But she would have him know that G she had not complained. There was no bitterness in her toneher philosophy of life was all sweetness. "No! Bless her! God made her, I suppose, just as he made us; so according to the way she is made, she packs away all the linen and silver, she keeps this room shut up for fear it will get worn out, and we never see any visitors. But to-day she went away to St. Philippe to see a dying man-I think she was going to convert him or something; but he took a long time to die; and now we may be snowed up for days, and we are going to have a perfectly glorious time." She added hospitably, "You need not feel under the slightest obligation, for it gives us pleasure to have you, and I know that father would have taken you in." Courthope rose up and followed her glance, almost an adoring glance, to the portrait he had before observed. He went and stood again face to face with it. A goodly man was painted there, dressed in a judge's robe. Courthope read the lineaments by the help of the living interpretation of the daughter's likeness. Benevolence in the mouth, a love of good cheer and good friends in the rounded cheeks, a lurking sense of the poetry of life in the quiet eyes, and in the brow reason and a keen sense of right proportion dominant. He would have given something to have changed a quiet word with the man in the portrait, whose hospitality, living after him, he was now receiving. ex Madge had been arranging the logs to her satisfaction, she would not accept Courthope's aid, and now she told him who were going to dine with them. She had great zest for the play. "Mr. and Mrs. Bennett, of course, and we thought we might have Mr. Knightley, because he is a squire and not so very young, even though he is not yet married. Miss Bates, of course, and the Westons. Mrs. Dashwood has declined, of which we are rather glad, but we are having Mrs. Jennings." So she went on with her list. "We could not help asking Sir Charles with Lord and Lady because he is so important; but Grandmamma Shirley is "mortifying" at present. She wrote that she could not stand 'so rich a regale.' Sir Hargrave Pollexfen will come afterwards with Harriet, and I am thankful to say that Lady Clementina is not in England at present, so could not be invited." She stopped, looked up at him freshly to make a comment. "Don't you detest Lady Clementina?" When they went into the diningroom, the choice spirits deemed worthy to be at the board were each introduced by name to the Lady Eliz, who explained that because of her infirmities she had been unable to have the honor of receiving them in the drawing-room. She made appropriate remarks, inquiring after the relatives of each, offering congratulations or condolences as the case demanded. It was cleverly done. Courthope stood aside, immensely entertained, and when at last he too began to offer spirited remarks to the imaginary guests, he went up in favor so immensely that Eliz cried, "Let Mr. Courthope take the end of the table. Let Mr. Courthope be father. It's much nicer to have a master of the house." She began at once introducing him to the invisible guests as her father, and Madge, if she did not like the fancy, did not cross her will. There was in Madge's manner a large good-humored tolerance. The table was long, and amply spread with fine glass and silver; nothing was antique, everything was in the oldfashioned tasteless style of a former generation, but the value of solid silver was not small. The homely servingwoman in her peasant-like dress stood aside, submissive, as it seemed, but ignorant of how to behave at so large a dinner. Courthope, who in a visit to the stables had discovered that this French woman with her husband and one young daughter were at present the whole retinue of servants, wondered the more that such precious articles as the young girls and the plate should be safe in so lonely a place. Madge was seated at the head of the table, Courthope at the foot; Eliz in her high chair had been wheeled to the centre of one side. Madge, playing the hostess with gentle dignity, was enjoy. ing herself to the full, a rosy, cooing sort of joy in the play, in the feast that she had succeeded in preparing, in her amusement at the literary sallies of Eliz, and, above all perhaps, in the company of the new and unexpected playmate to whom, because of his youth, she attributed the same perfect sympathy with their sentiments which seemed to exist between themselves. Courthope felt this-he felt that he was idealized through no virtue of his own; but it was a delightful sensation, and brought out the best that was in him of wit and pure joyfulness. To Eliz the creatures of her imagination were too real for perfect pleasure; her face was tense, her eyes shot sparkles of light, her voice was high, for her the enter tainment of the invisible guests involved real