spectacle has only fired others, who are awaiting its success in order to attempt similar exploits themselves. This is the way in which many women of the British upper classes are content to play their part at a great national crisis! It is barely a year ago that the English press teemed with comments far from complimentary on the extravagant outbursts of New York society over the apotheosis of Admiral Dewey and his sailors, but the harm effected by that ridiculous spectacle was limited to its personal results. There was no interference with military operations, and the policy of the United States was in no way hampered because certain young ladies made themselves and their victims a laughing-stock. Though morally the fruit of the same sickly sentimentalism and love of notoriety, this descent of English society on the shores of South Africa is far worse. It began with the advent of a few soldiers' wives who found means of making themselves useful, and thus furnished an excuse for an excursion otherwise inexcusable. The driblets which trickled in at first have now swelled to a stream of unmanageable volume. Many members of the crowd cannot even advance the argument of legitimate anxiety for a particular warrior; their interest would appear to be purely general. To appeal to the latter on patriotic grounds would be palpably a waste of words. To these patriotism is demonstrated by joining in the chorus of the "Absent-Minded Beggar," as they understand loyalty to mean the mobbing of a Prince at a fashionable watering-place. But there must be a certain number of well-meaning and devoted women who have set an example the results of which they now deplore. Do you imagine that they are making an arduous campaign easier by impeding the operations of those who have a hard enough task

to perform in keeping the army in supplies? or will a husband fight better for knowing his wife is in touch with the enemy? We believe that many ladies of this class will withdraw directly the hysterical impulse of the moment passes away and leaves their mental eye-sight for a moment unaffected.

But the whole situation is one for which we foresee no substantial alleviation in individual and voluntary subjection to the dictates of good taste. The disease is too widespread, and this rush to the front is only a particularly repulsive exhibition of the general outburst of unhealthy sentimentalism for which the war has afforded an opportunity. This sickly exotic, matured by the Kiplingism of the music halls and cherished by idle hands, bids fair to obscure the vigorous and sturdy brother which is spreading its roots throughout the Empire. So long as it flourished in the fashionable quarters of London alone it did little harm, transplanted to the Colonies it poisons the atmosphere and must be hewed away. The effect of its presence on the Dutch can be nothing but injurious. We were ready enough to find fault with the Boers, whose habits are patriarchal, for taking their women to the front, but for the English upper class, whose habits may be described by any other adjective than that, to imitate them is inexcusable. Mrs. Cronje, in her husband's laager, gave evidence of a kind of squalid heroism, but Mrs. Gadsby, seated on the shores of Orange River, could not pose as a heroine even in transpontine melodrama. It is deplorable enough that the presence of certain "Society" ladies in beleaguered towns should have fired others with a spurious enthusiasm. The latter have not the excuses which the former may allege. There are certain situations in life, as there are certain cases in court,

A good deal of valuable material has been promised toward the establishment of a Ruskin museum at Coniston; and a loan exhibition, illustrating the life and work of Ruskin, is to be held there in July, August and September of this year.

Cowper's centenary was commemorated in a quiet way in England; but Dryden's bi-centenary, which occurred May 1st, passed without the slightest recognition. The Academy explains the omission on the ground that, outside

of the cultivated classes, no interest is now taken in Dryden's poems, while Cowper's "John Gilpin," at least, is still a classic among children.

A Scottish innkeeper is reported to have summed up the late Duke of Argyll in this single effective sentence:

His Grace is in a verra deeficult poseetion whatever. His pride of intellect will no' let him associate with men of his ain birth, and his pride of birth will no' let him associate with men of his ain intellect.

A discovery of interesting Tennyson manuscripts has been made at Sheffield, consisting of familiar letters from Tennyson and Arthur Hallam to W. H. Brookfield, whom Tennyson addresses as "old Brooks;" together with parts of the manuscripts of the "Lotus Eaters" and "The Lady of Shalott."

