Incidentally the value of these papers, republished from Harper's Magazine and Weekly, is enhanced by their recognition of the need of classicism, of the academic point of view; that is, of appreciation of the past, which so often now is neglected in morbid striving for originality. The men of the past, though indebted to sectional and local interests for their themes, were first of all artists. But a national life does not yet support American culture, and, if ever there is to be a world literature," it may still have to be sectional or geographical, even if the more international we become the more human we are. The birth of the future great American novelist or poet, like that of the unit of national consciousness, must still be the product of secondary causes, which only by amalgamation of racial differences can ever be recognized as national. The final essay of this volume is necessarily tinged with sadness because of its truth. "Our nobler literature . . . lies a generation and more behind us. The field is open and calls loudly for new champions,' are its concluding words. Round such a dictum conflicting opinions must clash, but it is as true of England as of America, and the discord should cease in reverence for what science has given to both countries. Literature can abide its resurrection while the miracles of science are being revealed.

THE SPINNER FAMILY.

By Alice Jean Patterson. (Chicago: A. C. McClurg & Company. $1.00 net.) MOST children, as well as many grown-ups, look upon spiders and their kin as objects of dread and dislike. This is most undeserved, it is true. Still the antagonism is strongly felt.

A most effective cure for this unreasonable fear may be found in a thorough knowledge of these wonderful and interesting spinning neighbors of ours. Fortunate, indeed, is the child who makes the acquaintance of "The Spinner Family," by Alice Jean Patterson, for he certainly will then bid farewell to all his fears.

Instead, he will find spiders a source of constant and fascinating attraction. The entertaining, yet truthful, accounts of these skilful craftsmen can have no other result than that of leading to more intelligent and pleasurable observation of them and their habits. Thus he will be led to a deeper knowledge.

The characteristic features of each member of the family are so clearly and definitely stated that each may be very quickly recognized and established on a footing of familiarity, a state of affairs that will forever remove all feelings of dislike or repugnance. Thus a source of terror may be made into a source of much delight.

A

THE HISTORY OF JOHNNY QUAE GENUS, the Little Foundling of the Late Doctor Syntax. A Poem by the author of the Three Tours. With twenty-four colored illustrations by Thomas Rowlandson. new edition. (New York: D. Appleton & Co. $1.50.) THE reprinting of this somewhat forgotten poem (if it is right to call this long narrative in eight syllable verse a poem) would seem to be a rather venturesome undertaking; for we confess it was not with enthusiasm we took up the book and began the reading. We certainly should not have been attracted to it in a book-shop. But once we got into the spirit of the thing we found the narrative extremely amusing, and, instead of a task, as we feared, we found the reading a real pleasure, and we can recommend the book to all who are looking for something "different" to read. We fancy few of

our readers are familiar with the poem; or, for that matter, with its' author's more famous Dr. Syntax's Tours," that is, familiar in the sense of having read them.

This work was published in 1821, some ten years after "Dr. Syntax," and is, as the title tells, the history of the foundling adopted by Dr. Syntax. The verse and rhyme are capitally handled and the illustrations are very clever and amusing, and give one an admirable idea of the costumes and manners of the early nineteenth century.

THE MUSICAL GUIDE. Edited by Rupert Hughes. (New York: McClure, Phillips & Company. 2 vols. $6.00 net.)

UNDER this title, Mr. Hughes has succeeded in getting together a vast amount of information which will be of use and value to the amateur musician, and much of it also to the professional.

The editor wisely states that "the one object is to increase the number of those who will listen to music intelligently and know just what they are hearing, and pretty well why they like this and dislike that." This sentiment is entirely in accord with the movement of the present day in favor of a more general promotion of elementary theoretical knowledge of music. So much attention has been paid to technical instruction, and so little comparatively to the grammar of music, that the idea of a musically intelligent audience has hardly been thought of. And yet the intelligent listener is the necessary supplement of the musical profession. Without him the art of the performer is wasted, and music is merely meaningless noise. "The Musical Guide" may be heartily welcomed as a help to those who wish to understand something of what they hear. In the first volume we find a concise and interesting Introduction to Music for the Uninitiated; some excellent essays on the National Schools (Italian, German, French, English, and Russian), by E. Irenæus Prime-Stevenson, to which Mr. Hughes adds one of his own on American music; two essays by Louis C. Elson on the Great Instrumentalists and the Great Singers, besides other valuable though brief papers on important subjects by leading authorities.

