ITTLE Pilgrimages Among the Men Who Have Written Famous Arlo Bates How Arlo Bates, whose latest novel is "The Diary of a Saint," entered literature has been told on two separate occasions to the writer of these sketches by the novelist himself. Mr. Bates has always been a cordial host to journalists, for he has had more or less to do with journalism himself. On one of these occasions, in his confessions to a brother-journalist, Mr. Bates said: "Well, my literary career literally began before I could write, for I used to dictate stories before I had mastered one essential qualification for the life of letters. I also improvised plays, which I played with my brothers and sisters. "I was brought up in a literary atmosphere, for my home in childhood and boyhood was in one of the old New England academy towns, then virtually the centre of the intellectual life of the country. My father was a country doctor, whose whole leisure was devoted to books, and I have never yet met a man of keener and sounder critical instincts. One of my earliest and most vivid recollections is of sitting upon a footstool between my father's knees, before the fire, while he read Shakespeare to me and explained passage after passage. "I always wrote enormously, voluminously, and I made my first in print while I was in Bowappearance doin College, when I was about nineteen years old. I remember the thing very well. It made its appearance in the Portland Transcript, and the first money I earned by my pen was a cheque for three dollars. Somehow those old dollars seemed quite unlike any dollars I had ever seen before, and, to be frank, they still occupy quite a distinct place in the currency of the United States. While at Bowdoin I also began to write for the St. Nicholas Magazine." The caller inquired whether while at college Mr. Bates had really made up his mind to adopt literature as a profession. "I don't think I ever weighed the matter very carefully," Mr. Bates replied. "Literature was always an absorbing passion with me, and I do not believe I ever reflected much about the material prospects it offered in our industrial community. I knew very little of the world, and in entering upon my life-work I drifted into what had always claimed my whole interest and sympathy, without making any deliberate choice, but after duly considering the professions open to me. "I graduated from Bowdoin at the age of twentyfive, and then I came to Boston and lived in an attic and wrote copiously and industriously day and night. But the greater part of my manuscript was returned to me by the discriminating editors to whom it was submitted." "And did you really go through the privations of Chatterton, Goldsmith, or Doctor Johnson here in Boston?" the visitor asked. "That is not at all impossible for any man who tries to live by pure literature," Mr. Bates answered. "It is accepting very great hazards for any man to attempt to support himself by his pen without any regular journalistic or other employment. I did not actually starve, for I had occasional assistance from sources upon which I could put more dependence than upon the productions of my pen. My great difficulty in the beginning was that I had lived almost my whole life in a library, and the habit of my mind was so largely introspective that my writings were not in tune. I lacked experience of the world, and so I made a great many blunders from which an earlier contact with it would have saved me. For a year my literary returns were so small that I had to support myself by teaching and by painting on china." After a year of this kind of discipline, Mr. Bates got an appointment as secretary of a Republican organization in Boston, but before he had been long in this work the members of the organization began to drift toward Mugwumpery, and at times to Democracy. While in this secretaryship Mr. Bates edited a political paper, The Broadside. At the end of two years and a half he became a clerk in the office of a firm dealing in metals. This was in 1879. "During this time, in my odd hours," says Mr. Bates, "I wrote my first novel, which was published the same year in which I became editor of the Boston Courier- and that was in 1880. The book was called 'Patty's Perversities,' and it was published in the Round Robin series then controlled by the old Boston firm of Osgood & Co. I remember distinctly the difficulties under which the story was written in the scrappy leisure of a man of business and I cannot help thinking what a supply of energy I had in those days. - "I served the Courier for thirteen years, from August, 1880, to August, 1893. Those years are chiefly memorable to me for the enormous amount of work of all sorts that I did for the Courier, and for other people. I never did like journalistic work; it is too hurried, and it leaves a man no strength for wellconsidered and carefully wrought literary work. A man who is in journalism can do