responsibility and effort. "Asides are allowed, of course," said Eliz, as if pronouncing a debatable rule at cards. “Of course," said Madge, "or we could not play." "It's the greatest fun,” cried Eliz, "to hear Sir Charles telling Mr. John Knightley about the good example that a virtuous man ought to set. With 'hands and eyes uplifted' he is explaining the duty he owes to his Maker. It's rare to see John Knightley's face. seated them on purpose with only Miss Matty between them, because I knew she wouldn't interrupt." Ι Courthope saw the smile in Madge's eyes was bent upon him as she said softly, "You won't forget that you have Lady Catherine de Bourg at your right hand to look after. I can see that brother Peter has got his eye upon her, and I don't know how she would take the 'seraphim' story." "If she begins any of her dignified impertinence here," he answered, "I intend to steer her into a conversation with Charlotte, Lady G-" Courthope had a turkey to carve. He was fain to turn from the guests to ask advice as to its anatomy of Madge, who was carving a ham and assuring Mr. Woodhouse that it was "thrice baked, exactly as Serle would have done it." "Stupid!-it was apples that were baked," whispered Eliz. "You see," said Madge, when she had told him how to begin upon the turkey, "we wondered very much what a dinner of 'two full courses' might be, and where the 'corner dishes' were to be set. We did not quite know-do you?" "You must not have asides that are not about the people," cried Eliz intensely. "Catherine Moreland's mother is talking common sense to General Tilney and Sir Walter Eliot, and there'll be no end of a row in a minute if you don't divert their attention." Eliz had more than once to call the other two to account for talking privately adown the long table. "What a magnificent ham!" he exclaimed. "Do you keep pigs?" Madge had a frank way of giving family details. "It was once a dear little pig, and we wanted to teach it to take exercise by running after us when we went out, but the stepmother, like Bunyan, 'penned it': Until at last it came to be, you see." "I thought it one of the evidences of piety." "It is true that he was 'Young' who said it, but so are we; let us believe it fervently." When Madge swept across the drawing-room, with her amber skirts trailing, and Eliz had been wheeled in, they received the after-dinner visitors. Courthope could almost see the room filled with the quaint creations to whom they were both bowing and talking incessantly. "Mr. Courthope-Miss Jane Fairfaxhave met before." I believe you in a wellMadge's voice dropped feigned absorption in her next guest; but she soon found time again to whisper to him a long speech which Miss Bates had made to Eliz. Soon afterwards she came flying to him in the utmost delight to repeat what sho called a "lovely sneap" which Lady G had given to Mrs. Elton; nor did she forget to tell him that Emma Woodhouse was explaining to the Portuguese nun her reasons for deciding never to marry. "Out of sheer astonishment she appears to become quite tranquillized," said Madge, as if relating an important fact. His curiosity concerning this nun grew apace, for she seemed a favorite with both the girls. When it was near midnight the imaginary pageant suddenly came to an end, as in all cases of enchantment. Eliz grew tired; one of the lamps smoked and had to be extinguished; the fire had burned low. Madge declared that the company had departed. She went out of the room to call the servant, but in a few minutes she came back discomfited, a little pout on her lips. "Isn't it tiresome! Mathilde and Jacques Morin have gone to bed." "It is just like them," fretted Eliz. At the fretful voice Madge's face cleared. "What does it matter?" she cried. "We are perfectly happy." She lifted the lamp with which he had first seen her, and commenced an inspection of doors and shutters. It was a satisfaction to Courthope to see the house. It was a French building, as were all the older houses in that part of the country, heavily built, simple in the arrangements of its rooms. Every door on the lower floor stood open, inviting the heat of a large central stove. Insisting upon carrying the lamp while Madge made her survey, he was introduced to a library at the end of the drawing-room, to a large house-place or kitchen behind the dining-room; these with his own room made the square of the lower story. A wing adjoining the further side was devoted to the Morins. Having performed her duty as householder, Madge said good-night. more because you were here." She held out her hand; her face was radiant; he knew that she spoke the simple truth. She lifted the puny Eliz in her arms and proceeded to walk slowly up the straight staircase which occupied one half of the long central hall. The crimson scarfs hanging from Eliz, the length of her own silk gown, embarrassed