Not the least attractive portion of the book is that which is devoted to the stories of the standard operas, with the casts of the original creators.

A portion of the book is devoted to orchestral instruments, and contains drawings of several instruments with their players, which are valuable as showing the positions of the instruments, but, owing to the expression of suffering on the faces of the performers, are too painfully realistic.

The second volume is almost entirely given over to a dictionary of musicians, interspersed with biographies of those who are considered great. This dictionary includes some names not to be found in previous works, and is also subject to the errors of all such works. There is no perfection in biographical dictionaries. The pronouncing dictionary, though compiled with great care, is of doubtful value, for it is an open question whether anybody ever learned to pronounce correctly by means of a pronouncing dictionary.

"The Musical Guide" fills the combined functions of elementary text-book and dictionary, and the dictionary portion of it is so classified as to be of use to the amateur rather than to the professional, which is, of course, what the editor intended. It is a good thing. HENRY C. LAHEE.

Recent Fiction

THE REIGN OF QUEEN ISYL. By Gelett Burgess and Will Irwin. (New York: McClure, Phillips & Company. $1.50.)

AFTER Some commonplace stories and some rather tiresome "Goops," it is a pleasure to welcome Mr. Burgess back in the kind of work which he can do so admirably, the fanciful romance. His first essay

in this line was the ever charming "Vivette," and now he and Mr. Will Irwin produce another tale, similar in method, in "The Reign of Queen Isyl." It is all very excellent fooling. The tale itself, the supposed abducting of the Queen of Love and Beauty from the fiesta at San José, and the crowning in her stead of her maid of honor at the last moment, and the troubles and adventures of the two girls and their upholders, is delightful in itself, but the interpolated tales are perhaps the best part of the book. Not the least amusing part are the "highfalutin" chapter headings, as given in the contents. One who did not know Mr. Burgess, looking only at the contents, might fancy he had struck another "historical romance" of the worst kind, so little more absurd are these headings than many of those romances.

This book is not one, of course, about which much can be said critically. It is excellent of its kind, and its kind is excellent when it is so well done as in this To those who like delicate, airy fooling, combined with a pretty, if absurd, little love-story, we can heartily recommend this book. It is a pleasure to add that the make-up of the book is excellently suited to the contents.

THE AWAKENING OF THE DUCHESS. By Frances Charles. (Boston: Little, Brown & Company. $1.00 net.)

FRANCES CHARLES won an enviable reputation for her wonderful story, "In the Country God Forgot." That reputation was not enhanced by "The Siege of Youth," and it is difficult to see how this child's story can assist in building up her fame. It is a little tale of a very rich woman who was called by her baby daughter "The Duchess." This woman was too busy with her social engagements to pay much attention to her little daughter, who was constantly kept under the care of her nurse. At the age of eight, partially by chance and partially by the little girl's assertion of her loneliness and need of a poor child to play with, the mother came to know and love the little girl.

THE STORY OF THE FOSS RIVER RANCH. A Tale of the Northwest. By Ridgwell Cullum. (Boston: L. C. Page & Company. $1.50.) A STIRRING story, with an abundance of incident and the atmosphere of the early days of the settlement in the Canadian Northwest, and with virile characters, strongly contrasted that is what Mr. Cullum has given us in this book. John Allandale, or "Poker" John, as he was called, lived on the ranch with his pretty niece, whom every one called "Jakey." She was the belle of the settlement, and among those who coveted her was a storekeeper-money-lendergambler named Lablache. Not that gambling itself was a crime in this pioneer locality, but the hardy ranchers drew the line at cheating, and Lablache had a shady reputation. There was also a real gentleman who sought the hand of the vivacious "Jakey," Hon. William Bunting-Ford, dubbed "Lord" Bill, who

had sought and eventually found plenty of excitement in this part of the world. "Poker" John was not an ideal guardian for a young girl. His fondness for the prevailing game of poker was his great weakness. Lablache, storekeeper, money-lender, and gambler, soon had "Poker John in his power, and he proceeded to demand that which he desired even more than his ill-gotten gains the hand of "Jakey." When denied, he became desperate, and when detected by "Poker" John in cheating at cards, this subtle money-lending gambler killed "Poker" John. But near by the settlement there was the muskeg — the cruel, relentless mire, which acted like quicksand, and a fate awaited the villain, which all who read this absorbing story to the end will say was justly deserved, though appalling. The telling of the poker stories is admirable, one of the best things about the book, and sure to appeal to all men. Indeed, this is distinctly a man's book.

