gust magazines, notably The Critic, The
World's Work and The Review of Reviews.



Crawford, Fs. M. Ave Roma Immortalis.
V. 2, contains fine sketch of Leo xiii. 2 v.,
$6. Macmillan.

Great Encyclical Letters of Pope Leo xiii.,
translated by Rev. John J. Wynne, who
also writes a preface. To be published
shortly. Benziger.

Hall, A. D. Life of Pope Leo xiii. : histori-
cal. IOC. ; $1. Street.

Keller, J. A. Life and Acts of Leo xiii.
$1.50. Benziger.

Leo xiii. Bibliography of Leo xiii. Boston
Weekly Transcript, Friday, July 17, 1903.

Leo XIII. Sktech of the Pontiff's Life, apos-
tolical and encyclical letters, mode of elect-
ing successor, long roll of bishops and
popes. 15 c. Brooklyn Daily Eagle.

McCarthy, Justin. Pope Leo xiii. (Public
men.) $1.25. Warne.

McKim, R. H. Leo xiii. at the bar of history :
a discussion of papal plan for Christian
unity. $1. Gibson Bros.

Miller, John Bleecker. Leo xiii. and Mbdern
Civilization. $1.50. Continental.

Miller, J. Martin. Life of Pope Leo xiii. ,
Memorial ed. National Publishing Co. |

Narfon, Julien de. Pope Leo xiii. : his life
and work ; translated by G. A. Raper. $2.

Lippincott.

Nippold, Friedrich. The Papacy in the Nine-
teenth Century. $2.50. Putnam.

Oldcastle, J : Life of Leo xiii. 75 c.

Cath. Pub.

O'Reilly, Monsignor Bernard. Authorized
and Official Life of Leo xiii. Introduction
by Cardinal Gibbons. $2.5b-$5. Winston.

Ward, Mrs. Humphrey. Eleanor. $1.50.

Harper.
Excellent sketch of Leo xiii.



August, 1903]



THE LITERARY NEWS.



245



icabings from iNeu) jbooke.



HER FIRST AND ONLY LOVE.

Slowly walking over the grass, Olive went
to look for Mrs. Easterfield, and found her
in her garden on her knees by a flower-bed
digging with a little trowel.

"Mrs. Easterfield," said she, "I am thinking
of getting married."

The elder lady sprang to her feet, dropping
her trowel, which barely missed her toes.
She looked frightened. "What?" she ex-
claimed. "To whom?"

"Not to anybody in particular," replied
Olive. "I am considering the subject in gen-
eral. Let's go sit on that bench, and talk
about it.'

A little relieved, Mrs. Easterfield followed
her. "I don't know what you mean," she
said, when they were seated. "Women don't
think of marriage in a general way; they
consider it in a particular way."

"Oh, I am different," said Olive; "I am a
navy girl, and more like a man. I have to
look out for myself. I think it is time I was
married, and therefore I am giving the sub-
ject attention. Don't you think that is pru-
dent?"

"And you say you have no particular lean-
ings ?" the other inquired.

"None whatever," said Olive. "Mr. Lock-
er proposed to me less than an hour ago, but
I gave him no answer. He is too precipitate,
and he is only one person, anyway."

"You don't want to marry more than one
person !" exclaimed Mrs. Easterfield.

"No," said Olive, "but I want more than
one to choose from."

Mrs. Easterfield did not understand the
girl at all. But this was not to be expected
so soon ; she must wait a little, and find out
more. Notwithstanding her apparent indif-
ference to Claude Locker, there was more
danger in that direction than Mrs. Easter-
field had supposed. A really persistent lover
is often very dangerous, no matter how in-
different a young woman may be.

"Have you been considering the profes-
sor?" she asked, with a smile. "I noticed
that you were very gracious to him yester-
day."

"No, I haven't," said Olive. "But I sup-
pose I might as well. I did try to make him
have a good time, but I was still a little pro-
voked and felt that I would like him to go
back to my uncle and tell him that he had
enjoyed himself. But now I suppose I must
consider all the eligibles."

"Why now?" asked Mrs. Easterfield Quick-
ly; "why now more than any previous time?"

Olive did not immediately answer, but
presently she said : "I am not going back to
my uncle. There was a woman here just
now I don't know whether she was sent or
not who informed me that he did not expect
me to return to his house. When my mother
was living we were great companions for
each other, but now you see I am left entire-
ly alone. It will be a good while before
father comes back, and then I don't know
whether he can settle down or not. Besides,



I am not very well acquainted with him, but
I suppose that would arrange itself in time.
So you see all I can do is to visit about un-
til I am married, and therefore the sooner I
am married and settled the better."

