author's art in its strength, simplicity, and dramatic realism, the portrait of Gertrude White, the actress, exhibits that art in its most refined and insinuating phase. During nearly half the story the reader deludes himself with the idea that the author is trying to "gild refined gold" by presenting an idealized type of Lady Sylvia-a type retaining all the graceful and tender womanliness of Lady Sylvia, but embellishing it with a sprightliness and vivacity of intellect, and a variety of social accomplishments, which add the spice of piquancy to the original charm. The touches by which Miss White's real nature is revealed are so delicate and unobtrusive that the most attentive reader will find it difficult to say when or how his disillusion was brought about; and it is a fine tribute to the consistency and reality of the delineation that the reader feels almost as much pain, surprise, and incredulity as Macleod himself, at the successive revelations of her weakness and unworthiness.

Miss White is a type of character which is common enough in real life, but which, so far as we are aware, is new to fiction-certainly new in the precise form in which Mr. Black has depicted it. Beautiful, brilliant, amiable, sympathetic, ardent, and impulsive, she is precisely the kind of woman to catch the hearts of the youthful and the unsophisticated; and in the havoc which in one form or another is sure to ensue she is herself almost as much a victim as any of the other sufferers. For the defect of her character is not that she is consciously insincere or deliberately cruel, but that she is hopelessly shallow and frivolous. The deception which she seems to practice is quite as much a self-deception as a deception of others. What she professes to feel, she really does feel-at the time; the real difficulty is, that her fancies are vagrant as a butterfly's, and her impulses as momentary, if as exhilarating, as the effervescence of champagne. It is a character which is not necessarily either wicked, or mean, or callous-which entitles its possessor to our pity quite as much as to our contempt; yet it is a character upon which more fair promises of happiness have been wrecked than probably upon any other known among men. In many cases the disenchantment follows so close upon the charm that no great harm is done; but when the comedy is played with an intense, passionate, fine-strung nature like Macleod's, the result is likely to be tragic, whether, as would commonly be the case, the victim summons up resolution to brave his fate and silently endure the inevitable, or whether, as in the more soul-piercing catastrophe of Macleod of Dare, his dethroned and distempered reason prepares for both betrayer and victim an oblivionluring draught of "Death's black wine."

The interest of the story is to a great extent concentrated upon these two leading personages; but the minor characters are very happily grouped and delineated. Old Hamish, the butler, factotum, privileged servant and friend of Castle Dare, in whom a proud independence of spirit coexists with the loyal fervor of an ancient Scottish clansman for his chief, and in the special case of Macleod with an almost

parental tenderness of affection, is such a character as Mr. Black draws thoroughly con amore. At the opposite end of the scale, Ogilvie, the young man of the period, and the well-intentioned but depressing pedant, Mr. White, are portrayed with scarcely inferior skill; and the Major is a more genially humorous figure than Mr. Black usually conceives. The descriptions of scenery, too, though poetic and full of color as ever, are kept in due subordination to the movement of the story; and we are inclined on the whole to say that Mr. Black's latest is also his most satisfactory novel.

AN ingenious application of the anonymous principle of the "No-Name Series" is to be found in "A Masque of Poets,"* which contains seventy-five poems, supposed to be contributed by the "leading English and American poets," but printed without the authors' names. It is expected, of course, that the reader will derive some amusement from the

effort to assign the several poems to their proper authors; and the publishers have so arranged the table of contents as to invite and facilitate this experiment in guessing. We should say, however, that the task will prove in most cases a wellnigh hopeless one. There are perhaps four or five "pieces" so individual and characteristic that names might be attached to them with some feeling of certainty; but of the collection as a whole it must be said that it tends to prove what has often been asserted, namely, that the poets of our day constitute a well-trained choir rather than a group of singers with each a voice and a message of his or her own. Setting aside the four or five poems to which we have referred, the entire collection might easily pass muster as the production of any one of a dozen poets whom we could specify. Mr. Bayard Taylor, for example, has sounded a greater variety of chords than are touched in it; and it is no very extravagant praise to say that he has produced quite as agreeable music.