The New York Evening Post quotes the following interesting bit about Wordsworth, from a letter recently written to an American friend by the venerable Aubrey de Vere, who is one of the few men now living who can recall Wordsworth as a personal friend:

I remember Wordsworth once saying to me, "When I was young I thought much of being remembered; now that I am old and must soon embark upon the great ocean of eternity, I do not ask how many are those who stand upon the shore and can still keep my little pinnace in sight. My hope is

Every school teacher, and probably every small scholar, will take pleasure in two compact and finely-illustrated little volumes called "Great Artists," by Jennie Ellis Keysor. The two books, which are to be followed by others, one hopes, give entertaining and thoughtful accounts of Raphael, Rubens, Rembrandt, Murillo, Durer, Van Dyck, Reynolds and Bonheur, written in a bright, attractive, and markedly intelligent way. The accompanying illustrations, of which there are many, are exceedingly well chosen, and give a broad idea of the scope of the work done by each painter. As gift books for children, to be used outside school, these are charming. Educational Pub. lishing Co.

Henrik Ibsen's "When We Dead Awaken," which has occasioned SO much difference of opinion in England, is published in this country in a convenient and attractive form by Herbert S. Stone & Co. Among the many meanings which have diligently been read into it by the critics, one at least is clear: Ibsen has raised the question, never perhaps put more plainly, as to

what constitute the rightful demands which "Art" may make upon the individual soul, and yet leave the soul richer rather than bereft. Whatever else Ibsen may have meant, a certain inherent selfishness of the often socalled "artistic" nature has been, for those who will so discern it, mercilessly laid bare in the character of the sculptor, Rubek.

A writer in the London Daily News gives the following description of the personal appearance of M. Rostand:

The forehead now loftier than ever, the features are perhaps more pinched, and there is a wrinkle here and there. A cigarette between the fingers always. A nervous, tired, anxious air at all times, the shy look of the man who is self-centred, or, rather, always preoccupied with some ideal. A soft, low voice which in its rare moments rises rich and full, eloquent above others. No gestures. Only now and then a weary wave of the hand, as the fine head rolls from one side of the Voltaire chair to the other. An extreme, a polished courtesy. Manners which go better with the Louis XV cartel than with the Louis XVI furniture. In the sleepy eyes occasional flashes which show who there is behind this mask of extreme fatigue.

An adventure story in which Danton figures as a friend to the hero, and Robespierre as a deliberate and subtle enemy, is "Robert Tournay," by William Sage. It is an exciting tale of exciting times, and historical scenes are graphically reproduced. Tournay is a well-educated young fellow, not of the nobility, and the heroine, Edmé de Rochefort, a beautiful girl of the aristocracy, who, before the story is half finished, is in the painful situation of owing her life to a man whom she considers little more than a servant. Tournay's imprisonment gives a chance for striking pictures of the prison life of those who are await

ing the summons to the guillotine, and it is to Mlle. de Rochefort's ingenuity and awakened loyalty that the hero himself owes his escape. It is a decidedly readable book. Houghton, Mifflin & Co.

A group of twelve little stories, which deal exquisitely with the sweeter and finer sides of life, is "Tales for Christmas and Other Seasons," a collection of François Coppèe's sketches, charmingly translated by Myrta L. Jones. In so far as the shade of evil crosses these pictures at all, it is to render the colors of truth, gentleness, fidelity and sacrifice more clear and more haunting in their impression. Many of the stories are of children, and reveal not only the affection between father and child, but the latent fatherly quality in the hearts of seemingly prosaic, middle-aged bachelors. The contrast between a father and a bachelor is strikingly shown in the first and perhaps best of these tales, "The Lost Child," which is a genuine Christmas story, told with all the simplicity and the delicate sympathy which one would expect of Coppée. Little, Brown & Co.

