In Germany, perhaps more readily than elsewhere, one can realize Wordsworth's ideal of plain living and high thinking. An illustration of this was afforded us when our landlord, the owner of an ancient Bavarian schloss, of which we were the summer tenants, invited us to take part in a gathering of literary and artistic folk, who represented, in Munich, the famous Frankfort Hoch Stift.

The castle itself is of no little historical interest. Originally a Roman fortress, as its foundation walls still bear witness, it was built by command of the Emperor Augustus to hold in check the savage and half-conquered German hordes. The Romans defeated and swept away in their turn, the seat of war became the home of peace. Here cloistered monks, as if in perpetual protest against the savagery of blood and battle, chanted their lays of love and brotherhood, and the silence of the woods was only broken by the bell summoning to Rosary or Benediction. The centuries roll on, and again the scene shifts, and now gay Bavarian dukes hold their summer court within these walls while they hunt the wild. boar in the surrounding forests. Time turns another leaf in the book of fate, and the castle is a prison, its cruel torture-chamber and its dungeons full of unholy secrets. They talk of haunting ghosts, and who shall wonder? For in its hoary age, the home now of peaceful folk, at the end of its stirring history, the schloss, as it sits upon its heights looking down on the broad flowing Isar, enshrines the memories and traditions of nigh two thousand years.

In the wide courtyard, where the chestnuts were now in the perfection of bloom, preparations were made the day before for the expected visitors.

Tables and benches were placed beneath the shade; a bower of green branches embraced the battered Madonna who presides over the well whence the Roman soldiers drew their supplies from the Isar. Here, beside these oddly-mingled memories, a little platform was erected for the use of speaker and reciter, and in another corner seats were placed for the string band which enlivened the proceedings.

About the hour of four, on a bright, cool afternoon, the company arrived: a goodly band of young and old of both sexes; and soon every seat was occupied, and greetings were exchanged to the clinking of beer-glasses and the aroma of coffee. By one of those odd social laws which it takes the stranger a little while to understand, a guest invited to such a function as this is expected to pay for his own bodily refreshment. The simple German, however, thinks no shame to carry his homely sausage with him in the hand that is not occupied by his poem or his sketch-book, and beer to quench his ever-enduring thirst may be said to flow at every meeting of the ways. The gathering, we were given to understand, was a very representative one, all present being occupied either professionally as artists and authors, or deeply interested in these arts. Here, in the middle of animated talk and laughter, one saw a busy scribbler taking notes, or a sketcher seizing a passing impression of light and shade upon crumbling tower or wall.

Presently the master of ceremonies called for silence; the band ceased abruptly, and Herr Doctor Julius Becol, well known to his fellow-countrymen as poet and prose-writer, stepped modestly upon the platform under the green canopy. He recited with capital effect a piece by Georg Scherer, called

"Two different kinds of angel," and on receiving an encore, he gave an amusing and dramatic rendering of a little comedy, named Ja, by Hermann Margraf. He was succeeded by other members, who either gave us little selections from their own works or chosen passages from a favorite author. All received a most sympathetic hearing, and one lady awoke enthusiasm by her inimitable rendering of some ballads

in the broadest Bavarian dialect. These, alas! were to us, as is Burns to the average Englishman, a sealed book. After the veteran hon. president, "the esteemed and gifted" Ferdinand Wilferth, had thanked the society, in a stirring original poem of eight verses, for its congratulations on his seventieth birthday, the company dispersed, some to climb the tower, from which the fine chain of the Bavarian Alps is visible; others to sketch, or to examine the interesting collection of Roman coins and pottery found on the spot; while the young people adjourned to an empty room in the little inn to dance to the sound of the fiddles.

The inn is in itself a quaint little place, serving in the day of the sporting dukes as the huntsman's lodge. It lies on the further side of the drawbridge, under the shadow of the old walls. We followed to watch the dancing, which, like most things German, is an affair of some order and formality. A president is selected, who controls the movements of dancers and musicans. After a slow and dignified turn or two, the signal is given and all balt. Lads and lasses bow formally to each other, and an exchange of partners is made. Then the fiddles once more scrape, and the slow revolutions recommence. So the matter proceeds, until everybody present has danced with everybody else, and then, arm in arm, in smiling content, the young people saunter out into the sunshine.