The publishers accompany our copy of the book with an insinuating list of the poems, and an intimation that they would be pleased to have us guess their authors and return them the table of contents filled out. We shall not imperil any little reputation for critical acumen we may chance to possess by walking into this trap for the unwary, but we will hazard one guess :

QUESTION AND NO ANSWER.

Is it Ethics or Physics? Ah, that is the question :
Is it trouble of Conscience or morbid digestion ?
Is the temper that makes all my family quiver
Ill-disciplined mind or disorder of Liver?
Does the Passion, that makes even wise men eccentrical,
Proceed from the Heart? and, if so, from which ventricle?
Are duty and courage fine functions of Nerves-
Just as one horse goes steady, and another horse swerves?

*No-Name Series. A Masque of Poets. Including "Guy Vernon," a Novelette in Verse. Boston: Roberts Brothers. 16mo, pp. 303.

cism, if one is disposed to criticise: it is awkwardly constructed, with two autobiographies running par

If that is not Holmes, then some imitator has caught not merely the trick of his verse, but his mode of thought and vivacity of expression.

JUDGED by its popular circulation, its political and social effects, and the extent to which it has been reproduced in foreign languages, "Uncle Tom's Cabin" is the most important work in American literature; though to one who reads it now, after the special conditions with which it dealt have passed away, and when the test applied must be a purely artistic one, its enormous success will be somewhat

difficult to account for. That it is both powerful and touching as a story the most unsympathetic reader will be compelled to concede; but one who would understand the impression which it made and the influence which it wielded must reconstruct for himself the period when it appeared-must appreciate the significance of the fact that it crystallized and gave forceful expression to what was undoubtedly the deepest and most universal sentiment among a vast multitude twenty-five or thirty years ago. Whatever the causes of its success, however, the work has become historical, and it is none too early, perhaps, for us to have such a record of its genesis and history as we find included in the édition de luxe which has just been issued from the Riverside Press, In a somewhat ecstatic introduction Mrs. Stowe gives an account of the origin of the story, of the circumstances under which it was written, of the method and manner of its composition, of its aim and meaning, and of the profound sensation which it made in both Europe and America. Following this is the most striking feature of the edition-a bibliographical account of "Uncle Tom's Cabin,” by Mr. George Bullen, of the British Museum, cataloguing first the various English editions of the work, then the translations, and finally the reviews of it which have appeared in British periodicals. From this bibliography we learn that there are in the Museum library copies of thirty-five distinct editions in English, besides eight abridgments, and nineteen translations in as many different languages. And even this list is not complete. For the rest, the book is very handsomely printed and very poorly

illustrated.

FOR the first work of a new and evidently youthful writer, “The First Violin" is certainly a very remarkable story. It is not impervious to criti

* Uncle Tom's Cabin; or Life among the Lowly. By Harriet Beecher Stowe. New Edition, with Illustrations, and a Bibliography of the Work, by George Bullen, F. S. A., British Museum. Together with an Introductory Account of the Work. Boston: Hough

ton, Osgood & Co. 8vo, pp. lxvii.-529.

The First Violin. A Novel. By Jessie Fothergill. Leisure-Hour Series. New York: Henry Holt & Co. 16m0, pp. 432.

artistic distribution of the work between them; it is too long; it is so disfigured with German idioms and phrases that the publishers have found it desirable to append a glossary; and the latter portion of the story is distinctly inferior to the rest. But it possesses that nameless quality which redeems and excuses all defects, which animates and vivifies what would ordinarily be simply mechanical commonplaces, which touches the feelings while stimulating the imagination, and which interests and pleases in is an air of genuineness about the story which gives a way that mere artifice can never achieve. There one the impression that it is in the main a transcript of real experiences; and the occasional awkwardness and maladroitness rather deepen the vraisemblance than otherwise. The tangled threads of human life seldom reel themselves off quite so smoothly as in the imaginary looms of the novelists, and there is always the danger in constructing and arranging a story that it will lose in realism what it gains in art. The scene of the story is laid in Germany, the hero being leader of the orchestra in a small German city; and the story as a whole gives a lively and probably entirely trustworthy picture of professional musical life in the one country of the world where music ranks in dignity and in the ardor which it arouses in its votaries with any of the other professions and pursuits. The character-drawing is particularly good; the incidents are cleverly managed if now and then involving rather too much of coincidence; and the local color is maintained by very delicate and artistic touches. Altogether, Miss Fothergill's first work conveys such an impression of power and varied resource on the part of the author that much may fairly be expected from her future labors

in this field.