There is a vast deal of plain, practical common sense in Eliot Gregory's "The Ways of Men," which the Scribners publish. It is clever, bright, sympathetic, decidedly enjoyable, and it hits hard sometimes. There are thirtythree short papers in all, on every variety of topic; the grave ones sometimes prove to be gay, and the gay have a nimble trick of turning out to be refreshingly grave. The folk who spend most of their time in climbing up genealogical trees, the travellers who err in respect to good manners, the humble people who deserve better of the world than they are allowed to get, the last play and the latest fad of the "four hundred," all these re

ceive the "Idler's" shrewd consideration, and are well worth the consideration of the rest of the world.

To write with accurate and logical intelligence, and from personal knowledge as well, concerning Grant's campaign in Mississippi, is not possible to many. It is a contribution of absorbing interest which Professor John Fiske has made to war literature in his "The Mississippi Valley in the Civil War." The book is not one of a series on the war, but an independent narrative of the turning of the Confederate left flank, from before Fort Donelson to Nashville. With unusual animation of style and directness of diction, a graphic use of striking incidents and memorable utterances, and a clear perception of the relative significance of facts, it is a strong book. Some twenty war maps, from sketches drawn by Prof, Fiske, add greatly to its value. Houghton, Mifflin & Co.

A striking figure in Harrison Robertson's "Red Blood and Blue" is that of the patrician of the patricians, James York Torrance, the father of its spirited and high-minded heroine. His domination is contested, however, by one of his daughter's lovers, he of the "red blood" only, one Andrew Outcault, who, as a lad, used to shoot quail near the Torrance land. The blue-blooded lover, who has eaten the quail rather than shot it, finds his determined playmate outstripping him, in the race for the esteem of the world, by force of courage and kindly common sense, but the race for Victoria's love is less easily won. The story, which is entertaining and effective, is brought almost up to date by the dramatic meeting of the two rivals before Santiago, and the heroine, at least, does full justice, in the outcome, to the bravery of both her lovers. Charles Scribner's Sons.

The Nellie, a cruising yawl, swung to her anchor without a flutter of the sails and was at rest. The flood had made, the wind was nearly calm, and, being bound down the river, the only thing for us was to come to and wait for the turn of the tide.

The sea-reach of the Thames stretched before us like the beginning of an interminable waterway. In the offing the sea and sky were welded together without a joint, and in the luminous space the tanned sails of the barges, drifting up with the tide, seemed to stand still in red clusters of canvas sharply peaked with a gleam of varnished sprits. A haze rested on the lower shores that ran out to sea in vanishing flatness. The air was dark above Gravesend, and further back still seemed condensed into a mournful gloom brooding motionless over the biggest and the greatest town on earth.

The director of companies was our captain and our host. We four watched affectionately his back as he stood in the bows looking to seaward. On the whole river there was nothing that looked half so nautical. He resembled a pilot, which, to a seaman, is trustworthiness personified. It was difficult * Copyright by S. S. McClure & Co.

to realize his work was not out there in the luminous estuary, but behind him within the brooding gloom.

He

Between us there was, as I have already said somewhere, the bond of the sea. Beside holding our hearts together through long periods of separation, it had the effect of making us tolerant of each other's yarns, and even convictions. The lawyer-the best of old fellows-had, because of his many years and many virtues, the only cushion on the deck, and was lying on the only rug. The accountant had brought out already a box of dominos, and was toying architecturally with the bones. Marlow sat cross-legged, aft, leaning against the mizzenmast. had sunken cheeks, a yellow complexion, a straight back, an ascetic aspect, and, with his arms dropped, the palms of his hands outward, resembled an idol. The director, satisfied the anchor had good hold, made his way aft and sat down amongst us. We exchanged a few words lazily. Afterward there was silence on board the yacht. For some reason or other we did not begin that game of dominos. We felt meditative, and fit for nothing but placid staring. The day was ending in a serenity that had a still and exquisite brilliance. The water shone pacifically, the sky, without a speck, was a benign