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worthy to contribute to the general effect of a modern capital, but it is hard to see how it can ever become anything more than a detail in a street-plan, or contain for the pious tourist of the future any of that quaintness and dear absurdity that makes the homes and haunts of the great men of the past worth the trouble of hunting them out. London Is to become like Paris, where you have to seek scientifically at the backs of great white buildings for the little that is left of the old town. The County Council knows what it wants, and has given us in the noble thoroughfares out of the Strand an earnest of the things to come. What is wanted, it is true, is not always the same as what is obtained. A siege, for instance, under modern conditions of bombardment, would affect the architectural character of a new London in a very marked manner.

A proper and natural accompaniment of the recent changes has been a flood of London books from the press. It Is a time for haste if any record is to remain of the old London, and the pity • is that the work Is done in so scattered, unequal, and haphazard a way by so many Individual hands, according to no plan. Sir Walter Besant's Survey was left incomplete, and cannot be taken seriously in the form in which it has come Into the hands of the public. The older works of comprehensive character are out of date in the matters of history, of antiquarian knowledge, and especially in the all-Important matter of illustration. The old London that is vanishing ought to be the subject of as fine a series of photographic pictures as the art of the camera can produce. But in default of any such organized effort to preserve the memories enshrined in that brick and stone, we must welcome the small books and wish posterity joy of the task of collecting and digesting them.

The latest of these to appear is Mr.

Austin Brereton's Literary History of the Adelphi and Its Neighborhood. There is no quarter of London that is richer in the records of the heroes of London, no part that has arrested and kept more of the memory of that great tide of opulent human nature that has flowed through the English capital generation after generation. To name but a few of those who have honored the Adelphi is to call up a pageant of various splendors. In Durham House, which stood where now the buildings of the Adam brothers stand, dwelt Cranmer for a little. Anne Boleyn's father held it of the King after It had become part of the spoil of the Roman Church in England, and Elizabeth lived there In early days. A part of Philip Sidney's boyhood was passed there, and it was Walter Raleigh's London house for the twenty years preceding bis melancholy fall. In those precincts the figures of Pepys and Johnson and Voltaire were well known in their days—the Frenchman lodged but a few yards from the Adelphi during his three years in England. At the end of that great century the Adam brothers replaced the tottering remains of Durham House by the well-planned streets, the fine terrace above the river, and the house for the Society of Arts that still remind ns In the name of "Adelphi" of their fraternal labors. Garrlck lived In a house on the Terrace, and died there—nor is that all the connection of the Adelphi with our theatre, for Othello was first published on Its site, "at the Eagle and Childe in Brlttan's Bursse" In 1622; and nowadays (let us remind our author) Mr. Bernard Shaw lives a few doors from Garrick's house. In that same Terrace the famous charlatan Dr. Graham set up his Temple of Health, to which all the quality came; and there Emma Lyon, with whose name the country was afterwards to ring so long as it rang with Nelson's, Imper1 London : Traherne 10s. (d. net.

sonated in Graham's service "Vestina, the Rosy Goddess of Health." in the Adelphi "Coutts'" stood for a hundred and sixty years, and there the greatest of British bankers, Thomas Coutts, made himself "the richest man in London." There, too, was founded the Savage Club; and there the "Savages" meet to-day—Laman Blanchard, who performed the superhuman feat of writing the Drury Lane pantomime for thirty-seven consecutive years, had to turn out of his house to make room for them. Thomas Hardy, then busy with architecture, lived on the Terrace

The Outlook.

in the sixties, and drew caricatures in pencil on the marble of the fine Adam's mantelpiece in his room. These are but few of the glories that Mr. Brereton's book has brought together. it is a useful contribution to the vast and scattered literature of our capital, and it will live in the libraries beyond the period of the favor that it will find with the public to-day; for the worthy work of the Scottish brothers must also go in time, and the little casket that they prepared for the housing of so much treasure of the spirit will be a memory like the rest .


Mrs. Roger A. Pryor's "The Birth of the Nation—Jamestown, 1607" (The Macmilian Co.) is written, of course, apropos of the Jamestown Exposition. Probably it would not have been written and published at this time, except for the observance of the tercentenary. But it is as far as possible from being a mere hack work, produced for an occasion. it is written in a charming style, after a sufficiency of research but without superfluous detail, and would have been an acceptable contribution to American history at any time. When history is told in this fashion. it becomes as engaging as fiction to readers young or old, and far more profitable.

Mr. Arthur Symons serves Browning and all Browning readers not already possessors of the book by republishing his "An introduction to the Study of Browning." Long out of print, its place has been usurped by a flock of quite unnecessary "studies," and "appreciations," each one more "precious" than the last, and nearly all entirely unaware of that solid common sense.

that perfect acceptance of things as they are by which Browning made himself master of the italian character, and also made himself dear to italians, and a mystery to those desirous of finding something in his work which is not there; viz., their own mysticism. Now that this book reappears it may be hoped that the writers of "papers" and of "notes" will be content with silence for a time. An opening paper on "General Characteristics," a summary of each poem, long or short, a Bibliography of English editions, and an index of poems compose the volume. E. P. Dutton & Co.

The Dlckensian observes that lovers of the works of Charles Dickens are continually finding opinions in them which are most applicable to presentday circumstances; and it cites this instance:

in "Bleak House," readers learn that Mrs. Jellyby neglected her husband, her children, and household duties, in order to attend to the subject of Africa, "with a view to the general cultivation of the coffee berry—and the natives—and the happy settlement, on the banks of the African rivers, of our superabundant home population." Mr. Jarndyce, on requesting Esther Summerson to inform him what she and Ada Clare thought of Mrs. Jellyby, received a reply which may interest those who are wondering what became of husband and children during the time the Suffragette was engaged at Westminster "fighting" for her vote. The following is the reply Mr. Jarndyce received to his question: "We thought that perhaps it is right to begin with the obligations of home, sir; and that, perhaps, while those are overlooked and neglected, no other duties can possibly be substituted for them."

