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of them "The Ladies' Pageant" (The Macmillan Co.). ln it he has grouped from scores of sources old and new tributes to women, studies of them and gentle gibes at them, in prose and verse. The book is attractively printed and bound and makes a pretty companion to "The Gentlest Art."

The hero who rescues a beautiful child from a life of ignorance and poverty, and educates her in order to make her his wife; a Cumberland Mountain quarrel between families; and an unsuccessful land speculation, are not new themes for fiction, but, braid them into one strand, make the hero a strong but entirely unpretentious man; give the little girl pride in the bravery of her family and warm love for her humble friends and kindred, and bestow upon their enemies and hero courage and cunning, and the elements of a new story will be the result. Add to it an easy, unaffected style, and a fair description of "The Trail of the Lonesome Pine" appears. Mr. John Fox, Jr. is a formidable rival for his predecessors in the same field, but it is wide enough for them and many another. Charles Scribner's Sons.

"Sydney at College," Miss Anna Chapin Ray's 1908 book for very young girls, differs from all other stories of girls in American colleges in setting the girl from Canada and the girl from the United States in contrast, and criticizing both more thoroughly and more beneficially than would be possible by taking each separately. The criticism is not formal; it is given in talk and incident, and is a very good story, with an English peer of the funniest kind to contest with the American and Canadian man. Bungay, bad little Bungay of the earlier Sydney books, is present and obliges with two songs. ln the Grand Central Station, to the confusion of his family, he sings, "There was a bear, Without a hair, Who climbed a

tree, And he did see, A bee!" There is very little of Bungay, but he is effective as a hornet. Little, Brown & Co.

"The Character of Jesus," by the Rev. Charles E. Jefferson, D. D. (Thomas Y. Crowell & Co., Publishers), contains twenty-six discourses preached on Sunday evenings in the Broadway Tabernacle, New York City. They present Jesus from the human point of view, as very man, while they do not impeach or exclude His Divinity. Each sermon emphasizes a single trait of the Master's character, His sincerity, His originality, His optimism, His patience, His courage, etc. Addressed primarily to "the man in the street" or to men just come from the street, they make no pretensions of critical profundity. They are direct, forceful and appealing, and from the printed page they convey somewhat the same impression of reality and vividness which must have moved the congregation to which they were addressed.

Good "bad spelling" is rare, and the ignorance of nearly all who attempt it flames even beside the scarlet sins of the dialect writer, but in Miss Grace Donworth's "The Letters of Jennie Allen" one finds something like the errors of the schoolboy, and entirely different from those of the reformed speller. Apparently the letters come from the pen of an ignorant seamstress, and are addressed to a member of the San Francisco relief committee of Providence; in truth, they were the work of a mischievous member of the committee, who, after the success of the first one or two, set herself to make an artistic piece of deceit. Jennie tells everything that happens in the household of which she is a member, and her punctuation is as the punctuation of Flora Finching and her logic as the logic of Mrs. Nickleby. She is delielously absurd, especially when read aloud, and her spelling is nearly perfect. Jennie's sayings will be the innocent jokes of the season in many a household, and it will be strange if she does not make her way to the platform. Small, Maynard & Co.

The late Mr. Robert Nellson Stephens made himself so large a circle of readers by his novels and plays that the "Memory" by "J. O. G. D." of Philadelphia, prefacing "Tales from Bohemia," a volume of his short stories now first published in book form, will be highly appreciated by thousands of readers. it is a charming little sketch, showing the ways by which Stephens passed to his place as a successful author. Originally he was a phonographer, a creature not quite so rare in the United States as J. O. G. D. seems to think, but not conspicuous because he is always at work, somewhere between the National Capitol, where he is supreme, and the nether deep, as he deems it, where flounder the stenographers. The tales were written during a sad passage of the author's life, while he and his mother were helping one another to bear her suffering from a fatal disease, and they follow a French fashion of making a single incident reveal a character, the incidents being taken from the author's experience and observation. The slightest possible thread of connection unites them, but each is complete in itself, a good piece of artistic work, relic of an author whose whole strength went forth in whatsoever he set his hand to do, and who died too young. Mr. Wallace illustrates the tales by eight clever pictures agreeing with text, most uncommon of merits. L. C. Page & Co.

