Lapas attēli

Tristram ask her cousin to the funeral. Cecily Gainsborough, daughter of his mother's cousin, is the rightful claimant. He knows it, but does not mean to surrender. When he first sees her, down by the Pool, in the gloaming, she is so like his dead mother that he thinks it is Addie's ghost. His love for his mother and instantly aroused feeling for the beautiful girl work on him, and he deliberately, tho under cumulative strain of emotion, passes the whole thing over to her, and steps down and out, Mr. Nobody of Nowhere.

Cecily Gainsborough is as much of a Tristram as ever lived, and has fallen in love with him. She is in despair at ousting him. Pushing the " Tristram way" to the limit, she goes to his room in London and suggests his marrying her as a solution of the problem. He declines her proposal with indignation, and the flouted lady tells him “she will remember this if the occasion ever comes."

It comes, in a very different way from what either could have apprehended. Mr. Hawkins juggles once more with the mercurial Russian date, and Tristram of Blent is himself again, “unbeknownst " as such to Cecily. He marries her, still ignorant of the change, and tells her when they return to Blent on the evening of their wedding-day. There is a stormy scene when he confesses, the “Tristram ways” sharply conflicting. Lady Tristram finally “comes round," and all is as smooth as whipped cream. There is an entourage of other interesting persons contributory to the movement. Madame Zabriska, the Imp, is a dash of Tobasco. “Tristram of Blent" is a subjugating story, brilliant, absorbingly interesting, and happily ended.

the book is dedicated “ To Gertrude" in these words : “A memory of summer days, Woven from out our childish plays, A fantasy of light and shade, Here is the book that we have made. Princess, you know the history best. One half is yours, accept the rest : Lend me (beside the help you gave) Your name to grace the book we made.”

Knowing she was building her kingdom and its denizens out of the air, the author wisely draws prodigally on that inexhaustible element for this summer-day romance. The Princess Cynthia, en fante gælé d'un monde qu'elle gåla, is radiantly beautiful, sister to King Constantine of Romanza, and spends the greater part of the year in her own palace of Brambria, where she enjoys herself the livelong day with her ladies-inwaiting and her courtiers, keeping them busy in paying her compliments, and in fetching and carrying for her.

Near Brambria is the estate of the Arrancourts, between which noblest family and the Court there has been an icy chill since one of the Arrancourts had his head lopped off on a doubtful charge of treason five years before. The present head of the family is a beau chevalier of a boy, Sir Palemedes. One day, the Princess strays (in the first chap ter of the book) into the terrain of the Arrancourts and runs across this splendid youth. With the joyous exuberance which the author insinuated would be her note in the prefatory remarks quoted, she says of him : “If ever the purpose of heaven was inscribed on a face it was written here. A vision of noble deeds and aspirations to come was foreshadowed in physical beauty and strength. It was the personification of youth from which all might be hoped, all believed." verily-except the end !

You think you see the finish, and you retain that complacent conceit uutil the very last word. Even then, you glance with the sullenness of frustration to a possible sequel. The Princess sees that Sir Palemedes is summoned to Court, and he becomes her equerry, to attend her from six in the morning till six of eventide. And he does, without a chaperon in sight. What merry jaunts they have, what rides, what saunterings in the Queen's Pleasaunce, what lingerings in the woodlands, what sessions by the brimming stream. Palemedes falls as desperately in love as the reader could wish; but Cynthia seems to hang on the brink. She is so accustomed to see everything of the male persuasion succumb to her charms! And then, that awful blight to the unfettered joy of Royalty, a state alliance for reasons of polity, is her lot.

A the book thins to its last leaves you wonder how the author will smooth out the tangle. You will see by reading the book ; and it is far better that the author shoulder the full responsibility for her-surprise ! “The Princess Cynthia” is indeed " a fantasy of light and shade," but the latter is Stygian at the finish.

All, yea,

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THE GREAT GOD SUCCESS. By John Graham. 12mo, cloth, 299 pp. Price, $1.20. Frederick Stokes & Co.

HE Great God Success" is a book interesting both because of its

THE CONVULSION OF A GREAT NATION. CHINA IN CONVULSION. By Arthur H. Smith, author of "Chinese Charac

teristics " and "Village Life in China." 2 vols., 8vo. With illustrations and maps. Price, $5 net. Fleming H. Revell Company. T has not been the impulse of the profanum vulgus of globe-trotters,

or of fireside travelers who take their jauntings gently in slippers

by the fender, to greet with enthusiasm a “mere missionary returning with a book." He is apt, they say, to be hampered by the limitations of his calling ; the shadow of the inevitable umbrella contracts his horizon; it is only the heathen” that he can discover afar off.

