the writer does not venture to carry the hazardous experiment farther than the wedding-day, when the bride, in shielding her husband, is killed by her drunken father. It is pleasant to turn from the actors in these dramas to the mountain region which forms their majestic setting, and which is vividly depicted by a writer fully sensitive to its every aspect, whether of severity, grandeur, or beauty. - A Son of the Plains, by Arthur Paterson. (Macmillan.) A story of the Santa Fé trail in the early seventies, when the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fé Railway was not, and travelers journeying across the plains carried their lives in their hands. In such case is the hero of this exciting tale, and he

amply proves his right to that position, as he escapes from perils, each deadlier than the last, which follow one another with breathless rapidity, - perils from Indians, and from white men quite as lawless and savage. As the book appeals rather to the young reader, it is in place to say that it is neither vulgar nor unwholesome in tone. The story is told with spirit, and not infrequently with genuine graphic power. Irralie's Bushranger, by E. W. Hornung. Ivory Series. (Scribners.) Great ingenuity has been shown in the construction of this entertaining story of Australian adventure, and there is generally no lack of life in the characters. A case of mistaken identity is far from a new theme, but there is freshness in the treatment, and the surprises are cleverly managed. — An Unlessoned Girl, a Story of School Life, by Elizabeth Knight Tompkins. (Putnams.) Two years of school life have an ameliorating effect on the pert, unfilial girl, wise in her own conceit, to whom we are introduced in the opening chapters of this book, though we can hardly say that we find her very attractive even at the close of this stage of her experience, and for her cleverness we must take the author's word. A distinct impression is given, however, by the young women connected therewith, that slang was the art chiefly cultivated in Miss Healey's superior academy. Miss Jerry, by Alexander Black. With Thirty-Seven Illustrations from Life Photographs by the Author. (Scribners.) Mr. Black has made a selection from the two hundred and fifty photographs of his "picture play," and has adapted his text to book publication. The experiment was an interesting one, but yet it is easy to see that these are tableaux vivants, not actual scenes. Like the photographs displayed at the entrances of our theatres, they show the inadequacy of photography to the task of reproducing situations. Any illustrator of moderate ability can make a more truly lifelike picture. —— Magda, by Hermann Sudermann. Translated from the German by C. E. A. Winslow. (Lamson, Wolffe & Co., Boston.) If modern realistic dramas and stories have no other value, they have at least a sociological interest, and the reader of Magda falls to speculating on the curiously German provincialism of the plot. Everything is provincial which differs from our conti

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nent, and even Sudermann fails to make the iron despotism of society suffice to explain Magda's submission to her father, up to the last point, without the aid which the special German variety of social tyranny affords him. How entirely, moreover, the play supposes acting must appear to any one who reads the dead level of this dialogue after seeing Duse in Magda's part. — Cable's Madame Delphine has been republished in the Ivory Series (Scribners), with an interesting introduction by the author, which tells how the story came to be written. - Mrs. Deland's Philip and his Wife and Bret Harte's Clarence have appeared in the Riverside Paper Series. (Houghton.) — Mrs. F. A. Steel's Miss Stuart's Legacy and Crawford's A Roman Singer have been added to Macmillan's Novelists' Library. The Things that Matter, by Francis Gribble. Hudson Library. (Putnams.) - Doctor Cavallo, by Eugene F. Baldwin and Maurice Eisenberg. (Press of J. W. Franks & Sons, Peoria, Ill.) On Shifting Sands, a Sketch from Real Life, by Harriet Osgood Nowlin. (Donohue, Henneberry & Co., Chicago.) — The Hidden Faith, an Occult Story of the Period, by Alwyn M. Thurber. (F. M. Harley Publishing Co., Chicago.) -Hardy's The Woodlanders; A Gray Eye or So, by F. F. Moore; A Hidden Chain, by Dora Russell; The Sea-Wolves, by Max Pemberton; and Stanhope of Chester, by Percy Andreae, have been issued in Rand, McNally & Co.'s Globe Library. A Mormon Wife, by Grace Wilbur Trout. (E. A. Weeks & Co., Chicago.)

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Music. The Evolution of Church Music, by the Rev. Frank Landon Humphreys, Mus. Doc. With Preface by the Rt. Rev. H. C. Potter. (Scribners.) Lectures delivered by the author before the students of various church colleges and seminaries are here recast and extended, but have not in the process lost the qualities which must have made them notably interesting and effective in their original form. Writing with abundant technical knowledge, and inspired by a high ideal and an earnest and well-defined purpose, he has also so well succeeded in popularizing his theme that it is to be wished his volume might be scattered broadcast among the music committees of our churches. The good sense of the book is as conspicuous as its good taste and breadth of view, and it should be as

useful for reproof as for instruction. In such a work it is justifiable to quote freely, and the quotations here are generally very much to the point, but we wish their origin had been oftener indicated; and we must regret, in so handsomely printed a book, that the types should have perversely transformed the name of a writer of the Rev. Dr. Jessopp's repute into "Jessup."