"Perhaps this is a cold-blooded girl!" said
Mrs. Easterfield to herself. "But perhaps it
is not!" Then, speaking aloud, she said:
"Olive Asher, were you ever in love?"

The girl looked at her with reflective eyes.
"Yes," she said. "I was once, but that was
the only time."

"Would you mind telling me about it?"
asked Mrs. Easterfield.

"Not at all," replied the girl. "I was be-
tween thirteen and fourteen, and wore short
dresses, and my hair was plaited. My father
was on duty at the Philadelphia Navy-Yard,
and we lived in that city. There was a young
man who used to come to bring messages to
father; I think he was a clerk or a drafts-
man. I do not remember his name, except
that his first name was Rupert, and father
always called him by that. He was a beau-
tiful man-boy or boy-man, however you
choose to put it. His eyes were heavenly
blue, his skin was smooth and white, his
cheeks were red, and he had the most charm-
ing mouth I ever saw. He was just the
right height, well shaped, and wore the most
becoming clothes. I fell madly in love with
him the second time I saw him, and continued
so for a long time. I used to think about
him and dream about him, and write little
poems about him which nobody ever saw.
I tried to make a sketch of his face once, but
I failed and tore it up."

"What did he do?" asked Mrs. Easterfield.

"Nothing whatever," said Olive. "I never
spoke to him, or he to me. I don't believe
he ever noticed me. Whenever I could I
went into the room where he was talking to
father, but I was very quiet and kept in the
background, and I do not think his eyes ever
fell upon me. But that did not make any
difference at all. He was beautiful above all
other men in the world, and I loved him.
He was my first, my only love, and it almost
brings tears in my eyes now to think of him."
(Appleton. $1.50.) From Stockton'^ "The
Captain's Toil-Gate."



ANNE AMONG THE POPPIES.

The Cure went back to his vegetable gar-
den, and worked at it for some time longer,
in pursuance of a formed determination to be
with Cecily Thorne no more often than civili-
ty required.

It was not until almost an hour later that
he came round from the kitchen patch,
through a path between the blackberry bushes,
carrying a big wooden bowl full of radishes,
tomatoes, and lettuce. He stopped, and stood
looking at what was going on in the flower
garden. Mathew Thorne was doing a much-
discussed sketch in oils. He had put up his
easel in the shade of one of the church elms,
and had. with admirable obliviousness of
what effect the sun he himself was avoiding
might have upon Anne, posed her in the



246



THE LITERARY NEWS.



[August, 1903



midst of two beds of poppies, which were
Monsieur Carmel's pride. The poppies were
great, flaming scarlet ones on furry stems,
black-stained at their fierce, hot hearts. Two
of them, wide-opened to falling, were in
Anne's hands, and one, with a green seed-
pod, drooped on her hair. Her face was col-
orless, and her eyes heavy. It did not height-
en her beauty perhaps, but it added sugges-
tion to the pose.

Thorne glanced up from his block. He
took in the effect of the priest's cassock, the
bowl of garden stuff, and the mortar and
stone wall of the house. When he should
have finished the sister, he called, it might be
well to do the brother as "The Cure's Salad,"
or "The Earth's Increase." He had a feeling
at once that the flippancy had been a little ill
advised. Jean Carmel had walked over to the
porch and set down the bowl, without reply-
ing. Thorne, with a sudden realization that
a priest's robe in conjunction with an armful
of vegetables did not preclude dignity, cast a
sidewise look at his cousin, who was leaning
against the fence near him, watching prog-
ress. His brows, raised. Her face had flushed
with plain annoyance, and the color deepened
under his quizzical scrutiny. "A blush," he
commented, in a dropped voice, meant for
only her ears, "like the scarlet flag of Jeanne
d'Arc at Rouen, shows sometimes where
there is weakness in the walls."

Jean Carmel, dusting the soil from his
hands and cassock, came over and took up
his place back of Thorne. Whatever his
opinion of the man and it was not extrava-
gantly high ^there could be no question as to
the ability of the artist. The effect of the
upward reflection of the scarlet flowers upon
the dead paleness of the skin was managed
with admirable technique. And there was the
heat of midsummer noon beating in the at-
mosphere. (Macmillan. $1.50.) From "Anne
Carmel."



A BAD BARGAIN.

At length, ihe train steamed into the lit-
tle station of Little Hempstead, with the name
stifily written in white stones set in a border
of green plants.

