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were mounting without, until his dubi- son who is the cause of all this pomp ous title to the throne had been sealed and magnificence.” Here Queen Vio by the rite of Coronation. There is the toria came to her Coronation, at the Coronation Chair with the Stone of beginning of that glorious reign which Scone, whereon the Kings of England may boast, as one of the chief of its for more than six centuries have re- many glories, that it saw the Colonies ceived their crowns;

and if it were of England united to the Mother Counnecessary to prove by one striking ex: try by sympathetic ties which shall ample the continuity of English his- never be broken. And here but a week tory, it were enough to remind you that ago the Seventh Edward was conseCromwell himself, at the inauguration crated at his crowning for the high and of his Protectorship, could not afford holy duties of his sovereignty. to dispense with that historic chair. It I can say no more. But oh! as you was taken, for the only time, out of the dwell upon historic memories so in. Abbey; it was carried to Westminster spiring, so ennobling as these, go home Hall; and there, sitting upon it, he was to your friends and tell them-tell installed. Yonder in the aisles of them-that God has done great things Henry the Seventh's Chapel lie the for them already, that He has called Queens Mary and Elizabeth, within one them to an Imperial destiny, and that grave-regno consortes et urna, as the they must not and shall not prove un. inscription written upon them tells- worthy of it. and Mary Queen of Scots over against With a full heart I bid you farewell. them. Hither came another Mary and Unto God's almighty keeping I commit her husband, William of Orange, to be you. The Lord bless you, and guard crowned, at the new birth of English you, and watch over you in your going. civil and religious liberties; and in their out and your coming-in, by land and procession up the Abbey, as a symbol by sea, and bring you safely home, and of equal rank, the Sword of State was give you His peace and His benedic. borne between them. Here George the tion; and if we never meet again upon Third received his crown, with his earth, as we cannot meet-not all of us rival, the Pretender Charles Edward, --may He grant us in His infinite looking on, himself unknown and en. mercy at the last, when life is over, to vying, as he said, least of all “the per. meet in Heaven! The Nineteenth century and After.

J. E. O. Welldon.

BOOKS AND AUTHORS.

“The Fortunes of Oliver Horn" lead him from a youth spent in one of those charming Southern homes which Mr. F. Hopkinson Smith always paints so sympathetically, through the drudgery of a mercantile life undertaken to relieve the family estates from debts incurred in connection with unsuccessful

inventions of his father's, into final success in the artist's career of his boy. hood's dreams. The writer's remarkable versatility has never been shown to greater advantage than in this volume. While to most readers its chief interest will be in its fascinating sketches of studio life in New York,

there will be others who will especially value it for its studies of Southern sentiment in the early sixties, with its striking description of the passage of the Massachusetts Sixth through Baltimore, and others still on whom the strongest impression of all will be made by the fine portrait of Richard Horn, the inventor. Charles Scribner's Sons.

Few story-tellers who cater for children understand their tastes better than Carolyn Wells, and the mammas must be many who count on her now for at least one book a year for the nursery shelves. "Folly in the Forest" shows the same blending of fun and fancy that made its predecessor so popular, and the boys and girls who followed its piquant little heroine to Fairyland, last season, will be eager to share her adventures among the famous animals of "Literachooria," "Historalia," and "Mythologia." Reginald Birch's illustrations are admirably adapted to the text. The Henry Altemus Co.

The heir to an English title and estate-stalwart and handsome, but thrown off his mental balance by an illness in childhood and now wavering between imbecility and madness-is the hero of Clara Louise Burnham's new story; "The Right Princess" is an attractive American girl who enters his household in a subordinate capacity; and the spell with which she breaks his enchantment and restores him to the privileges and duties of his position is Christian Science. Mrs. Burnham is always readable, but she is not at her best in this story, which is too obviously written with a purpose. Houghton, Mifflin & Co.

A "problem novel" in which the human interest is developed in a way to give unexpected and increasing pleas

ure to the reader is "Luck o' Lassendale" by the Earl of Iddesleigh. It is the gambling problem that is involved, and the narrative traces the influence of horse-racing, company-promoting and the like on the fortunes of the ancient house of Lassendale. Sir Francis, the sanguine, generous, head of the house, Alfred, in prudent possession of a bit of property inherited from the maternal side, and Robert, the young barrister with his way to make, are all clearly individualized, and their sister's personality stands out equally distinct. A brother and sister who represent newer wealth, acquired in the engineer's profession, add variety to the social picture and furnish the element of romance for

the plot. From the ethical point of view, the story is effective, in spite of a disappointing weakness at the climax, and it has the readable qualities of the "society" novel, while entirely free from the flippancy and coarseness that mark so much fiction of that class. John Lane.