The "sorrowful splendid past" of the civil war has few names of young men on its death-list more worthy of eulogy than Charles Russell Lowell's, and his "Life and Letters" of which Mr. Edward W. Emerson has made a volume, must, even now, forty years after his death, be counted among the memorable books of the season. in his great kinsman's poetry his figure is forever enshrined as it seemed in its last great moment of sacrifice, but the story of the ways which brought him to that noble end has not attained the immortality of a book until now. Mr. Emerson guards himself against undue enthusiasm with caution almost unique among American biographers, and hardly equalled by any one except Mr. Charles Francis Adams, but perhaps wise in these days when new men have arisen who knew not Joseph, and find it brilliantly clever to disparage the deeds of arms that would never have tempted them to part their

tepid souls and well-fed bodies. The letters of General Lowell himself are supplemented by many others written to him or about him by his friends, the fine flower of the State in their day. but his own show a wonderfully fine character, and give the reader a possession forever, a vision of young knighthood. Houghton, Mifflin & Co.

Under the apt and alluring title of •"Nature's Craftsmen" Dr. Henry C. McCook groups in one delightful volume the fruits of long study of those tiny creatures of the insect world. -ants, bees, wasps, spiders, etc. whose busy lives and diverting traits escape the ordinary observation and are known to comparatively few even of Nature lovers and students. The book is scientific, in the sense of being an accurate record of close and affectiouate study; and it is popular, in the sense of being written in a style so pleasing and so free from technical detail as to be easily understood by the unscientific reader. if it is true that the undevout astronomer is mad, it is scarcely less true of the entomologist: for from the almost infinitely little as well as from the infinitely great lessons on the Divine wisdom and benet?cence are to be drawn. Dr. McCook's work is not less valuable because he is not blind to this aspect of his subject. Some chapters of the book have appeared in Harper's Magazine and other periodicals, but a large part is new and so much as is old has been rewritten and rearranged. One hundred or more illustrations from nature add t»-*the interest and attractiveness of these charming nature-studies. Harper & Bros.

8^5S xlS'v?} No. 3284 June 15, 1907. {"ftSSESS!9

I. A Colonial Study of London Civilization. By Edith Searle

Orossmann . . Nineteenth Century And After 643 II. A Poet's Wife. By Florence MacCunn Gentleman's Magazine 662

III. The Enemy's Camp. Chapters XVii and XViiL (To be continued)

Macmillan's Magazine 662

IV. The Last O'Hara. By Andrew James Blackwood's Magazine 670 V. Qo to Skelllg! By H. Kingsmill Moore Macmillan's Magazine 681

VI. Culture in the Crucible. By T. H. S. Escott

London Quarterly Review 688

VII. Worry Nation 693

VIII. The Mind of Christ Spectator 695

IX. The Cry of the Russian Children. By R. C. Lehmann Punch 698

X. The Nationalist Decision Economist 700

XI. Hungary and the Austrian Elections. Outlook 702


XII. Sea-Roses. J. E. Healy 642

XIII. The Touchstone. E. Nesbit The Nation 642

XIV. Gift-Flowers. A. Hugh Fisher 642


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Where the sea-roses grow down to the sea. And where the white ripples laugh up to the roses; Where the gorse and the heather are nodding together, And the bud of the pimpernel opens and closes; Where the curlew dips to the kiss of the wave, And the gray-given wings of the plover whirr Hy the languorous motion and swaying of ocean. There i am dreaming of her.

Sweet sea-rose, yon were always sweet.

Yellow of petal, and greenly glowing in warm sea-places 'mid soft embraces

And tender touches of night-winds blowing. The first full ray of the moon on you

Falls in the quiet of night begun; And lovingly tender, in slanting splendor,

The first red shaft of the sun.

Ah. but now you are queen of the flowers. Queen of the queens of the summer weather; For here where the plover were wheeling above her. Here iu your glory we met together. Itose. you were happy, but happier far

l. as i thrill'd with ecstasy. When she pluck'd you stooping, her dark eyes drooping.— Pluck'd you, and gave you to me. "/. K. Healy.

But when the sun stood still, aud Time went out Like a blown caudle—when she

came to me Under the bride-veil of the blossomed tree, Chill through the garden blew the winds of doubt: And wheu, with starry eyes, nnd

lips too near. She leaned to me. my b 'art knew what to fear.

"it is no dream."' she said. "What dream had stayed

So long? it is the blessed isle that lies

Between the tides of twin eternities, it is our island: do not be afraid!"

Aud then at last, my heart was well deceived,

i hid my eyes: 1 trembled, and believed.

Her real presence sanctified my faith.
Her very voice my restless fears be-
And it was Life that clasped m"
when she smiled.
But when she said "i love you!" it was
That, that at least, ci uld neither b.

uor seemOn, then, indeed. 1 knew it was a dream!

H. Xcshlt.

The Nutlou



There was a garden, very strange, and

fair With all the roses summer never

brings. The snowy blossom of immortal

springs Lighted its lxUighs. and i, even i, was

there. There were new heavens, and the

earth was new. And still i told my heart the dream

was true.


My dearest, why should they distress you?

'Tis 1 that must suffer—not you. if words that were but to caress you

Are seeming to woo.

With a breath from your lips you may scatter

The blossoms that scented the air. And your mirror may say if it matter

One stays in your hair.

Yet keep them a day in your bosom.
Yet hold them one night in your
A day is a life for a blossom.
And night is its rest.

.t. Hu'ih FitIlier.

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