The solitary porter directed him to the inn,
"not five minutes from the station," he said.
Stephen asked about the r-eturning trains ;
he did not think the task before him, so un-
savoury, so distasteful, would take long. It
was still raining, a gentle persistent summer
rain, a trifle, perhaps, but this added to his
annoyance.

There was a porch to the inn, through
the window on the right he could see the la-
bourers conversing over their beer. Their
deep voices and the fumes reached him where
he stood. The proprietor stood behind the
bar in shirt-sleeves.

"Is Mr. Forrest within?" Stephen asked,
his disgust quickening round the lines of his
mouth, and showing in his voice.

"Yes, sir; I think so, sir." The lessee of
the Little Hempstead Arms had been a but-
ler, and knew a gentleman when he saw one.



"Allow me through here; first door on the
left."

"Through here" was a dark passage behind
the bar. Stephen's hat nearly touched the
ceiling. The proprietor opened the door for
him. He did not think he would have done
so for a visitor to Jack Forrest ; he knew the
jockey, and his reputation, but the shrinking
bride he had hardly seen.

Stephen saw his daughter in the muggy,
evil-smelling parlour, saw her instantly in the
corner of the rickety horse-hair sofa. It was
one of the moments when Forrest had been
explaining matters to her, and she was star-
ing at him with her terrified eyes. All her
misery was apparent in those wide eyes, it
showed too in her cheeks, white and sunken,
it quivered round her pale lips, and trembled
in her little childish hands, which she clasped
and unclasped as he stared at Jack. He was
puffing away at his pipe.

"A damned good hiding, my gal, that's
what you want, and I've half a mind^ "

Aline never took her eyes off his face. She
had been crying day and night for hours at
a time. His voice had roused her from a
sobbing, half-stupefied slumber. He had had
it all his own way with her, and had let her
cry, but now her miserable face had begun
to get on his nerves. He culled a few choice
epithets from his stable days, used a word
she had only before heard applied to Mary
of England, and she sat up and gazed at him
with that look of fascinated terror which,
together with the length of her eyelashes,
the colouring of her hair and her slender
figure, arrested Stephen's attention immed-
iately.

"Beautiful ! My God, beautiful !" That
was what she was, and the very image of his
mother, his mother as he remembered her
before he had been sent to France. His heart
gave a quick throb. His daughter ! why had
he never realised it? For the space _of a
second after the door opened the jockey kept
his seat, replacing his pipe in his mouth.
Then Aline saw her father, half rose as if
to go to him, sank back on the sofa, covered
her face with her hands, and broke into hys-
terical sobs. (Lippincott.) From Danby's
"Pigs in Clover."



REGENERATION BY COLD WATER.

"Now, my man," Sarah said, lifting him to
his feet, "afore you have anythen to eat you
go to the pump and wash."

"I'll tell father, I will," sobbed Adam.

"Very well ; I'll give 'ee some more to tell
him," and she switched his legs again till he
suddenly broke from her and darted out of
the open door. Sally was white and spent,
bur nevertheless she turned to Jack and Tom.
"Come on, both of 'ee, to the pump, and I'll
see you take some of that muck off."

Cold water has ever a terror for the un-
regenerate child, and they both began the
tearless howl that was so often effective with
their mother. But Sarah was inflexible, and
having inspired a wholesome fear in their
small breasts from the contest with Adam



August, 1903]



THE LITERARY NEWS.



247



the switch was not needed, though she had
to stand over them till they had obeyed. Soap
was one of the luxuries the Tuldons most
easily forewent, and the only piece in the
house at that moment was one Sarah had
brought with her for her private use, and
though cold water alone could not restore to
the young faces their pristine purity, nor
make clean the dirt-ingrained hands, there
was a fresher look about the twain. Sally
was gracious in her triumph and put off
severity for the present, though she smiled to
herself at the quiet and subdued manner in
which they ate their breakfast. Adam, after
standing in the road for some minutes, had
taken himself off to work without breakfast
rather than face cold water at his sister's
bidding. He promised her a hot time when
he had explained matters to his mother and
father that evening.

The next morning Adam thought to steal
a march on his sister. He rose earlier than
usual, intending to help himself to breakfast
before Sarah got up. But she heard him stir-
ring, and guessing the reason, was prepared
for him.

"Give I some breakfast," he demanded sul-
lenly.

"You must go and wash first, me dear," re-
turned Sally.

"Mother said you had to give I some."

"I give 'ee five minits, my dear," said Sal-
ly, "and if j'ou haven' washed by then I shall
wash 'ee with a brush. Why, one could
scrape the dirt off 'ee."