Of Mr. Carnegie's great gift of the library of the late Lord Acton to Mr. John Morley, The Spectator remarks:

It appears that the philanthropist millionaire, finding Lord Acton oppressed by the magnitude of his collection, which exceeded a hundred thousand volumes, purchased it some years ago, but left it with him for life,-a courtesy very rare, though not quite unprecedented, in the history of literature. We hope Mr. Morley may see his way to retain the library for his life, for he is probably the only Englishman living who can use it as well as Lord Acton, and that it may find its place of final rest in Cambridge or Oxford, preferably the former, since the collection was made by a Cambridge Professor. It is by a singular irony that a library collected by one of the first of Liberal Roman Catholics falls to a writer of Mr. Morley's opinions; but he may readily reply that learning and literature are always catholic.

ON THE WELSH COAST.

OBVIAM.

Blind led by many a friendly star,

I hurry through a land of sleep; For like a trumpet from afar

I heard the challenge of the deep, And down the cliff's thyme-scented turf

I spring upon the midnight sands, And strip beside the whispering surf,

And give my body to its hands.

It greets me with a giant glee;

I wrestle in its rough embrace; The stinging kisses of the sea

Are like a scourge upon my face. But we who drink its air divine,

And listen to its endless song, We love the buffet of the brine That makes our thrilling nerves so

strong.

I needs must meet him, for he hath

beset All roads that men do travel, hill and

plain; Nor aught that breathes shall pass Unchallenged of his debt. But what and if, when I shall whet My front to meet him, then, as in a

glass, Darkly, I shall behold that he is twainEarthward a mask of jet, Heavenward a coronet Sun-flushed with roseate gleams-In

any case It hardly can be called a mortal pain To meet whom met I ne'er shall meet again.

T. E. Broion.

A SLEEPING CITY.

Then, on a travelling wave adrift,

Supine with idle arms I lie, And watch the coastwise mountains

lift Their kingly summits to the sky; While in the pauses of the breeze

Mysterious voices call and chide, For these are Gwalia's faery seas,

And yonder Snowdon's haunted side!

Or where her masthead lantern throws

A quivering shaft upon the dark, I pass beneath the dipping bows

Of some belated fishing bark; I see by that unstable light

The bearded faces of the crew, And from the desert of the night

I answer to their hoarse halloo.

The silence of a sleeping city fills
The hungering soul more than the jar

and feud
And noonday noises of the multitude.
It hath a mystic kinship with the hills,
With torrents thundering in lonely

ghylls, With shoreless seas, and awful solitude Of deserts, where are giant statues

hewed By hands unknown for old despotic

wills. Man's soul is vaster than man's senses.

Lo, Where eye and ear find nothing, ave

nues More secret open; and by ways untrod The stealing thoughts come, silent as

the flow Of inland tides, and tranquilly infuse Our muddy shallows with fresh streams from God.

F. W. Bourdillon.

Still onward, like a child that sleeps

Locked in a genie's arms. I speed; Beneath me lie the unfathomed deeps,

But I no thought of peril heed; While on that mighty bosom borno,

And through a world so vast and dim, With labor and delight outworn

I almost slumber as I swim.

DROUTH.

Till suddenly the stars have fled!

For now the night is at its noon, And o'er a misty ocean spread

The silver footprints of the moon; And where that shining pathway

gleams Athwart the heaving, shimmering

main, A wandering soul whom love redeems, I turn me to the shore again.

Edward Sydney Tylee. The Spectator.

Little voices complain,
The leaves rustle before the rain.
Only the trembling cry
Of young leaves murmuring thirstily;
Only the moan and stir
Of little hands in the bouglas I hear,
Beckoning the rain to come
Out of the evening, out of the gloom.

Katharine Tynan.

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The surface is a part of nature, and Short and strong is now our motto. will always continue so.