as

ETIQUETTE has been well defined by some cynic achievements of the ordinary compilers of manuals "the art of magnifying trifles," and certainly the of etiquette put to shame those of the lawyer in

Hudibras" ""which could a hair divide betwixt its south and southwest side." From most faults of this kind, and also from the gushing sentiments which usually disfigure the manuals, the little code of "Social Etiquette of New York" is notably free. It

is a plain, practical, and concise digest of the existing customs and usages in New York society, and where there is any deviation from the clear statethe author's remarks are nearly always sensible, ment of the rule into explanation or commentary, judicious, and to the point. Considering the objects for which society exists, it is somewhat depressing to read of such minute regulations; but since they obtain, it is perhaps well to know what they are, and in point of fact no social customs are quite so rigid in practice as they are apt to appear when formulated

into a code.

* Social Etiquette of New York. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 18mo, pp. 187.

A TIMELY addition to "Appletons' New HandyVolume Series" is a brief and popular account of the career, achievements, personality, and character of the Earl of Beaconsfield, by George M. Towle.* No attempt is made in this volume to relate all the details of the political mutations through which an obscure member of a despised race has climbed to his present exalted position; but the decisive incidents of the life and the salient characteristics of the man are brought out and illustrated with picturesque force and no little dramatic skill. Particularly vivid are the personal sketches, which are based on details recorded by many observers, and which bring very clearly before the reader Disraeli's appearance and method and manner as an orator. Mr. Towle's portrait is somewhat more favorable than is usually drawn of the statesman who has lately stirred such bitter antagonisms; but it is no doubt easier to portray a character through sympathy than through antipathy, and Mr. Towle would doubtless feel amiably toward any one whose career would furnish him with so many apt anecdotes.

A PICTORIAL version of the Earl of Beaconsfield's life, almost as complete and intelligible, it may be said, as any that has been written, and certainly much more amusing, is to be found in "The Beaconsfield Cartoons" reproduced from the pages of "Punch." The cartoons number one hundred and eight, comprise numerous designs by Leech, Doyle, and Tenniel, and illustrate the entire political career of Disraeli from his entrance into Parliament in 1843 down to his recent return from Berlin, bringing "peace with honor." Some of the drawings are wonderfully good merely as pictures, and the series as a whole marks the highest point to which the art of caricature has attained. That this is so is no doubt due in part to the humor, versatility, and skill of the artists, but it is due in at least equal measure to the exceptional ductility of the subject. A better opportunity for caricature was probably never afforded than by the personal appearance, career, and character of Disraeli. Always able by his genius to secure a conspicuous position, and to render himself interesting to the public, there has been from the very beginning of his career just that touch of charlatanry in his public performances which makes caricature seem the proper and natural medium through which to view him. What a sweet boon" he has been to "Punch" may be seen by comparing the Disraeli cartoons with the Gladstone series. The latter contains some dignified and respectable political satire, but it entirely lacks that touch of diablerie which gives piquancy and point to the Beaconsfield series. It would not be satire but gross abuse to picture

*Beaconsfield. By George M. Towle. No. 22, Appletons' New Handy-Volume Series. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 18mo, pp. 163.

The Beaconsfield Cartoons, from London Punch. One Hundred and Eight Caricatures by Leech, Doyle, and Tenniel. Boston: Estes & Lauriat.

Gladstone in a predicament like that in which his great rival finds himself in the really tremendous cartoon entitled "St. George and the Dragon (after the Performance)"; yet as representing Beaconsfield, not even his party associates venture to deny its appropriateness. It should be added that in the foregoing remarks we have had in mind the cartoons as printed from the original "Punch" drawings. In Messrs. Estes & Lauriat's edition they are reproduced by a chemical process which loses nearly all the finer touches of the pictures.