PLACE AND POWER. By Ellen Thorneycroft Fowler. (New York: D. Appleton & Company. $1.50.) WITH "Concerning Isabel Carnaby," Miss Fowler (in private life Mrs. Alfred Laurence Felkin) achieved a reputation somewhat inadequately sustained by later writings, and which does not receive any considerable added lustre from this last published work, "Place and Power," which she dedicates to,

.. Every Briton worthy of the name, Who follows righteousness instead of fame, Who prizes honor more than place or pelf, And loves his country as he loves himself."

It is not unreasonable to suppose that Miss Fowler's books may appeal more strongly to the sombre British than to the amusement-loving American public. She boasts a style somewhat too ponderous, too wordy, to please a quick-witted nation gorged with the sparkling epigrams, the subtle humor and analysis of a class of fiction writers too well known to mention.

THE HOLLADAY CASE. By Burton Egbert Stevenson. (Henry Holt. $1.25.)

But,

WHEN a wealthy and respected banker is found stabbed to the heart in his private office, to which the last visitor has apparently been his attractive and imperious daughter, who loves and is loved by a rising young lawyer, when all this is stated in the first three pages of a novel, its character is easily determined. although the genre of the book is conventional, the workings-out of the mystery therein are novel and refreshing. It is through the clear head and common. sense of a young clerk in the rising lawyer's office — and not through any remarkable and bizarre deductions and discoveries of a mythical sleuth-hound - that the mists surrounding the Holladay case are cleared up. There are many ingenious touches in the story, not the least of which is the use of color-blindness in the determination of identity, an absolutely new point, we believe, in detective literature.

The characters involved, with the exception of the young clerk, and the chief plotter, who is really human. and plausible, are, on the whole, colorless. But, as it is excitement, and not word-pictures or analysis, which is the main feature for the success of a story of this kind, Mr. Stevenson's first essay into the realms of crime may be said to be successful. Let us hope he does not spoil it by a sequel.

Ar the season of the New Year there is always a taking of stock, among critics and book-lovers, to reckon up the year's output, and see what new treasure may be added to the great store of masterpieces in letters. Far be it from me to make any such inventory of the works of the year of grace nineteen hundred and three! Even if I had the complete list of our literary achievements before me, I should consider myself foolhardy to-day to venture a guess as to which will survive, which perish, which will be found eminent, which comparatively worthless. Time will sift them, and that sifting will be thorough. We may save ourselves the trouble, and go light-heartedly about the business of our lives, enjoying what is delightful, and forgetting what is worthless or disagreeable, if we can.

The only use of criticism is to help us in this task, to persuade us gently to care for what is beautiful in life and letters, and to help us discriminate against the ephemeral and vain. And all the while we are to

*Copyright, 1903, by L. C. Page and Company (Inc.)

maintain a smiling regard, almost an indifference, toward the spectacle of passing fashions in art, in letters, in actual life. It is good to have one's sympathies aroused, one's enthusiasm enlisted, one's spirits heartened and encouraged; at the same time, it is not well to have one's brain overheated, or one's judgment deflected from the truth. An attitude of generous appreciation, which so easily becomes uncritical and slipshod, is not necessarily incompatible with the severest standards of approval. And somehow we must try to cultivate both traits in ourselves, if we would get the best out of life, - the warm heart and the cold mind. To be ever ready with praise and admiration at the least hint of beauty anywhere, to be easily amused, to laugh easily, to find entertainment in common scenes, and a grain of excellence in every one, these are some of the marks of the generous heart. In the same character, it is not impossible there should exist the keenest analytical insight and the most unswerving perception of beauty, with all its severe requirements. Indeed our capacity for enjoyment, our sensitive love of all that is beautiful, must increase with the delicacy and accuracy of our critical faculties, as these faculties dissect the world for us and unfold ever new realms of wonder, shown to be orderly and full of beauty, with still other realms lying unknown and unexplored beyond them. The logical mind must be our guide through the fabulous house of being, taking us from room to room, opening at every turn unsuspected doors into splendid, quiet chambers of knowledge and corridors of wisdom, where the soul may fall anew to wondering and admiration. Would not our happiness grow with our progress, and our breathless transport increase in proportion to the activity and expansiveness of our indefatigable mentor?