Nature and Travel. The Mediterranean Trip, a Short Guide to the Principal Points on the Shores of the Western Mediterranean and the Levant, by Noah Brooks. With Twenty-Four Illustrations and Four Maps. (Scribners.) A convenient little volume for vacation tourists. The Preliminary Suggestions give good advice to all sea-going travelers, though intended especially for those Mediterranean-bound. The illustrations are from photographs, and the guidebook red is toned down to a pleasing and unobtrusive shade. Part XIII. of Mr. Nehrling's North American Birds (George Brumder, Milwaukee) has been issued, containing biographies of the Rose-Breasted Grosbeak, the Blue Grosbeak, the Indigo Bunting, the Painted Bunting, the Bobolink, and others.

Books of Reference. The Annual Literary Index, 1895 (The Publishers' Weekly, New York), affords ready reference not only to articles in periodicals, American and English, but to essays, chapters in books, and other indexible publications. A convenient index of authors follows, a section of bibliographies, a necrology, and an index to dates

of principal events for 1895. Rather a queer combination, but a useful one. The editors are W. T. Fletcher and R. R. Bowker, both experienced workmen. — List of Books for Girls and Women and their Clubs, edited by Augusta H. Leypoldt and George Iles. (The Library Bureau, Boston.) This is a classified list, and there are added Hints for a Girls' Club, an outline constitution, suggestions for literary clubs, and the like. The list contains well-chosen books, though one is a little curious sometimes to know how reading for girls and women is differentiated from that for boys and men.

Humor. A House-Boat on the Styx, being some Account of the Divers Doings of the Associated Shades, by John Kendrick Bangs. Illustrated. (Harpers.) Through the more or less kind offices of Mr. Boswell, one of the Associated Shades, Mr. Bangs is enabled to present to his readers the reports of several entertaining and unprofitable conversations between members of their exclusive club, who in the upper world were the great men of all times and countries, from Noah to Barnum, from Homer to Tennyson, from Jonah to Munchausen.

Games. Whist Laws and Whist Decisions, with upwards of One Hundred Cases illustrating the Laws. Also Remarks on the American Laws of Whist, and Cases by which the Reader's Knowledge of the English Laws may be tested by himself. By Major-General A. W. Drayson. (Harpers.) The Evolution of Whist, by William Pole. (Longmans.)

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An Hour

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IN 1891, Pasteur passed an afwith Pasteur. ternoon - unforgettable to at least one person present at the house of a colleague, one of those co-workers who were also his friends, and attached to him with the most touching and reverent devotion. The occasion was the rehearsal, previous to a fête to be given by Dr. G————, of a drawing-room play (the play a French trifle, the actors amateurs), to witness which the master had been bidden, since his health forbade his being out at night, and his tastes inclined little to worldly pageantry.

The scene made a picture of the sort that becomes a permanent possession of memory in the background, the sober elegance of the host's consulting-room, its Beauvais tapestry, its fine head of Pasteur in bronze; in the foreground, the family group that will be ever associated, in the thought of the Parisians, with the great chemist, the old man seated in the centre, simple and benign, his daughter on the one hand, his son and son-in-law on the other, and a grandchild at his knee.

Very slight was the performance; very

powerless to give the finer shades were the uninitiated, if arduous efforts of the four amateurs. But the great savant brought to the moment the freshness of impression that belongs to children and to genius, and that can transmute the actual and imperfect into the starting point of pleasure which draws all its nutriment from the imagination. Oh, the zest, the readiness, of that ingenuous laughter! Other and smaller people might be carping critics; Pasteur's spontaneous abandonment to his enjoyment, to the none too original witticisms of the comedy, its none too original savor and situations, was complete, Homeric. He was already an ill man at the time, and his bent frame and the suggestion of physical infirmity in his movements gave him an aspect older than his years. But the inextinguishable youth of those whom the gods love was in his eyes, he had laughed till the tears came, -as in his hand-shake, when, the performance over, he thanked each amateur in turn.

Whereupon the little group departed as it had come the grandchild clinging to the old man's hand; the son (a secretary of embassy) calling him, with the absence of selfconsciousness of a French son, "papa." Pasteur went down the stairs leaning on the arm of his host, a great man, too, in his way, Dr. G————, but filial in his respect and tender regard at this moment. Here, in short, was an epitome of the very best in French life, that life in its worthiest expression, in its veneration for the things of the mind, for the things that go for the advancement of the race rather than for the well-being of the individual. And all this spoke in Dr. G- -'s light shrug a moment later, also, when he said: "Pasteur could have been a very rich man had he chosen to be. He never has been. He never chose. Why should he?"

Why, indeed? Before the unity of such a life, the consistency of its pursuit of the highest ends, the calm contentment of its laborious days, weaker vessels, tossed by the changes and chances of fate, may well be filled with a noble, melancholy envy, and question the value of the vain possessions and desires chased by the world. In the midst of his peaceful, cheerful activity, in the seclusion of laboratories and libraries, the last thing that Pasteur had time to think of was the amassing of wealth. Also, the

last thing he needed, to strengthen the consideration of those amongst whom he lived, was the material mark and proof of success.