Take one of our most charming writ... It is only when they put on the

ers, Mr. Anthony Hope. Above all breeches and try to write like men that

things, he desires not to be heavy. He they become pedantic and tiresome.

knows that the railway carriage is Hazlitt's Conversations. There is a fashion in feelings, as in

often his theatre. Yet even he, the least costume.

self-conscious of authors, a true humor

ist, and a fine artist, is constantly jerky The most marked changes happen and inconclusive. He eschews descripbefore we

are even aware of them. tion (for which we are devoutly thankThis is eminently the case in fiction, ful), but he cramps his scene; and, sensitive as a mirror to every contem- moreover, to accentuate characters that porary breath. We are deluged with have not free space for movement, he "novels" and "romances," and no very

is forced to lend them tricks of expresnice distinction is now observed in the sion. Both these weaknesses are evinomenclature. Could Fielding revisit dent in one of his later "novels"-QuiCovent Garden, he would be surprised santé. To delineate a character by the at the publishers' wares. To set a chief words and impressions of a few spectacharacter, who was called a hero, roam- tors, he is compelled to set that select ing on the highway of life; to portray few constantly meeting, till they should subtle shades of character by speech be bored to death of each other's soci. and action, instead of by analysis; to ety, and ashamed to look one another reserve reflections for the author's lips in the face; while, to stamp his heroine alone; to describe "adventures,” and to with a "cue," he has constantly to regive the whimsical or “humorous” free peat “May smiled.” She must "smile" rein, was his method. Dickens, Thack- over thirty times in the single volume. eray, Trollope followed it; George Eliot She is the “Cheshire cat' of heroines. was the first conspicuous exception. These foibles tend in the direction of But all of these had a "history" to re- grimace. Take once more another able late, not a "snapshot” to exhibit. It is writer-the authoress of Richard Cal. far different now. Life is no longer a mady. Nobody can accuse her of stinted series of adventures. We are far too canvas. Its length is colossal. But, scientific and pessimistic for that; and none the less, we receive the same as for a “history,” it suggests length. cramped impression. It lacks width. There is a rich monotony in her passion and even sounds. Sterne and Keats are for descriptions. Her background of the greatest impressionists in our lansun and trees, with luscious epithets, guage. But the modern poet or novel. is so frequently elaborated as to make ist find it convenient to be slipshod. A us half wish that the landscape was splash here, a dash there, an exclamablotted out. With all her minute de- tion everywhere, a flimsy topsyturvy. tail there is no room in her circle. We dom are covered and condoned by the seem imprisoned in it. The few persons title. It reminds one of the painter in her drama are constantly treading who showed his friend a chef-d'æuvre. on one another's heels. So is it also "What a beautiful landscape," ejacu. with another gifted authoress-Mrs. lated the friend. “Landscape!” indigHumphry Ward. A sort of academic nantly growled the impressionist. Bädeker seems her vade mecum. But “Why, it's a portrait of your uncle." the local color of scenery, or of learn- The “Problem Novel” is another mising, or of society, does not enlarge her leading label. All life is a problem in horizon. We listen to her lectures in the sense that it is very hard to undera library-a library, too, where humor stand. One might as well speak of a is oppressed, and the windows care- "Miracle Novel.” But the public have fully shut; the heavy curtains of cul- been familiarized to understand by the tivation half exclude the light. We term little more than an infringement long to run out into the fresh air. of one of the ten commandments. Il

So far we are only discussing method. y'en a trop," Sarah Bernhardt is reWe shall soon approach differences ported to have exclaimed when once more vital. But it may be as well now, importuned by an American as to her and without multiplying instances, to views of the “Decalogue." At any rate summarize the various modern meth- we have too much of the “problem." ods as briefly as possible.

Its monotony, as material, checks orig. "Realism" is unhappy term. inality. We suppose that the "novel" Strictly, it is opposed both to “idealism” is derived from "novellum,” the dog. and to the "unreal." Yet Zola himself Latin for "something new." Where has perpetual recourse to the idealist shall we find our novelty then, if more in his photography of statistics. In- than half of the modern inventiveness, deed, he photographs the idealist. Still, so mechanical in its nature, is ento our thinking, nothing can be less grossed in the “problem.” Marriage and “real” than his perpetual insistence on love have always engrossed fiction, but the most sordid side of life. To rake the old romance was ante-nuptial; the in a gutter for specimens, to catalogue modern is post-nuptial. It is incessantly and dissect refuse, does not present a now the same story of the discontented true picture of the big world. And yet wife and the bald-headed bachelor with the microscope, applied to the disgust- a past, or the discontented husband and ing, is constantly dignified by the name a lady who has been waiting for him; of "Realism.” The “strength" of such of the strong brutal man, the fascifiction is a misnomer. It tends to a nated feeblo matron, the flirting ascetic, morbid anæmia. It contrasts most un- or the grass widow. All our makefavorably with the angel's message to believe of scientific lenses only magniAdam and Eve: "Be strong, live happy fies, it does not create; and if we are and love." "Impressionism," again, is to examine a flea, we would rather see another modern catchword.

Impres- it small, otherwise it becomes an appalsionism ought to mean the vivid sug- ling monstrosity. But to do the “prob. gestion of emotions by associated sights lem" justice it is occasionally used for

an

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