THERE are both the promise and the fragrance of mature fruit in the little volume of "Apple Blossoms," by Elaine and Dora Read Goodale.* It consists of verses by two children, written in the one case between the ages of nine and fifteen, and in the other between the ages of nine and twelve; and the unmistakable charm which they possess lies in the fidelity, the freshness, and the naïveté with which they express and depict and interpret childhood. The authors have felt the usual emotions of children and have given them metrical expression; they have looked out upon nature-upon the woods and fields, the mountains, the running streams, the procession of flowers, the march of the seasons and have written down what they saw; from the phenomena of the external world they have drawn the obvious and inevitable morals, partly no doubt the result of spontaneous perception in its rudimentary stage, more often the reflection of ideas gleaned from reading or the conversation of older people. There is no abnormal precocity of thought, no symptom of a premature development of the emotions or passions : the verses are all healthfully objective, and their artless simplicity is the best and most conclusive evidence of their authenticity. It will be seen from the foregoing that we do not share the "genial" opinions regarding the volume which have been expressed in certain quarters. There is abundance of promise in it; but it would tend to defeat the very hopes which the volume raises to lead its youthful authors to suppose that there is anything more. Facility of versification and the comprehensiveness of the vocabulary are the really striking features of the work; but children who are old enough to make verse are also old enough to be told that mere verses, however skillful, do not constitute poetry. We suspect, moreover, that the ability to rhyme is much more common among children from ten to eighteen than the amount of youthful verse which actually gets into print would seem to suggest. The healthy skepticism of friends, the equally healthy growth of taste on the part of the rhymer, the impracticableness of editors, or the distrust of publishers, usually consigns the verse to another destination than that of the printing-press and the bookseller's shelves.

* Apple Blossoms. Verses of Two Children. Elaine Goodale and Dora Read Goodale. With Portraits. New York: G. P. Putnam's Sons. 16mo, pp. 253.

NEW SERIES.]

[No. 33.

DR

I.

MY

RAMATIC writing had no special charms for me. In the plight I had been in, a struggle of some painful years, if, reversing a great English dramatist's career, I had thought that a trowel would have led to speedier results than a pen, I should have at once adopted the mechanical calling.

I had battled for actual existence, winning my bread crust by crust. At last I was fortunate in securing the publication of some stories. It happened that an English playwright had clapperclawed an anonymous story of mine, and had put it in action on the London stage. I owed this person no grudge, but was rather grateful for the accident. I wrote, telling him that he was perfectly welcome to my crude material. In a courteous reply, in which some remuneration was offered me, the author suggested "that perhaps in dramatic composition there might be an opening for me." In the letter were inclosed a few words of introduction to the manager of a New York theatre. I at once accepted the situation. Very deliberately I set to work to write my first play, and, although my poor mother almost starved during the time necessary for its production, at last my drama was completed. Strangely enough, by sheer luck, my first work found a theatre. Whether from want of merit, dramatic construction, or because it was at the end of the season, my play was withdrawn after a few weeks' performance. If not the success I had wished, at least it was no failure.

Knitting my brows with a feeling rather akin to anger, I made another venture, and wrote a second piece. This new effort was fortunate even beyond its deserts, yet I can not say I felt the elation I was longing for. Such applause as I received I only considered as the interest on a capital spent during some years of toil and pri

VOL. VI.-13

vation. At least, my pride was no longer wounded. I had finally emerged from that most painful of all situations-that of the writing jackal, who waits hungrily for such lumps of literary garbage as may be thrown him. Thanks to rather an old head on young shoulders, such unmeaning or unsubstantial compliments as I received I took exactly for what, they were worth. All I believed was that, having found a vocation, my work was now really to begin. Without being sordid, I was grateful for the money I had earned. Thank God, it gave me the opportunity to surround a mother with some few of the comforts which my former extreme poverty had deprived her of.