But here comes a missionary distinctly unconventional and up-todate "-by no means "a mere missionary," but scholar, philosopher, chronicler, ready writer, keen observer, with all the audacity and ubiquity of a war correspondent-now mounting guard at the North Legation Gate in the siege of Peking, and now discussing, in the spirit of a statesman, the Chinaman as a soldier, a trader, a farmer, an artisan, a scholar; and, first and last, as a Chinaman.

Our composite priest-sage-philosopher-journalist, with the mind of a publicist and the ways of a reporter, shows us that it is never safe to generalize in China; that it is proverbially impossible to ascertain what a Chinaman thinks or means by what he says ; that every Chinaman is a Talleyrand with a tail. The Chinaman has no patience with the mysteries or surprises that overtake the simple barbarian who never had any sages. There are things, he says, which could never be imagined; but there is nothing which may not happen—this astounding “ Convulsion," for example, which, while it annoyed and "upset” him for the time being, could not by any possibility surprise him. Even now he regards it as a foolish foreign incident that must come out “allee light" in the end, China being the same old China to this day, through her almost geologic ages of rational history. She seems to be aptly represented to her own native conceit by one of those funny toys the people make-a fat, complacent mandarin, whose natural posture is inverted ; the moment you let him go, he stands on his head again.

Mr. Arthur Smith is saturated with his subject ; he fairly oozes China at every pore. In a style that is as virile and vigorous as it is lucid and entertaining, he discusses such momentous topics as the anti-foreign propaganda, the commercial intrusion and territorial aggression, the genesis of the puxo movement, the gathering of the storm, the relation of the Boxers to the Government, the attack on the legations, the struggle for the wall, siege life, the days of waiting, the relief, the hand of God in the siege, and the outlook, which he regards hopefully.

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gives an adequate picture of newspaper life. It is also a careful study of the development of a man's character as affected by the conditions under which he lives. It is a favorite trick of the writer of character studies to make heredity the dominant force ; the hero's native strength is so great that, while he may develop along certain lines, he subdues his environment, however unfavorable it may be. In “The Great God Success" environment is the dominant force. The slow undermining of Howard's character under the influence of too much success is a piece of work whose like one rarely finds in the novel of the moment. There are no hysterics ; the outward surface of the story moves as placidly as every-day life, and yet the book has a higher degree of dramatic interest than most of the books whose pages are stuffed with adventure of every kind.

No less well done is the gradual divergence of interest in the lives of Howard and his wife. When they married, she intended that his work should be theirs, and how it came about that it was not, how they drifted apart without friction, without misunderstanding, without even being aware of how fundamentally indifferent they had become one to the other, is a part of the story that the author has handled with wonderful restraint and delicacy.

The development of the character of Howard is marked by three phases. The first, where he learns his trade and works hard for the sake of doing his work well, where he is filled with all the noblest ambitions, where he has a dream of making something great of his life for the service of men. The second phase is where he works for Marian, first to secure a position that he may marry, and later to make more money for the habit of making money ; his ideals have unconsciously slipped away from him, in his struggle to make the paper what it is. But it is not until he has large vested interests that the real break with his former self comes, when, in the third phase, he sells himself twiceonce for money and once for position ; when he pays the price for fame which as a young man so revolted him.

The pseudonym John Graham is said to hide the name of a wellknown newspaper man, whose first novel this is. As the scene is laid in New York, various people have of course been identified with the characters of the book.

ANOTHER PRINCESS OF THE AIR. THE PRINCESS CYNTHIA. By Marguerite Bryant. Cloth, 8vo, 404 pp. Price, $1.20 net. Funk & Wagnalls Company. "WO prefatory remarks by the author of "The Princess Cynthia"

afford an excellent idea of the fairylike tale of Royalty and of

its spoiled children which she has written. On the title-page is a quotation from one of the characters in the story : “It is not what men are, but what fair women make of them, that is the trouble," and


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Anything that you can typewrite can be duplicated exactly - a thousand times over — on the

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Two Poems.

I dwell in a sea that is wild and deep,

And afar in a shadow still,
I can see the trees that gather and sleep

In the wood upon the hill.
The deeps are green as an emerald's face,

The caves are crystal calm,
But I wish the sea were a little trace

Of moisture in God's palm.
The waves are weary of hiding pearls,

Are aweary of smothering gold,
They would all be air that sweeps and swirls

In the branches manifold.
They are weary of laving the seaman's eyes

With their passion-prayer unsaid,
*They are weary of sobs and the sudden sighs

And movements of the dead.
All the sea is haunted with human lips

Ashen and sere and gray,
You can hear the sails of the sunken ships

Stir and shiver and sway,
In the weary solitude;

If mine were the will of God, the main
Should melt away in the rustling wood

Like a mnist that follows the rain.
But I dwell in the sea that is wild and deep,

And afar in the shadow still
I can see the trees that gather and sleep

In the wood upon the hill.