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The "priesthood of science " that term of which we hear less now than we did awhile ago has meant to one person, since that spring afternoon in Paris, something forever associated with the personality of the serene and kindly old man, who, amid his ardent work in the invisible world of the "infinitely little," where "life has its beginning," had kept a green heart, and who never left his retreat to address his countrymen or the young but he found generous accents that upheld the cause of the ideal with unchilled fervor. Continuity, an integral oneness in the plan of the personal existence, are become antique virtues. The abnegation they ask, and the singleness, and the patience in enduring one's self, grow rare with us, who are greedy of many emotions and fritter ourselves away in fleeting interests. Hence it is an hour to remember when our path crosses one which teaches the higher lesson and holds the secret of a nobler repose. He surely is a priest who, while he labors for the physical welfare of his fellow-man, likewise fulfills this moral function, shaming with a simple dignity the blurred and broken plan of our average futile day.

A Child's -It was a tragedy of the spirit, Tragedy. concerning which she never made confession to those whose heedlessness brought it to pass; yet it has always seemed to her as if the subsequent years have been more or less, in one way or another, under the influence of that sharp experience whereby she made direct personal acquaintance with the dread blight insincerity. She was far too young to know by what term to characterize professions that are belied by actions; but looking back upon a scene so vividly and keenly remembered that it might have taken place yesterday, she understands, as no psychologist could ever set forth, that ideas may exist in full force independent of language.

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child, now and then, to be teased with a jest obscuring the truth; but she had easily learned, as most children do, to estimate such practices justly. To find herself deceived in unmistakable earnest gave a shock not alone to her heart, but to her intellectual powers as well, for it was then that the faculty of reflection came into conscious play.

She was a meditative child, shy and reticent, yet it happened to her, as not infrequently it does happen to children of her temperament, to fall ardently in love. The object of this infantile passion was a girl of twenty, who had hardly the faintest appreciation of the child's undemonstrative depth of devotion: it is clear, indeed, in the light of after-years, that this devotion was much of a bore to the gay young visitor, who came to talk with older people of affairs not to be discussed in the presence of little pitchers. It chanced, one day, that this particular Little Pitcher was standing with ears attent, having no companions of her own age, while the goddess of her idolatry was being attired for some social function that was to take place in the afternoon. All the ladies of the household were in attendance on the toilette, and it may be assumed that there was free traffic of opinions on topics not immediately connected with the articles of adornment, for suddenly the child was asked with what furtive interchange of significant glances may be imagined

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to go and find some flowers wherewith to deck Salome's hair. No second bidding was needed, this being a child who expressed herself by actions rather than by words, and away she sped, immeasurably happy to serve the beautiful creature enshrined in her shy affections.

Now there were no garden flowers about the home she dwelt in at that time, for the place was new, and the grounds were given over to a waste of weeds; but this ready worshiper of beauty in whatever guise must have won and loved "the secret of a weed's plain heart," so well she knew how to seek the obscure blooms hid in the rank midsummer tangle. Through diligent heed, each hand was presently full of such insignificant buds and blossoms as the parched season spares, when, by a fateful chance, she espied, amid a little wilderness of bents, the blue wonder of the great solitary banner-blossom put forth by the ground

trailing pea, beautiful in her eyes beyond all the flowers of the field. Once or twice before, in her short span of life, she had found this infrequent bloom, infrequent, that is, within the precincts that hedged her round; and now, what with its rarity and its appealing glory of "heaven's own blue," there arose in her untried heart a fierce struggle between her desire for the splendid flower and her love for the beautiful Salome. It may be that the struggle was the fiercer because Salome was absent, and the flower so vividly present.


Slowly back to the house she walked in an anguish of conflict; for she recognized clearly that if she withheld the flower, she must, under the circumstances, forego the delight and glory of its exhibition; she could possess the treasure only in a selfish secrecy. Nevertheless, she found no strength against the temptation to keep the banner-blossom for herself, until she had presented the poor little knot of weedy bloom ostentatiously displayed in her left hand, while her right hand held the flower she so prized well out of sight behind her back but the moment Salome's eyes lighted upon the inadequate tribute offered at her shrine, the doom of the blue bannerblossom was surely sealed. The child loved the flower none the less, but she loved Salome more. Penitent, ashamed, and glad, all at once, she exhibited the rarity. Was she so much to blame in that she was fain to have it seem as if she had reserved it to enhance its value by surprise? At least she was distinctly conscious that the surrender, though voluntary, was a sacrifice ; but the meed of admiration bestowed upon the flower soothed the irrepressible regret the sacrifice cost her, for her inexperience failed to penetrate the perfunctory nature of the praise she had elicited. Neither did she suspect that her return was inopportune; but she must have interrupted a conversation far more interesting than the "wildings of nature," for she was speedily bidden to" run and play." She would have pleaded to remain, but having achieved one conquest over herself, she maintained the mastery, and departed in meek obedience, though in no mood to run and play; she had passed through one of those crises of the soul, the effect of which is to subdue the animal spirits. Yet it was not depression she felt, but a sort of chastened joy, that she would

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