The Leisure Hour.

One cannot but be struck afresh each time one witnesses it, with the great simplicity with which the German amuses himself. Not sadly, like us, does he take his pleasures, but with a youthful gaiety that never plays him false. He strives at less than we and attains more.

We left the members of the Stift once more gathered under the chestnut trees; a little wind was swaying the Chinese lanterns and drifting the blooms down upon the flower-decked tables; there the evening beer and braten were now being vigorously discussed to the sound of animated talk. Suddenly the clatter of knives and forks ceased, and all tongues were hushed as the musicians played a prelude, and the young daughter of the vice-president, Fräulein Hela Zeiller, stepped upon the platform, and in the clearest and freshest soprano sang "A song of the spring night." Dusk had fallen before the last clear notes ceased, and the stars were beginning to peep. The little festival was over, and presently, with the flash of many bicycle lights and the sound of many gay good-byes, our friends dispersed, and silence claimed the courtyard as its own.

Such meetings of those interested in kindred crafts are very frequent here. Sometimes a little open-air play is acted; occasionally the scene is illuminated with colored lights; more often still voices unite in chorus, and make the home-going woodland paths vocal. But it is all very simple, unpretentious, kindly. It costs next to nothing, and if one may hazard a guess, it does more to promote sympathy, to allay jealousy, and to stir enthusiasm in one's art or craft than the formal and expensive dinner at which the English Brotherhood of pen or pencil meets to offer its yearly incense of praise and self-congratulation.

K.

Mr. Hall Caine, having "done" the Anglican church, and the Church of Rome in his fiction, is now reported as about to publish a novel dealing with Noncomformity.

Mr. William Le Queux has turned historian; and his history of San Marine, for which tiny republic he now acts as British Consul, is to be published this season with illustrations.

It is announced that a life of Bret Harte is to be written by his intimate friend, Mr. T. Edgar Pemberton, who will have at his disposal material supplied by relatives and friends.

The English publishers of Charles Dickens's writings report that their annual sales for a number of years have averaged a quarter of a million copies. Evidently it is premature to speak of Dickens as waning in popularity.

"The Scott Country” which is on the list of the Macmillans for speedy publication will appeal strongly to lovers of Scott. It is the work of William Shillinglaw Crockett, who is familiar with every foot of the famous Borderland and with all the associations which connect it with the life of Scott.

Three American authors have already been selected for the proposed "American Extension" of the Macmillans' English Men of Letters series. They are Lowell, Franklin and Emerson, and the biographies are to be written by Dr. Henry Van Dyke, Mr. Owen Wister, and Professor George Edward Woodberry.

The Macmillans have on their list, for early publication, Matthew Arnold's "Notebooks" with a preface by his daughter, the Hon. Mrs. Wodehouse. The originals were slender notebooks in which Mr. Arnold, from 1852 to 1888, was accustomed to jot down examination notes, lists of books for reading, and citations from books which had pleased him. The forthcoming volume is made up of the literary entries of every fifth year, printed in the form and order of the original, and illustrating Mr. Arnold's literary methods and habits of thought.

An amusing and profitable little book is Mr. Leon Mead's volume on "WordCoinage," which Thomas Y. Crowell & Co. publish: amusing especially in its chapters on Neologisms by Living American Authors, the material for which is largely contributed in personal notes to Mr. Mead by the authors themselves: and profitable, from the light which it throws upon the hundreds of hidden sources from which a really living language derives new synonyms and shades of meaning. It is interesting to observe how large a proportion of the authors from whom Mr. Mead sought confessions were zealous to disclaim responsibility for new words.

discovered, one by Mr. Voynich in Italy and the other by the Duc de Rivoli in Vienna. Quite recently a third copy has been unearthed by a Continental bookseller, and doubtless other examples will be found in due course. A fine copy is worth at least £300.