Miss Agnes Repplier's annual volume has come to be the consolation of those Americans sometimes tempted to wish themselves English that they might be natives of a country in which essayists still study the art of writing, in

stead of patching together the latest tags from plays and slang from the gutter. Miss Repplier's writing is invariably the culmination of long reading, deeply enjoyed, and pleasantly remembered, and her "A Happy Half Century" crowns some especially happy study of the years intervening between 1775 and 1S25. in England a period fertile in authors of strong characteristics and interesting product, and she treats them and their work in a manner all her own. Under the head of "The Perils of immortality" she discusses the vexations which fate heaps upon the successful author in compensation for his fame; the paper headed "When Lalla Rookh was Young" sets forth the droll outhreak of sham Orientalism in English literature and in English society after Moore published his most elaborate piece of work. "The Correspondent" celebrates the memory of the immense volume of words sent by post in the days when a letter was a luxury; "The Novelist" dwells upon the severe modesty of the current fiction of the time; "On the Slopes of Parnassus" mercilessly sketches some of the mistaken souls who dreamed of poesy but to whom the genuine numbers never came, and "The Literary Lady" is in the same vein. To-day, the lllerary lady lives only in the vocabulary of the "saleslady." but at this safe distance she is a highly amusing figure. "The Child," "The Educator" and "The Pietist" minutely describe three types, "The Accursed Annual" and "The Album Amicorum," two products of the time, and "Our Accomplished Great Grandmother" portrays a creature recurrent in the producers of decaicomanle, patchomanie, the abominable crazy quilt, and the photograph-frame of crossed straws. The very brief preface points out the real value of these subjects in spite of what some might deem triviality, but no study of Miss Repplier's is triviaL Houghton, Miffiin Co.

jgjgxff."*! "^oT3360 November 28, 1908. { To" VSlii"'


I. Plots and Persons in Fiction. By Mrs. Wilfrid Ward

Dublin Review 51G M. As an Indian Sees America: The Yellow Ad-Man. By Mr.

Saint Nihal Sing Hindustan Review 621

I Hardy-on-the-HIII. Chapter Vl. By M. E. Francis (Mrs. Francis

Blundell). (To be continued.) Times 523

IV. Qsorges Clemenceau. By Augustin Filon Fortnightly Review 532 V. The Intelligence of the Plant. By 8. Leonard Bastin

Pall Mall Magazine 536

VI. Peter's Wife. By Lilian Gask Idler 544

VII. The Prime Minister's Patronage. By Michael MacDonagh .

Chambers' B Journal 548 VIII. A Jubilee Day at Lourdes. By B. IL Bashford ....

Cornhill Magazine 553

I*. The International Congress on Roads Nature 560

X. Thanksgiving Spectator 563

XI. The Downfall of the Democratic Party Nation 566

XII. The Republican Triumph Economist 568

XIII. Mr. Taft's.Election Times 610

XIV. The American Presidential Election. Spectator 570


XV. In the Cascine. By Eden Phillpotts Outlook 514

XVI. The Moor Grave. By John Galsworthy Nation 514


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Here Shelley wrote; the immemorial
Have felt his passing through each
dene and glade;
Have bent and whispered while the
Of deathless things were woven in
their shade.
The wind that turns the shivering pop-
lar white.
The nightingale that throbs upon the
Still haunt the shadows where a
poet's soul hath strayed.


And i have moved upon the self-same earth He trod, have gazed upon the golden tide Of Arno, where her far-flung, rippled mirth Meets with Mugnone, leaps and broadens wide. By banks of emerald and sandy beach She dims and shrinks again, long reach on reach, While the tall slender trees fade off on either side.


The tasselled hyacinth caressed his feet; The great reed rose and rustled where he stood Upon the river's brink; in dingle sweet The young leaves bowed before him through the wood. Peace was about his passing; heaven's

light Fell cool upon his gracious forehead bright, And saw that he was fair, and knew that he was good.