We must bring to the appreciation of letters and art the same unquenchable zest for beauty, the same incorruptible adherence to truth. From these two qualities, seemingly diverse but really so closely akin, arises the joy of the loving heart. It matters not where we find truth, where we find beauty, so long as we find them, and derive from them the sustenance we crave for the nourishment of a happy personality. It must be with such considerations as these that we approach the books of the year, that limitless, chaotic, indescribable ruck of pulp, paper, and printer's ink, which we heap upon the market with so little thought. Perhaps one book in a hundred is worth reading. Perhaps one in a thousand is worth preserving. But, to the critical mind, with its cultivated taste for the best, there is something discouraging in the complete worthlessness of the vast majority of current books. Without thought, without style, without a grain of beauty or an iota of sense, they are dumped upon us by the bushel. Nine-tenths of them can serve no purpose but to flatter the perennial vanity of the misguided incompetents who pen them, or to lead their unfortunate authors to impossible hopes of financial success. I do not believe that the ambitious, but wholly unqualified, author is to blame for this enormous waste of energy. I very much blame the publishers. The publisher the average publisher of to-day-is so greedy, so afraid of missing a successful novel, that he takes every chance, and puts his imprint on anything that offers itself which has the remotest possibility of success. He is no longer a discriminator for the public. His imprint is no longer any assurance of excellence, and the bewildered reader must make his own way among the confused mass of volumes presented to him. This is a somewhat pessimistic and

low-hearted view of the case; but it ought to be said plainly that the sort of rubbish which is put forward in the guise of literature would drive an angel to pessimism. And again, I do not blame the writer more than I do the publisher. If publishers were more scrupulous, more careful of the quality and worth of their publications, we should have fewer writers and better books. The public would be better served, by having its first reading done for it, and the unnecessary books eliminated. The would-be author, with no qualifications for his task, would be saved perhaps years of heart-break and cruel delusion. But the truth is, very few of us care to serve the public; we only care to serve ourselves; and the mistaken enthusiast, with an itch for writing, but without an ounce of skill, must be allowed the bitter chances of natural selection in the artistic world.

At the same time, one need not refuse the most generous welcome to whatever of good appears in the shape of a book. And an indiscriminate method of publishing nas its redeeming merits; it is as catholic as nature, permitting the tares to grow among the wheat with a sublime disregard of values. And you can never be sure that, in some neglected corner of the great dump-heap in front of the roaring press, there will not bloom the modest white flower of genius, all the more wonderful for its squalid, unpromising surroundings. It is the unexpectedness of beauty that makes it seem always to partake of the miraculous. It is the unexpectedness of genius that makes it seem always to share in powers that are more than human. While, therefore, we look with ironic tolerance upon the fatuous and wasteful scramble of publishers, who are imbued with nothing better than the contemptible commercialism of the day, we must never be embittered in spirit by the spectacle. There is always the golden opportunity, always the radiant hope of discovering something beautiful and new, however frail. For the appearance of that delightful phenomenon of that delightful phenomenon we must always be ready.

Beisslanman

The Editor's
Editor's Club

"WELL," said I, as we gathered about the fire at our last meeting, we have been much complimented on the moral tone of our December meeting. Every one has said that our guest's little Christmas sermon was very sensible and very moral in its way."

"That's all right," said the Essayist; "let's not be at all moral this time, but let us, instead, join the Watch and Ward Society in their strenuous efforts to spread, here in Boston, the knowledge of classic uncleanliness among the youthful, the ignorant, and the unsophisticated, in other words, among those, and only those, whom the reading of the forbidden books could harm. I don't fancy any of us are harmed by a knowledge of Rabelais, if we have it, or by reading the Decameron or the Heptameron, the latter book always seemed to me peculiarly stupid, anyway."