Another instance is Charles Lamb's bit of nursery verse "The King and Queen of Hearts" for which an enthusiastic collector paid $1,110 last March. The discovery first of a second copy and then of a third brought the price down to $25.

The Shakespeare Cyclopædia and New Glossary, edited by John Phin, and published by the Industrial Publication Company of New York is a very useful handbook to the study of Shakespeare. It gives the meaning of the old and unusual words found in Shakespeare's works, and of ordinary words used in unusual senses and forms of construction, together with explanations of idiomatic phrases and of mythological, biographical and antiquarian references, and notes on folk-lore, local traditions, legends, allusions, proverbs and old English customs. Some Shakespearean students may spurn such information as too elementary; but there can be no question that the ordinary reader of Shakespeare will find his pleasure greatly promoted by the use of this book for ready reference, and it is also calculated to assist the school study of Shakespeare. Professor Edward Dowden, one of the most eminent of Shakespearean scholars, gives Mr. Phin's work high praise and furnishes for it an introduction on "The Language of Shakespeare Considered as an Encyclopædia of Contemporary Knowledge."

As a striking example of the effect sometimes produced by an untrained writer, the London "Academy" quotes the following extract from a narrative

of the eruption at Martinique by Mr. Freeman of the British steamer "Roddam," found in a recent Blue Book:

The Captain approached and saw the steamship "Roraima" and the "Grappler" in the bay riding quietly at anchor, so he dropped his anchor close to the shore. At about 8.15 he was in the chart room-a good many of the sailors were leaning over the side of the vessel watching the distant mountain, which was emitting dense clouds of smoke and occasional flashes of light. Mr. Campbell was talking to Mr. Plissoneau on the deck. On a sudden he (the Captain) heard a tremendous noise, as though the entire land had parted asunder. Simultaneous with the noise there was a great rush of wind, which immediately agitated the sea, and tossed the shipping to and fro; he rushed out of the chart room, and looking over the town and across the hills he saw a sight he cannot describe. He remembers calling out to Mr. Campbell and saying "look," and then an avalanche of lava was upon them. It immediately caught the town afire as it passed over it, likewise the shipping. It struck his ship with the terrible force of a mighty hammer, and the lava rained upon the deck. Everyone, as far as he could see, sought shelter at once, but the heat was so great and the air so suffocating that Mr. Campbell and many of the crew, among whom was the Chief Mate, threw themselves in despair overboard. Some crawled from where they had hidden themselves on to the deck to obtain a breath of air and were roasted upon the fiery hot ashes. He did not lose his head, his first thought was to try and save his ship and such of his crew as were still alive. He rang the bell for full speed astern, and the heroes below turned on the steam. He had time to slip his anchor, and he was off. As his steering gear was rather difficult to manage he once or twice nearly ran foul of the steamship "Roraima" which was on fire. He saw two still figures standing on the bridge with arms folded heroically awaiting their end. One of them waved a good-bye to him.

BELLS IN THE NIGHT.

The clear angelic voices of the bells Ring through the night-bereft of even a star

And call to wandering souls, alone, afar,

From that great deep of love which ever wells

To pour on dust-dry hearts cool waves of peace.

There is no light to point the heavenward way;

The bells ring out, in clamorous joy at play,

And summon prisoned souls to claim release.

At your first note all evil spirits fly; Your rhythm unlocks the gate of memory

Lord, give me of it four great rivers,
To be my manuals."

And then I saw the thunder chidden
As slave to his desire;

And then I saw the space bestridden
With four great bands of fire;

And stage by stage, stop stop subtending,

Each lever strong and true, One shape inextricable blending, The awful organ grew.

Then certain angels clad the Master
In very marvellous wise,

Till clouds of rose and alabaster
Concealed him from mine eyes.
And likest to a dove soft brooding,
The innocent figure ran;

So breathed the breath of his preluding,
And then the fugue began-
Began; but, to his office turning,
The porter swung his key;