nothing else, unless he pays a terrible price in ruined health for his temerity; and, besides, I have always had a passion for pure literature. For this one needs not only leisure, but all the strength of one's faculties." The interviewer ventured the opinion that Professor Bates had led a bustling life for one with quiet tastes. "Yes, I have been busy," the professor replied. "Needs must, when the devil drives, you know. While I was on the Courier I not only wrote the most important book criticisms, and the editorials, and the department called 'Opposite the Old South,' which I originated and for which no one but myself ever wrote a line, but I corresponded for the Providence Journal, the Chicago Tribune, and the Book Buyer. I have now given up all these, and am devoting all my time to my English lectures at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, to my literary work, and to my own studies." Professor Bates's second novel, "The Ties of Blood," lies buried in the files of the Boston Courier, in which it was printed serially. The story turns on the shocking situation of a girl believing that she has married her own brother. Eventually her doubt is removed by the proof that her husband is not her brother. The manuscript was first submitted to the publishers of the Atlantic Monthly, Messrs. Ticknor and Fields, and Mr. William Dean Howells, who was then one of the editors of the Atlantic, so vehemently opposed its publication that the young author decided to make no further attempts to have it published in book form. However, it is interesting at this point to say that but for Mr. Howells, Professor Bates's "Wheel of Fire," still regarded by some as his best work, might not have appeared. The story, it will be recalled, has to do with hereditary insanity. The climax is the sudden madness of a girl on her wedding-day. Professor Bates had this story in mind for a long time, but thinking it too sombre, he could not prevail upon himself to write it. He had mentioned the matter to Mr. Howells, and the veteran novelist, meeting his younger friend one day, inquired whether the story was written. as Mr. Bates at one time regarded "The Puritans the best of his novels; but an author's highest opinion is likely to be bestowed upon his latest work. At the same time, the delightful author of "Oriental Tales" has well expressed an author's publication-day sentiments: "After a man has written a book and then read the manuscript to find fault, and then read the galley proofs for the same purpose, he has very little conceit of the thing left. He has seen nothing but faults; and the disparity between his first conception and his final impression of the completed book makes a man very melancholy." Professor Bates was born at East Machias, Maine, December 16, 1850. He was graduated from Bowdoin College in 1876. In his senior year he edited the college paper, the Bowdoin Orient. A few months after his graduation he went to Boston to make a name for himself— with, at first, the result aforementioned. For a year, beginning in 1878, he edited The Broadside, a politico-eclectic sheet, and wrote for the magazines. In 1880 he took the editorial chair of the Boston Sunday Courier. In 1882 he married Miss Harriet L. Vose, a daughter of a well-known schoolmaster, who wrote a little under the pseudonym of Eleanor Putnam. She died in 1886, leaving a son. 99 99 66 "Patty's Perversities," Bates's first book, appeared in 1881. Two years later came "Mr. Jacobs," a popular parody of the day. After that, in irregular and leisurely succession, came "The Pagans," "A Wheel of Fire," of Fire," "Berries of the Brier," " Sonnets in Shadow," "A Lad's Love," "A Lad's Love," "The Philistines," " Albrecht," "The Poet and His Self," "A Book o' Nine Tales," Told in the Gate," "In the Bundle of Time," "The Torch Bearers,' "Talks on Writing English," "Talks on the Study of English Literature," "The Puritans," "Under the Beech Tree," "Love in a Cloud," and "The Diary of a Saint." In 1886 he paused in his own work to edit a book left unfinished by his wife, "Old Salem," which has been spoken of as "a fragment of great promise." With his wife, too, he wrote "Prince Vance," a fairy story, dedicated to "the boy Oric." For the last ten years Mr. Bates has been professor of English literature at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, the foremost technical school in the United States, if not in the world. He has also delivered lectures on English literature in the Lowell Institute courses, which are a rare feature of the intellectual life of Boston. Speaking of his verse, which is justly praised for its grace of style and piquancy of expression, Mr. Bates has said that his favorite poem is "The Begin ning and Ending," which may be found at the end of the volume entitled "The Poet and His Self." Mr. Bates is a tall, rugged man, bearded and goggled, with a brisk manner and a ready