He should like to see her do it, was his
defiant retort, and when she thought the five
minutes were gone Sarah obliged him. He
fought desperately, screaming, yelling, kick-
ing, and trying to bite her, but she was not a
delicate young woman, and she repaid every
assault with interest. Finally she got him
under the pump, and, despite his threats and
screams for mercy, she held him at the trough
till she had accomplished her purpose, and
the sobbing Adam emerged from the ordeal
with the skin of his face, neck and hands
somewhat nearer their original colour. Sally
was so exhausted with the struggle that she
had a headache all the morning, but she hid
her feelings from her victim. He ate his
breakfast in silence and with downcast eyes,
but on leaving the house he yelled "Devil,"
and then ran hard up the road.

There was another tussle with the younger
children, but they too had to submit, and be-
fore the week was out the morning wash was
gone through without fuss; even Adam, find-
ing his mother powerless to help him, went
to the pump every morning, and made pre-
tence of applying the water to his face and
hands. (Little, Brown & Co. $1.50.) From
Ornie A^nus's "Sarah Tuldon."



are you. And, 'Ginius, you mustn't call me
'Bev' before peojile."

Mr. Evins looked a trifle injured.

"Why, Bev Beverley, you told me to say
'Bev' las' Christmas," he said.

"Yes, but I wasn't eighteen then; and now
I'm grown, I've got a right to change my
mind, like other women."

Mr. Evins measured the little figure slowly
with his eyes.

"Well," he said, "you haven't grown many
yards since Chris'mas, anyhow. I s'pose we
are grown fo'ks, though," he added. "But I
b'lieve I'd rather we weren't. I didn't have
to wear any ole collar like this befo' I was
grown, an' you didn't have to go off to any
ole bo'din' school." He looked about him for
a chair, and sat down heavily. "Don't you
wish we could have a few more slides on the
pine straw befo' we're grown up for good?
Don't you remember that time I fell off my
sled an' you come down lickety-split an' took
me back 0' the head an' knocked me sense-
less ?'

"But you wouldn't like me to do that
again, would you ?"

Virginius chuckled.

"Well, when I came toe, you had my head
in yo' lap an' an' you were cryin'."

"I wasn't crying; and that was ages ago.
I've forgotten all about it."

"Does seem like a long time ago."

Now it was Mr. Evins's tones that were
growing dangerously sentimental, and he, too,
was looking at the ceiling. Miss Beverley
was having something of a forenoon.

"But you've forgot how I used to drop
cuckle-burrs down your back, and the day I
pushed you in the fish-pond."

She won the grin.

"No, I haven't forgot it," he said. "Aunt
Anne got out the carriage-whip as soon as
she saw me comin' over the hill in my wet
clo'es ; an' she said you were the worst child
she ever saw, an' Miss Joanna ought to lock
you up in the china closet."

"She did lock me up in the dark room, and
I found a jar of brandy peaches in there, and
ate so many they made me right silly." (Mac-
millan.) From Browne's "A Gentleman of
the South."



REMINISCENCES OF YOUTH.

Virginius turned to Beverley and grinned.
"You been slidin' any up here, sho' 'nough,
Bev?" he asked.
Miss Beverley grew emphatic.
"No, you goose. I'm grown now, and so



ONLY ONE NOO YORK.

"HellOj brother !" he said as soon as he
saw me. "Gee-orge Harry! but it's good to
see an American face. You look as if you
could really talk American. These people
try hard enough, but it gives a Noo- Yorker
a pain to hear their accent. Say, I'm hunt-
ing for some American soda-water. Their
blamed tepid water will drive me to drink,
although I'm a temperance man. Say, did
you ever see so much drunkenness in your
life? But if I could get a good old drink
of American soda-water, ice-cold, I'd feel as
if I could last. Isn't this city awful ?"

Candor compelled me to tell Mr. Brown-
ley that I was having the time of my life.

"I don't understand how you can. You
look like a good American."

I laughed, and suggested that we ride on



248



THE LITERARY NEWS.



[August, 1903



a bus to a place that I knew of where real
American soda was dispensed, and we
climbed to the top of a white bus.