They all seem to me rather stupid, for the most part," replied the Socialist.

"Yes, true, for the most part, but for the least part! there's the rub, there's where the society, which deems itself capable of looking after public morality, comes in. Undoubtedly these parts are the only ones

which the eminent members of that eminent and respectable body have ever read."

"Yes, and can't you see them reading those parts? I've never seen any of the members, that I know of, but I'll bet that a good many of them have shaved upper lips and white beards."

66

Sure," spake the Poet.

"Oh, they're not all that kind; a few educated people, I believe, belong to the Watch and Ward."

I know they do," said the Poet, "and you can't deny that it is a good thing to have such a society. They have stopped a lot of traffic in filthy pictures and obscene pamphlets, and dirty schemes of various sorts.'

"Indeed they have, and they've done mighty good work, but this present performance is not only unjust and ridiculous, but it is productive of actual harm, for the reason that it advertises the objectionable qualities; and, of course, these particular books are common enough; it's not like trying to suppress some miserable little pamphlet or cheap picture, Rabelais, Boccaccio, and Margaret of Navarre are world authors, and have been printed and circulated freely ever since they wrote. No library, public or private, even a small one, is likely to be without them, surely not without the Decameron, at least. But not many young people, or ignorant folk, know of these books in the ordinary course of events."

"Yes," I replied, " and this is where the harm comes in. I went into my favorite book-shop the other day, and my friend told me that he had almost no calls for these books, and practically none save from people who knew what they were about, until this recent spasm of virtue seized the Watch and Ward Society; but that for the last weeks he has had daily, almost hourly, calls for all these books, and that all these calls have come from youths or ignorant people, who would never, in all probability, have heard of these books save for the strenuous virtuousness of the Watch and Ward Society. Now, for the present at least, no bookseller is, perhaps, going to sell these books, but all the little boys and girls-I mean, of course, those who want to be tough'- will treasure up the names of these books, and will manage to get at them somehow."

"You are certainly right, Mr. Editor," said the Essayist, "and, what is more, those dreadful people, who are always lying about just under the surface, will print the worst parts of these books, and barbers and cab-drivers and bell-boys and the like, who have before been satisfied with the inanities of the Police Gazette and the daily papers will take to reading Boccaccio and Rabelais. I see, in my mind's eye, special barbershop editions of these classics, printed on pink paper, with fancy and much soiled covers."

"Good, thus Boston's reputation for culture will go up. I see head-lines, 'Boston Barbers Buy Boccaccio,' and 'Bell-boys Devour Rabelais.'"

But, seriously, just what was the trouble?" asked the Socialist. "I have been away."

Why, this," answered the Poet: "a certain publisher advertised complete editions of Rabelais and Boccaccio in English. He, mistakenly, apparently tried to make a definite appeal with this edition, and it was, perhaps, well enough to try to choke him off. But, naturally, he objected to being the only one arrested for having in his possession, for the purposes of sale, what is styled immoral and obscene literature. The books were, of course, for sale in the shops, and others were arrested; some were fined, and appealed to the higher court, and one was dismissed on a technicality. Things are on the way to the higher courts now, and

before long it may be settled, at least, legally, what is an immoral and obscene book, and whether one can have such, even in one's own private library. It certainly is a merry game, isn't it?"

"It certainly is," answered the Socialist. "What is the general public opinion, do you think?" "Why, that the Watch and Ward have made a big mistake, showing themselves not only narrow, provincial, and ridiculous, but doing actual harm, as I said, by spreading word of these books among the great mass of people who would never have heard of them save for the airing given in the daily papers to the society's crusade.

"And we are helping along the work, are we not?" "Surely we are," remarked the Essayist. "As I said in the beginning, we were so 'moral' last time that we can afford to be 'immoral' this time, and follow in the wake of the Watch and Ward."

"Here's to 'em," called the Poet, as he raised his glass, "may they and their kind long continue to make Boston the moral' city that it is, with its eleven o'clock liquor law, and its 'careful' observance of the Sabbath, and all the other nice things that keep people away!"