flow of words. He is very busy from early fall until the end of spring; but all the summer he rambles, more often at home, but sometimes abroad. While on these rambles his eyes and ears are ever alert for striking scenes and sayings; and he returns to Boston with his note-book well filled. He is a member of Boston's two artistic clubs, the Tavern and the St. Botolph; and his home in Otis Place, at the foot of Beacon Hill, overlooking the Charles River, is within hailing distance of the homes of Sarah Orne Jewett, and Mrs. Deland, and Thomas Bailey Aldrich. E. F. HARKINS. THE REPUBLICAN PARTY. A History of its Fifty Years' Existence, and a Record of its Measures and Leaders, 1854-1904, by Francis Curtis, with a Foreword by President Roosevelt, and Introductions by William P. Frye, President pro tempore U. S. Senate, and J. G. Cannon, Speaker U. S. House of Representatives. (G. P. Putnam's Sons. Two volumes. $6.00 net.) In a presidential campaign in which the nominee of one of the two great contending parties is likely to be the author of a dozen or more volumes of history, adventure, and essays, it is not an unnatural hope that the literature of the campaign would rise higher than it usually does. But partisanship is not a friend of letters any more than of truth, while it is quite ready to make use of the author as a servant in carrying the election. We have already had this year two lives of President Roosevelt, more interesting, indeed, than most campaign biographies, but as far removed from discrimination as the equator from the pole. M. Leupp and Mr. Riis have yet to learn that unmixed eulogy can be faithful to no real man's character or history, while it is open to the charge of the worst of literary sinsdeadly monotony. As to these biographers, so to Mr. Francis Curtis, the biographer of the party, his subject is almost impossible, and the judgment of the impartial.historian is chiefly conspicuous for its absence. Though he protests that this is not a campaign book, its attitude is much the same. Whatever the Republican party has done has been right, whatever the Democratic party has done, or has tried to do, is wrong. Secretary Chase's finance during the Civil War was admirable, despite the adverse comments of economists since. The crisis of 1893 was due to President Cleveland, though no historian of recent American finance holds to such a belief. Such statements are to be expected in any partisan narrative, but is it not too severe a strain when Mr. Curtis passes from narrative to conjecture and tells up, apropos of Mr. Cleveland's second election, that if the election could have been repeated ten days later, Mr. Cleveland would have been defeated by the change of a million votes to the Republican side? Mr. Curtis could not be expected to do justice to the Mugwumps, but he certainly should have refrained from attributing Mr. McKinley's death to them. As a narrative of the antecedents to the formation and the outward fortunes of the Republican party, Mr. Curtis's two large and handsome volumes deserve praise for the care and industry evidently spent upon them. The chief incidents of each campaign are set down; the nominating conventions are described, the 66 platforms inserted, and the results of each election tabulated. Important documents appear at full length, and occasionally a most interesting section meets us, like that giving Frederick Douglass's account of his slave-life. Mr. Curtis's narrative of the fifty years of the party, from its formation under the oaks at Jackson, Mich., in 1854, to the present time, has the merits of good proportion and lucidity. But it cannot be said that its literary touch rises above that of the average city newspaper. They would not allow expressions like most lamentable in the extreme," or "most unique," nor would they regret the absence of the "exact verbiage" of a speech pronounced to be one of Lincoln's best! With all its faults from the literary or judicial standpoint, however, Mr. Curtis's book is probably the best accessible full account of the Republican party. None of its defects or sins will much trouble the campaign speaker or the partisan editor on that side; both classes will do well to avail themselves of the results of Mr. Curtis's zeal in tracing the annals of the party organization to which, in fact, so much that is good in our history for fifty years is due. N. P. GILMAN. Recent Fiction THE WATCHERS OF THE TRAILS. By Charles G. D. Roberts. (L. C. Page & Company. $2.00.) WHEN Mr. Roberts, two years ago, produced his first book of animal stories, "The Kindred of the Wild," he was hailed as one of the best of the increasing number of the historians of animal life. His work, though different from either, has been compared with that of both Kipling and Ernest Thompson Seton, some preferring it to that of either. But comparison is not necessary; merely because a man deals with animals is no