The dome of blue whereon his winged soul Wheeled like an eagle through the ether still; The plains that melt and glow and onward roll; Carrara's mist and marble, where they fill

The far horizon—all together brought Under the ragged Apennines—have

wrought This gold and azure cup wherein he

drank at will.


Not so the hour when from his spirit rose The solemn anthem of the great west wind. Then, through red gloaming and the stormy close Of autumn, he went forth in might to find The river burdened with her latter

rains; Earth's thickened breath lie heavy on the plains; And open to his cry the immortal Mother's mind.


Harper of all the ages, giant free. Roaming on earth's deep bosom as of yore, Greater than thou is this he wrote of thee. Enduring as thyself for evermore, Shelley's melodious miracle shall reign For generations' joy, and still maintain Whilst thou dost herd the cloud and bring the wave to shore.'

Eden PhillpoM.

The Outlook.


I lie out here under a heather sod, A moor-stone at my head; the moorwinds play above. I lie out here—in graveyards of their God They would not bury desperate me who died for love. i lie out here under the sun and moon; Across me bearded ponies stride, the curlews cry. I have no little tombstone screed, no "Soon To glory shall he rise!"—but deathless peace have I.

John Galsworthy. The Nation.


It is very common for a beginner in fiction to be advised to give his attention and study chiefly to his plot. "Make your plot quite clear before you begin: write out the whole of your plot before you make a start." And yet this does not seem to have been the method of many of our favorite novelists. Scott, Thackeray, George Eliot and Trollope have, for example, all accused themselves with more or less blame of not working out their plots clearly before hand; and Scott and Thackeray especially confess to having left the working out of the plot to luck or to fate. Dumas is a strong instance on the other side and supplies Thackeray with a contrast to himself; but then Dumas is emphatically a novelist of adventure, and the characters of his amazing heroes are at once above and below humanity. Again, the works of Gaboriau or the Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, however great they are in their own way, are examples of imaginative work in which we know that individual character is willingly sacrificed for the sake of the story. In the novel of character and manners, on the other hand, whether historical or modern, however great the drama may be, however well the history is unfolded, I think we may believe the opinion of M. Ren6 Bazin—"The characters of a novel," he writes, "are mostly much older in the reserved places of the mind than the plot in which they are grouped."

it is interesting to consult the English novelists already mentioned, because their confessions support each other to a curious extent, and also because they so rarely give us any confidences as to their own work. Sir Walter Scott would tell you anything about his dogs, his guns and the man who was carving his study table, but

he rarely let you know anything at all as to how his own work was done. Two volumes of letters, two more of diary, seven of biography—that is eleven volumes in all—are at our disposal, telling us much about Sir Walter as a man but hardly anything about the novelist . Two volumes of George Eliot's letters give only one valuable hint on the matter. Thackeray has half a page in Roundabout Papers: and in all these cases it is on the question of plot that they can and will talk. And in doing so they throw side lights on the deeper questions of inspiration and the laws of art.

Having ended the second volume of Woodstock [writes Sir Walter] last night, I have to begin the third this morning. Now i have not the slightest idea how the story is to be wound up to a catastrophe. I am just in the same case as I used to be when I lost myself in former days in some country to which i was a stranger. I always pushed for the pleasantest road, and either found it or made it the nearest . It is the same in writing. I never could lay down a plan, or, having laid It down. I never could adhere to it; the action of composition always diluted some passages and abridged or omitted others: and personages were rendered important or insignificant, not according to their agency in the original conception of the plan, but according to the success, or otherwise, with which I wtis able to bring them out. I only tried to make that which I was actually writing diverting and interesting, leaving the rest to fate. I have been often amused with the critics distinguishing some passages as particularly labored, when the pen passed over the whole as fast as it could move, and the eye never again saw them, except in proof. Verse I write twice and sometimes three times over. This may be called in Spanish the dar donde diere mode of composition, in English hab mil, at a

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