her; she stopped a moment on the second step, resting her burden upon one lifted knee to clutch and gather the gorgeous raiment in her hand. "You see we put on mother's dresses that have always been packed away in the garret." Very simply she said this to Courthope, who stood holding a lamp to light them in their ascent. He waited until the glinting colors of their satins, the slow motion of the burden-bearer's form, reached the top and were lost in the shadows of an open door. From Blackwood's Magazine. POLITICS IN RECENT ITALIAN FICTION. More than ten years ago, in these pages, the present writer, perhaps for the first time in England, drew public attention to the fact that the idea so long current in this country that there was no such a thing as modern Italian literature was mistaken. We attempted to show how, with the unity of Italy and the new hope, power, strength, which legitimate freedom and emancipation from the hateful Austrian yoke had given to the Italians, there had arisen a virile and vigorous new school of writers, poets, dramatists, critics, and novelists, whose very names were unknown in England. We further pointed out why it was that such literature as existed was little known outside the confines of Italy. This literature, such as it was, was of the "tendency" character, and had a purpose to serve,-that of arousing the smouldering patriotism of Italy and inflaming the legitimate aspirations after national unity. When "We have enjoyed it ever so much this political purpose was at last hap pily accomplished, writers and poets could cease from harping upon one string, and could look around them and take cognizance of the new life that had been called into being by the new conditions. Thus, as we showed, beside a host of others, there became notable Verga, who studied and reflected in his pages the life of the Southern peasantry; Farina and the Marchesa Colombi, who narrated the restricted existence, full of grinding privations and minute joys, of the burgher class; and Matilde Serao, the strongest and most gifted of all Italian women writers, who depicted the life of Naples in both the upper and the lowest sections of society. In the days we wrote that article, Italy was still busy putting her house in order; modestly, slowly, painfully endeavoring to meet the heavy expenses imposed on her (thanks to the disorder in which she found it), and generally winning the good-will and admiration of all Europe for her gallant and plucky conduct. Victor Emmanuel the Re Galantuomo, with the cool, clear, sensible head upon his shoulders which his grandson seems to have inherited, had not long held the reins of government-reins which fell from his hand all too soon for the weal of the land. The Triple Alliance, which was to increase Italy's expenses and fiscal burdens beyond her power of endurance, had not yet been entered on; nor had Italy yet embarked upon her foolish and disastrous African campaign. Unhappily, immediately after this time the land was to fall into the hands of a group of clever, unscrupulous politicians (in the American sense of that word), who in the course of ten years. of unbridled misrule, of gagging the expression of public opinion, of buying and perverting the press, have so managed as to bring the land very near the verge of ruin. As might be expected, this state of things has also found its echo in literature, and above all in fiction, and novels of recent years have come to take the place of tracts and treatises as a more agreeable and wise manner of instilling pet theories or cur rent ideas. In choosing a batch of recent Italian novels for treatment in these pages, besides selecting some of the most notable, we have purposely chosen those that might come under the German definition of "Tendenz Romane," because these reflect the real life and current modes of thought of the country. On this account we leave aside all mention of D'Annunzio and his followers, though D'Annunzio is, after Carducci, perhaps the greatest literary genius contemporary Italy can boast. Moreover, he handles a form of art which is miscalled "new literature," but whose chief characteristics are mould and decay. The dominant note of all these new novels that reflect the life and sentiments of living Italy may be said to be that of an acute struggle for existence, in which the weakest, the least astute, and least unscrupulous go to the wall. Matilde Serao, that cleverwitted woman, who after her first successes has thrown herself almost wholly into journalism, was quick to note an altered temper in the times, and published a novel called "La Conquista di Roma," which, though not one of the strongest works of that gifted writer, yet reflects very admi-· rably the invading tendency of Italian political life to treat membership of the chamber merely as a mode of personal advancement, in which