special reason why he should be compared with others in the same field, more than one who deals with men be compared with others in that field. To us Mr. Roberts's work always seemed individual, strong, and, above all, interesting. This new book only confirms. this opinion. "The Watchers of the Trails" might be called almost a book of animal tragedies. For nearly all the stories deal with the constant and fearful warfare eternally waged between the lower animals, and between them and man. This side of animal life is brought home to one most vividly by reason of Mr. Roberts's selecting individual cases to portray it, rather than the general. We all know that the lower animals prey unceasingly upon those lower and weaker in the scale, and that man hunts and kills them all, either for gain or pleasure. But this knowledge is taken wholesale, like any other fact in nature, and makes little impression on us till some one comes along, like Mr. Roberts, and gives us specific instances of this everlasting warfare in the world. This brings it home to us as nothing else can, and it is this which seems to us the most remarkable thing in this present book. Whether or not the animals have the senses attributed to them by Mr. Roberts, there is no way of knowing. But we do know that they do the things which he describes them as doing, that they act as he describes them as acting; and Mr. Roberts is clever enough to make us believe, while reading his stories, that the animals have the sensations and emotions which he ascribes to them. In this respect he is extra ordinarily clever; you really live and suffer and rejoice with the animals in the situations which he depicts. He would be hardened, indeed, who did not feel his heart go out to the old bear, in "The Return to the Trail," who is captured, travels with a circus, regains his freedom rejoicingly, finds that he knows not the wild law which enables him to live in the winter forest, decides to go back in friendly fashion to man, who has protected and fed him. But his friendly advances are mistaken for savage boldness, and he is shot just as he thinks he is going back to peace and comfort. If only he had had the power of speech! and herein lies the tragedy of many of the stories lack of communication between man and beast. The horror of dumbness comes over one constantly while reading this book. The stories deal with all sorts of animals, bear, moose, raccoons, rabbits, muskrats, owls, even fish, and all are informed with an individuality truly remarkable. Ordinary animal stories bore many people; it is inconceivable that these of Mr. Roberts should bore any one: they are too interesting, too exciting, too human. To a naturalist this last quality might seem a fault (though no one can know whether animals think and feel as we do or not), but the book is not written for naturalists. It is written for those who like animals, who like good stories, and who admire clever workmanship. One cannot pass the book without speaking of the excellence and beauty of Mr. Charles L. Bull's wonderful illustrations. Those who know his work need. not be told of it, but those who are not familiar with it, should see the book if only for the pictures. H. C. FOUR ROADS TO PARADISE. By Maud Wilder Goodwin. (The Century Company. $1.50.) MRS. Maud Wilder Goodwin's "Four Roads to Paradise" more than compensates for the years that the locust hath eaten, that is to say, the years that she has devoted to the historical novel. Her hero is a simple American gentleman, chivalrous to women, upright in his intercourse with men, kind to feeble creatures, but keenly intelligent, and not to be deceived either by the wicked or by self-deceivers. Her heroine is clever, pretty and upright, an unnatural and unpleasant combination, according to the English and American novelists who advertise themselves as favored by the fashionable, and the love-story of these two would suffice to make an agreeable book in a world infested with histories of folk both common and unclean. Mrs. Goodwin, however, is no tyro to content herself with a tale so simple as theirs, but makes its course one of the four roads of which the title speaks. For both it is the road of self-forgetfulness, of sacrifice, of the practice of the kindly virtues, and from its safety they look upon the three vainly seeking the selfsame goal with no such happy fortune as theirs. Two of the seekers, although their stories are exquisitely told, need not be especially described, but the fourth is a brilliant creation. He, handsome, young, standing on the threshold of the ministry, deems himself called to a career of utter self-sacrifice, but the seed has no deepness of earth, and springs up only to wither away in the sunshine of a successful year in a fashionable parish, and to be utterly annihilated in the blaze of temptation, to a life of selfish self-aggrandizing ease. Spiritually, he Spiritually, he