"Yes, here's to 'em! Doesn't this business remind you of the idiocy that came out at the time of some religious conference or other, some few years ago, when a committee, self-appointed be it said, from some young men's society, sent out a warning to its members not to meet in the Art Museum, as they had been invited to do, because it was not proper that the sexes should meet in a place where there were undraped statues, etc. There was more or less detail, if I remember rightly, in these same circulars."

"And what happened?"

66

Why, the main association, of course, saw the foolishness, vulgarity, and inanity of the thing, and held the meeting in the Art Museum all the same, but I've always pitied those young people, who, after having been told what to look for, and that it was improper when seen, could not, of course, help looking for, and seeing; whereas, of course, if nothing had been said, they likely would have seen and thought nothing. What a lot of harm the messy prudes can do when they get started and are real strenuous' in their 'virtue!''

"Aren't you afraid we'll be doing harm, Mr. Editor, if you publish the details of this meeting?

No," I replied, "how can we be? We are only following in the footsteps of a most respectable society; nor do we go nearly so far as they did, for we do not mention the particularly objectionable stories by name, as they did. Any one who did not know of these books before, if there could be any such among our enlightened readers, would have to hunt through whole volumes to find the naughty parts, and they would probably get discouraged with the stupidity before they found them. If any one finds us immoral anyway, they can lay it all to the Watch and Ward Society, without whom Well, Boston is a dear moral city. Here's to it!"

Recent Fiction

(Continued)

H. C.

hearts of children, and still remembered vividly by many grown-ups, for they are among the books that boys and girls read more than once. Her work has not been limited to the juvenile, however, successful as she was therein. "Old Concord, Her Highways and Byways," is of an entirely different character, as is "Whittier with the Children," and she gives us further evidence of her versatility this year with the publication of "Sally, Mrs. Tubbs."

Comparisons are odious, but Mrs. Tubbs is of so nearly the same type as Mrs. Wiggs, of Cabbage Patch fame, that they are inevitable; still it is no detriment to say of "Sally" that she isn't up to Mrs. Wiggs. The latter lady was in the field first, and had no established precedent of excellence to meet and surpass, as her successors have.

Sally is a quaint, lovable body, and her sayings and doings are both humorous and pathetic. Her philosophy is of the sane, sweet kind that will always find plenty of commendation, for the reason perhaps that we all recognize it as remarkably desirable to possess and equally hard to attain.

Mrs. Lothrop dedicates the book to "all who love simplicity, truth, and cheerfulness," and Sally radiates all three. She isn't allowed to become monotonous, however, for a pretty love-story also runs through the book to an ending satisfactory alike to Sally and the reader.

THE LITTLE PEOPLE. By B. L. Allen Harker. (New York: John Lane. $1.50.)

AGAIN we are indebted to John Lane for the issuing of a very charming book about children. He has made this kind of work a sort of specialty, and all lovers of children should be grateful. This book the title, "The Little People," is misleading, however, as the book is about children, not fairies is really delightful. It shows a keen insight into the child mind, and a rare sympathy with child thoughts and ways. While not so charming and finished as Mr. Grahame's work, nor so "different" as Mr. Bashford's in "Tommy Wideawake," it is good, clean, clever work, and should have a wide appeal in these days of books about children.

THE SWORD OF GARIBALDI. By Felicia Buttz Clark. (New York: Eaton & Mains. $1.25.)

Ir always seems to us as if nothing so satisfactorily nailed the facts of history into a young student's head as a historical novel describing the events whose course the boy or girl is studying. For the student of modern Italian history, modern Italian history, "The Sword of Garibaldi," by Felicia Buttz Clark, is not only pleasant reading, but will be a useful aid to memory.

The book is well written, and is full of exciting incident without being sensational, and can safely be recommended. The illustrations of this story are charming and add much to the reader's pleasure. The plot follows the fortunes of two Romans interested in the liberation of Italy.

AN OCEAN MYSTERY. By Mrs. Richard P. White. (Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott Company. $1.25.) THE plot consists of the familiar theme of a baby rescued from the sea, who, arrived at maturity, marries happily, the variation on the theme being her peril in almost marrying her brother. Local instruction and morals in general are interwoven among the French scenes, and the pictures of the Catholic church are very pleasing.