A third piece of mine had been accepted by a leading manager. Having completed my task under less stress, perhaps with a certain degree of spontaneity, for the first time I felt surer of success. Still, the school of misfortune had left its impress on me. With most men an improved physical condition rapidly effaces former mental sufferings. If I was not exactly morbid, and did not recur to those troubles which had been, nevertheless a certain elasticity of spirits was foreign to my nature. Without being morose, I was not genial.

That pleasing bonhomie, that graceful ease, that hail-fellow-well-met manner some of my contemporaries possessed, which undoubtedly surmounted many a difficulty, I did not have. People on the stage did not know me as Dick, for Dick would not riot nor hobnob with the best of them. Even had Mr. Launcelot, the manager, slapped me on the back, I should have been quick to resent the liberty.

Mr. Richard Carter was not a favorite in the green-room. As that channel into which was to be filtered all the vapid nonsense, the private bickerings, the senseless jealousies of stage people, I was the most undesirable of confidants.

Intent solely on the business I was engaged in, when my rehearsals came, and it was necessary to impart instruction, I gave it, possibly, in a pedagogic way. Why should I not have done so? If I had not taught a night school some few years before, I should have starved, and possibly the insistent manners of the schoolmaster still remained.

My relationship, then, with professional people was of a restricted kind. A certain glitter of very thin metal, a resonance that was jarring, a tension too prone to snapping, an over-gushing from a very scanty emotional source, a facial contortion simply indicative of muscular suppleness, which I deemed all these people had, made them distasteful to me. I suppose I should have waited until the comedians had emerged from the house in order to appreciate some natural differences. But in their homes I knew none of them. Having little time to waste, such invitations I might have been honored with, as to dinners at certain artistic clubs with the men, or to gay reunions with the women, I had politely declined. "Carter is a bear," I had heard it intimated, and Richard Carter had very carelessly accepted the ursine characteristics.

Mr. Launcelot, the manager, had said to me more than once words to this effect: "My dear boy" (Mr. Launcelot would have been familiar with a grandee of Spain after an introduction of five minutes), "you don't advertise yourself. Now, I wouldn't have you eccentric. It really doesn't pay talent nowadays to wear hair hanging around one's shoulders, nor to sport a dress-coat lined with cherry-colored satin; but really you don't show enough."

"My brilliancy does not shine, then, through my bushel basket? Is that what you are driving at?" I asked.

"A certain amount of intimacy with the people behind the curtain is a necessity. You don'tindeed you don't-seem to be enough with us, or of us. Now, please don't allow your pride to run away with you. Please don't get it into your noddle that any of our ladies want to make love to you. I am rather inclined to think they enjoy sometimes a quiet laugh at your expense. Don't you pose just a trifle? I would not for the world be officious in proffering my advice, but, on my word, you are the most unsociable human being I ever met with. I can't say you are modest, for, by George! you hector me at times, and have a most obstinate way of asserting your rights. You aren't tricky, or anything that way, and are a serious man, and I believe good to tie to-only, can't you unbend at times? A theatre is not the Supreme Court of the United States, nor are actors undertakers. Where you are wanting in is sympathy. You are a lump of ice-a log of wood."

That's a send-off! When she works off that first act in a dove-colored shot-silk with black lace flounces-cost two hundred and fifty (catch Claudia Aubrey going for any of those duds one finds in Sixth Avenue, though Mrs. Launcelot is glad enough to buy there)—and has a train five feet long, with the nicest little nigger you ever saw to hold it up, and Claudia shows that handsome arm of hers-no enamel there— and that hand of hers waves an ostrich-tipped fan, the jewels just dripping from her fingers, she will electrify the house! Then the manager lowered his head and bolted through the hole in the passage.

"Don't you think," inquired Mr. Launcelot, anxiously, when he returned with a piece of brocade in his hand, "it would be better if our ladies showed their feet a trifle more? Clocks on stockings, dear boy, were made to be seen. What a delicious pair of high-heeled shoes Miss Aubrey has for the part! Now, couldn't she loop up her dress a trifle more? All the rest of the women want to do it, but she won't, and if you veto short costumes there is certain to be a row. You just bother with a woman's make-up, and you're