is contrasted with the lover, but morally with his own spiritual superior, a sagacious, keen-eved ecclesiastic, who has invited life to teach him, has conned the lesson shrewdly, and is a grievous affliction to the foolish and stupid. His junior comes perilously near to taking him as a cross, until his own miserable condition is brought home to him and he becomes conscious that outer darkness is henceforth his portion. In "Flint," published some years ago, Mrs. Goodwin exhibited, in a lesser degree, nearly all the brilliant qualities which make this book attractive, but she gave no promise of creating such a character as the bishop, the peer of the best of the fictitious cardinals in recent fiction, and the superior of all the bishops, but the strongest point of the book is not its individual personages, not its perfect wholesomeness, but its exact adjustment of means and ends. The short-story writers love to discourse upon the necessity of reserve laid upon them, but here is a novel in which no incident and very few words are insignificant; a closely, evenly-woven piece of work, from which nothing can be taken without affecting the entire web. Mrs. Goodwin does not need to borrow plots from history; she can make them. S. B. THE TRANSGRESSION OF ANDREW VANE. By Guy Wetmore Carryl. (Henry Holt & Co. $1.50.) FROM quasi-Gilbertian verse to a story of this calibre, with an interregnum of but two books, is a sign of the steady improvement in Mr. Carryl's style when his untimely death occurred. His previous book, “Zut and other Parisians was a series of sketches of Parisian life, trenchant, piquant, and realistic, but only sketches. In this novel, "The Transgression of Andrew Vane," are poured into a consistent and satisfying whole more of those vivid phases of Paris at which the author has shown himself a master-hand. The side of Paris treated of by Mr. Carryl is not that of the Quartier Latin or of the Boulevard — rocks whereon are wrecked many ambitious literary shallops, but a less written and equally interesting side, the American colony, a curiously unconventional, curiously careless, and curiously callous community. Of this colony, the bright and shining light is one Mrs. Carnby, shrewd and sharp-tongued, yet kindly and tactful. Nearly every speech of hers is a joy and delight, it so aptly hits the situations or characters referred to. The heroine, Marjorie Palffy, a fresh and unspoiled American girl brought into contact with Paris, is sweet and sympathetic, but not wholly free from the aroma of the conventional. Far more fascinating is the personality of Mirabelle Tremonceau. This woman, a type of the "demi-mondaine de luxe," is drawn with feeling and intelligence, the slightest slip would have made her either brazen or maudlin, - and one can easily understand and forgive Andrew Vane's transgression. Vane himself is a curious character. At first he seems no more than the ordinary jeune premier of fiction, but soon develops into a very individual and very striking young man. In fact, at the end he is presented (perhaps unconsciously) as the greatest problem in the book. True, everything has turned out well for him, but what is going to be the future of a man of his startling antecedents? It is a question which can never be answered in a sequel. Radwallader and Vicot, the two mainsprings of evil, are appropriately and conventionally sinister, and therefore savor more of the romantic than the realistic. Much more convincing are the "bits" of characters, fragments of Parisian and Yanko-Parisian types, that live and breathe and strut along the boulevards. The scenes and situations, barring, perhaps, the melodramatic finale, are smoothly and cleverly, always naturally, and sometimes powerfully written. The prologue is as skilful a handling of a repellent theme as has ever been presented. The book is distinctly not one for the young person, but neither is it for the seeker after the risqué or erotic; it delights not in evil for evil's sake, though it may dissect that evil almost minutely. It is indeed a pity that this latest book of Mr. Carryl's is his last, for its excellence gave promise of the better things that would have surely come. H. P. H. By THE DESCENT OF MAN AND OTHER STORIES. Edith Wharton. (Charles Scribner's Sons. $1.50.) In the nine short stories comprised in this volume, Mrs. Wharton has again proved that she is a master-hand in the delicate art of short-story writing. No better volume of stories has appeared since Mrs. Wharton's last volume called "Crucial Instances," perhaps not any so good, taking everything into consideration. There is a subtlety and charm about this woman's work that is entirely individual, a certain literary atmosphere and perfection of finish that is hardly approached by any other writer save Henry James, with whose work Mrs. Wharton's is often compared. Some have said she is an imitator; this hardly seems