patriotism and the weal of the land play no part. It still better exemplifies another dominant trait,-common perhaps to all Southern peoples-a great, and in this case disastrous, influence of women upon men, women regarded solely as instruments of love, not as elevating companions, helpmates, and co-workers; the stronger sex in these countries too often proves itself the weaker. The protagonist of this novel comes to Rome with the conviction that he will conquer it by his talents, and instead is conquered by its social life, and returns home as vanquished, not as victor. The story, like another one we shall deal with, depicts political life through the adventures of a provincial deputy who finds himself transferred from his distant home to the hurrying rush of modern Rome. We are first introduced to the hero as a passenger in the train which is bringing him up from his Southern constituency to his duties in Rome as newly elected member of the Chamber. He cannot sleep, he is too excited; he is forever touching and feeling, as though it were an amulet, the little gold medal which hangs from his watch-chain, and is marked "XIV. Legislature Francesco Sangiorgio." This medal is accorded to all Italian deputies as a species of badge which permits then to be easily recognized. Sangiorgio has availed himself of the privileges which pertains to all deputies and senators, not only of travelling free on all the lines of the kingdom, but of reserving a whole compartment for themselves; which fact accounts for the manner ordinary travellers are squeezed on Italian railways while there are numbers of carriages in the train containing one solitary man. Sangiorgio in his new pride of office could not resist the temptation to so distinguish himself in the eyes of his electors, and he held, too, that this solitude would leave him free to dwell on his own thoughtsthoughts that were all of Rome. He had never been to Rome; all his ideas of the great metropolis were grandiose, vague, indefinite. Beneath the icy mask of this grave Southerner there burned the flame of an imagination given over to solitary and egotistic contemplation. Oh, he felt Rome, he saw her like a gigantic shade in human form extending to him her maternal arms, ready to clasp him to her breast in a potent embrace, such as Earth gave to Antæus, whence he issued restrengthened. He seemed to hear through the night air the irresistible softness of a female voice speaking his name, which caused him a shiver of voluptuous delight. The city awaited him as though he were a distant and beloved son; she magnetized him with the deep longing of the mother who desires her child. . . . In the depth of his consciousness there lay hidden a distrust of others, an abounding selfesteem, a constant and sometimes pernicious reserve, a perpetual search after a cold exterior while his soul burned within, a profound contempt for all human power outside of ambition, a great discrepancy between desire and reality, secret, but none the less potent, a consequent delusion, a love of success, of success only, nothing but success. At times the sense of utter weakness came over him, he felt a contemptible, limited being. He felt unfit for Rome. He must go through a course of penance and purification to be worthy of this priestess, this mother, this mistress. Rome demands expiation and sacrifice, demands a pure heart and an iron will. When Rome was reached at last after these and other meditations there was disappointment in store for our young deputy; no one noticed either him or his medal as he descended from the train. He was but a unit in the crowd. All the officials were busy with a group of gentlemen in tall hats and evening dress who had come to meet a grave, pale, grey-haired man and a tall, slender, elegant woman, to whom they offered a bouquet of flowers. "His Excellency," murmured the crowd. Sangiorgio followed the group that accompanied the minister of fine arts, whom he was to meet again soon, and who was to have great influence on his life. He found Rome damp, dull, and but half-awake in this early morning hour, and not at all impressive as he had dreamed. And little wonder; for around the railway-station Rome, thanks to modern improvements, that which was once a poetic spot has been converted into a grey and featureless Parisian suburb. Sangiorgio felt the cold at his heart. He knew not what to do with himself; for the real sights and beauties of Rome no comprehension; SO he he had haunted Montecitorio, the meetinghouse of the Italian Parliament, where the deputies were not to assemble for another week. He looked around him for the well-known men of whom he had heard, Sella, Crispi; he found them not. He found only a socialist, who was always writing, an old man always asleep, and a studious deputy who spent his time in the library. One day Sangiorgio did not go to |