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I dwell in the wood that is dark and kind

But afar off tolls the main,
Afar, far off I hear the wind,

And the marching of the rain.
The shade is dark as a palmer's hood,

The air with balm is bland;
But I wish the trees that breathe in the wood

Were ashes in God's hand.
The pines are weary of holding nests,

Are aweary of casting shade;
Wearily smoulder the resin crests

In the pungent gloom of the glade.
Weary are all the birds of sleep,

The nests are weary of wings,
The whole wood yearns to the swaying deep,

The mother of restful things.
The wood is very old and still,

So still when the dead cones fall, Near in the vale or away on the hill,

You can hear them one and all. And their falling wearies me;

If mine were the will of God, why then
The wood should tramp to the sounding sea,

Like a marching army of men !
But I dwell in the wood that is dark and kind,

A far off tolls the main;
Afar, far off I hear the wind
And the marching of the rain.

-In December Canadian Magazine.


Our Dwelling-Place.

I hold to the invulnerable creeds,

And what is writ in many a learned tome
Concerning God; but for my simple needs
I ask no more than this, that God is Home.

– In Harper's Magazine.


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There is a ghost that walks the sea to-night!

I marked him in the twilight, hovering

Beyond the marshes; a gray, misshaped Thing
To chill the very soul with pameless fright.
And as a flock of startled birds takes wing

Before the fowler, so, in sudden flight,

I saw the fisher-boats from left and right
Hurrying to harbor; and I heard the ring
Of warning bells, and then the beacon hurled
Its javelin of fire into the dark

And made a space of refuge for who saw.
Whereon, my own being safe, the outer world
Passed from my thought. Alas, the narrow arc
On Life's full round that tightened heart-
strings draw!

-In December Scribner's.

Peace of mind and easy feet
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that in them dry and warm feet are assured in any

The new catalog is ready!!


The Cry of the Man.

The cry of the Man-
"God, give me soul!
A body I have;

Thy life I inherit.
Grant now unto me

An immortal Spirit !
I reach-I aspire
The evermore higher

Is beyond and denied me.
Give me Soul, God, or hide mo
From mountains and sea
And Thy mighty wind

And fear that they nourish!
Has my voice angered Thee?
God, have I sinned ?

And shall I now perish?" And God gave Man Soul.

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The cry of the Man-
"God, give me Love !
A spirit I have,


A Soul to uphold me.
Grant now unto me

A Love to enfold me!
I long-I am lonely.
Thy wide Content only

Is forever denied me.
Give me Love, God, or hide me

We have no agents or branch stores.
From nest-song of birds,

All orders should be sent direct to us.
And dumb forest mating,

And whelps the brutes cherish!
Art Thou wroth at my words
To view me with hating?

And shall I now perish?"
And God gave Man Love.

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The Lost Lamb.

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prices. Nearly all of

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Appropriate for boys or girls.
As the happy shepherd will.

vantage of it. The friendly blue of heaven

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Skirts, forner

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87 50
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Rainy-Day Skirts, former price $6, re-

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lasts so.

Oh, when the shadows gathered,

And the damp upon the rock,
Heart, heart, poor silly shepherd,
Why did you count the flock?

-In December Atlantic Monthly.


Ashes of Roses.


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All my dead roses! Now I lay them here

Shrined in a beryl cup. The mysteries

Of their sweet hauntings and their witcheries
Are not more subtle than this jewel clear-
Are not more cold and dead. The winter's spear

Has fallen on their petals, once so wise

With beauty; yet their joyous secret lies
Still in their perfumed heart, supremely dear.

For Young Men and Women
Roses of Love! Time killed you one by one,

Business Shorthand is one of the surest roads to those

confidential relations with the head of the firm that will And mocked my pains as sad I gathered up

give you an insight into the inner workings of the business All the fair petals banished from the sun,

and fit you for positions of greater trust and responsibility.
Yet have I conquered! See the dead loves bless

We Teach You the Business
Life from my heart, which is their beryl cup,

by Mail
Warming the winter of my loneliness.

We know just what is needed, because we are constantly A SYSTEM OF UNITS.

-In December Harper's Magazine.

in touch with modern business men and business methods,
and have in our employ the largest staff of verbatim re-

porters in the world, who work with us on all kinds of An ideal holiday present. Fits

commercial shorthand and reporting. We give you the PERSONALS.

same instruction and criticisms that you would receive if any library and expands as

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MANHATTAN REPORTING CO. ornamental, encourages a litHyde."-A most intimate glimpse of the late R. L.

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of the transforming powders, and so vivid was the
impression that he wrote the story off at a red-
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sleep. 'In the small hours of one morning,' says
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awakened him. He said angrily : “Why did you
wake me? I was dreaming a fine bogey tale." I

had awakened him at the first transformation


"I don't believe that there was ever such a liter-
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Stevenson's stepson, Lloyd Osbourne. "I remem-
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