fair, to the present writer. Unquestionably her work resembles his, both in aim and in manner; but it seems to us that Mrs. Wharton is strong enough of herself not to be classed among literary imitators. The resemblance comes, we believe, from a likeness of mind and a striving for the same sort of literary perfection, and the resulting likeness is a matter of necessity, not imitation. To many, both writers seem too "precious" for real enjoyment. Occasionally there is foundation for this, notably in James's "The Sacred Fount," and in parts of Mrs. Wharton's "The Valley of Decision," and in one story in this volume-"The Dilettante." This story we confess to finding a little too "precious," or "blind," one might almost say, for ready appreciation, and therefore for easy enjoyment. But none of the other stories in the book can be accused of vagueness; the points are perfectly clear and the telling is straightforward. Of course Mrs. Wharton's style is not the running one which makes the reading of a story the work of a careless few moments, one has to read rather slowly to get the full benefit of the subtlety of her wit and humor. But in our mind this is one of the charms of her work. The very fact that one cannot devour her stories instantly, like a "quick lunch," so to speak, is a merit; the very lingering over them is a pleasure, as is the dallying with good food and drink; the result is correspondingly stimulating and worth while. In this particular volume it may be said that Mrs. Wharton has yielded a few points toward popularity,that is, several of the stories are distinctly humorous, a new venture for her. For, while her stories have always shown a sense of humor, and displayed "a pretty wit," they have not been what is called humorous. In this volume, however, " The Descent of Man," "The Mission of Jane," "The Other Two," and "Expiation," are distinctly humorous, almost "funny." Likewise she has tried her hand, rather unsuccessfully it must be admitted, at a ghost story. AZALIM A ROMANCE OF OLD JUDEA. By Mark Ashton. (L. C. Page & Company. $1.50.) "AND when Jehu was come to Jezreel, Jezebel heard of it; and she painted her face, and tired her head and looked out at a window. . . . And he lifted up his face to the window, and said, who is on my side? Who? And there looked out to him two or three eunuchs. And he said, Throw her down. So they threw her down . . . and he trod her under foot. bury her, for she is a king's daughter. . . but they found no more of her than the skull, and the feet, and the palms of her hands. . . . This is the word of the Lord which he spake by his servant Elijah the Tishbite, saying, In the portion of Jezreel shall dogs eat the flesh of Jezebel." In "Azalim: A Romance of Old Judea," Mark Ashton has depicted the life and career of the woman whose fitting end is thus described in the Bible. Certainly this is a bold undertaking, and Mrs. Ashton has succeeded boldly. She gives us a long and elaborate narrative, glowing with gorgeous colors; passionate with fiery scenes of love and hate; splendid with the ceremonies of the great temple at Baalbec, and majestic with true worship of the God of Israel in the temple at Jerusalem; impressive with the ministrations and prophecies of Elijah, terrifying with the forbidden rites of Beelzebub, and the services of the wise women, and horrible with bloody climax. And yet there is another side. Mrs. Ashton is wise enough to know that a story entirely given over to noisy and horrid deeds does not fulfil its end; there must be the sweet human side for contrast. This she has given in the blighted career of Zillah, the betrothed of Azalim before he was seduced by Jezebel and led to kiss the feet of Baal. This Zillah, the one sweet and human character in the book, is like the hero, Azalim, a purely fictitious character, and she is well imagined from the beginning, from the time she mourns her virginity upon the mountains, through her ministering to the lepers, to her holy death. Through her, Azalim, too, after his apostasy, is won back to Israel, is blessed by Elijah, and forgiven for his sins. The book closes thus: "There was a gasp, a sigh, a slight shiver of the frame, and then perfect stillness. Again the light opened in the sky above him, and Azalim, the herdsman of Gilead, the Syrian captive, the doorkeeper in the idol's house, the faithless lover, the real husband of the evil queen, the renegade to his country, the apostate to his religion, the leper, the rescuer of the prophets, the servant of Elijah, the son of the prophets, - Azalim, the repentant and forgiven sinner, was carried by the angels into Abraham's bosom." It may be said that, bold and ambitious as Mrs. Ashton's undertaking is as a whole, she has been wise and modest in her actual transferring of Scripture scenes. The larger part of her narrative is purely imaginative, and she only follows the hints given by the Bible narra |