"This makes me tired," said he, when we
were seated. "I used to be ashanied of the
Noo York horse-cars, but when I get back
ril ride on 'em for three or four days so's
not to be too stratled by the cables and trol-
leys and the elevated. Fifty years behind
the times. I said before I came here that
they were ten years behind, but it's fifty.
But" and here his voice took on a very
serious tone "I don't understand you fel-
lows. I've met two or three men like you
that say they're having a good time. You
seem to be wide-awake. How can you have
a good time in any place but America?
Why, every .minute I'm thinking how much
better we do it all in Noo York. Look at
that conductor. No uniform. Seems fairly
immoral to be collecting fares with no uni-
form. And they tell me you can't open the
bus windows. Why, there'd be a riot in
Noo York if they tried to keep car windows
shut. And have you seen their noospapers?
Hardly a line about New York, and that
little all wrong. One of 'em says Hanna's
likely to be nominated on the Democratic
ticket. Wouldn't chat jar you? I always
heard that English papers were deadly dull,
but I never knew it until I tried to read one.
Nothing about Noo York that's worth print-
ing, and yet Noo York's the only place where
anything happens. If I didn't have my pas-
sage engaged. I'd go back to-morrow without
seeing Paris."

Just then we came to the soda-water place,
and we descended. I thought that the soda
was pretty good ; at any rate, it was cool ;
but BroM'nley's expression of contempt as he
set it down was worth crossing the ocean to
see.

"I wouldn't know it for soda-water if I
met it in my back yard. What a country,
what a God-forsaken countrv, this is ! And
I left Noo York for it!" ' (Holt.) From
"Cheerful Americans."



THE ANGLO-SAXON MISSION.

When I talk back to England in this anti-
imperialistic way, she cannot deny what I say.
She has read her prayer-book too carefully
not to know something of the Christian re-
ligion, but she sighs the way people will when
they have to do presumably with Utopians.
She does not seem to have much faith in the
kingdom that is to come, though she prays
for it, I dare say, once or twice a day. She
reminds me of a young girl who lives near
Uplands. Charlotte had been thrown from
her horse, and was pretty badly injured. My
aunt Percyfield feared that she would die and
had prayers for her recovery offered at St.
David's. When Charlotte was well enough
to have visitors, this young girl came to see
her at once, and fairly sobbed over her. "My
dear Charlotte." she cried, " I never expected
to see you alive, for they prayed for your
recovery in church, and they never do thai;
unless there is no hope." England takes the



ideal part of her creed in much the same
way, without ever expectmg it to come true,
and such prayers, as every one who has tried
them knows, avail absolutely nothing. My
own prayers are short, but they go straight
to the great Soul of the Universe, for I my-
self believe in them.

I never really expect to convert England
to my ideas, but we renew the contest from
time to time, and I must say for her that she
is a fair listener. But what can you expect
oi people who believe in such confounded
nonsense as kings and queens.

Ideas go in bunches. Granting the right
of a particular family to rule over a whole
people, and it is a short step to Madame's
doctrine that this particular people has the
right to rule over the whole world if it can.
I suppose one could travel the road back-
ward. If America should ever be seriously
bitten with the idea of empire, it would be a
short step, I fear me, to having one man
rule America. And in that event we ought
to be very docile, for what we give to others
we ought to be willing to accept for our-
selves. Otherwise we should not be living
up to the Golden Rule. And the emperor,
hang him, might be as firmly convinced of
his own superiority to the rest of us common
men as we were of our collective superiority
to other nations.

But England, like all misguided people, is
obstinate. She persists in maintaining that
the Anglo-Saxon mission is nothing short of
world conquest. Though the poor of Edin-
burgh and Glasgow are the most depraved
creatures in the world, unless, indeed, our
own New York and Chicago poor equal
them ; and though it is not pleasant for a
decent man or woman to go abroad in Lon-
don city after ten o'clock of nights, England
still holds that it is the Anglo-Saxon mis-
sion to rule India and if possible the rest of
Asia and Africa, and as many of the isles of
the sea as she can gather into her drag-net.
I quote Shakespeare to her "You yourself
are much condemned to have an itching palm"
it avails not. And when I point out to her
the immense human cost of this domineering
imperialism, how the fresh, wholesome young
Englishmen, v/ho have sailed so bravely out
of Plymouth or Southampton Bay, have come
back from India or the Cape, or the uttermost
parts of the world, spoiled, arrogant, with all
the vices that come to the conquerors of in-
ferior peoples, how their children lack the
rosy cheeks and moral health of the home
nurseries, how the greatest curse of slavery
has always been on the slaveholders, then
England retorts by throwing me a line of
Kipling's, or by saying in her most majestic
bass, "Remember, Mr. Percyfield, that my
father was a colonel in the Indian service."

This stops the conversation at once, for
however hot one may be in a cause, one can-
not talk to a lady against her father, or even
against the class to which he may have had
the misfortune to belong. As the French say,
it is not polite to mention a rope in the house
of a man that's been hung. (Houghton, Mif-
flin & Co. $1.50.) From Henderson's "John
Percyfield."



August, 1903]



THE LITERARY NEWS.



249



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