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When tempted by the man whom she loved, and who loved her all the more because he was married to another, she replied :

“I ean't, I won't, deliberately injure another woman. Think how she would suffer! Oh, the torture of woman's lives the helplessness, the impotence, the emptiness !”

“But all we modern women mean to help each other now." which is good news that the world will be glad to have confirmed by higher authority than the optimist author of “The Story of a Modern Woman.”

Miss Hepworth Dixon sums up her book's position thus:

In “ The Story of a Modern Woman " I wished to show how hardly our social laws press on women, how, in fact, it is too often the woman who is made, as it were, the moral scapegoat, and who is sent out into the wilderness to expiate the sips of man. "Vumber Twenty-Seven,” ruined and thrown aside by Dunlop Strauge, is reluced to the streets and to an ignoble death in a hospital. Mary, Jilted by her lover at a time when her chances of marriage are over, is condemned to a long loveless life and a solitary battle with the world. The keynote of the book is the phrase : “All we modern women mean to help each other now, If we were united, we could lead the world.” It is a plea for a kind of moral and social trades-unionism among women.

“ JOANNA TRAILL: SPIXSTER." I now come to a story of how one Modern Woman did help another with the best results. “Joanna Traill, Spinster,” the story with which Mr. Heinemann has begun his Pioneer Series, is the only one of all the Modern Woman novels which has the courage boldly to face the question of the woman of the pavement. Most of the other stories do not go further than the depicting of monogamic prostitution, or of love unions unconsecrated by law and religion. Miss Holdsworth in “ Joanna Traill” goes a step further and attempts to place the woman who has slipped, or who has been betrayed into the meshes of the ordinary polyandry of the street, in her true light. Not that there is any attempt to describe the life of such women. We only meet Christine after she had left it. The poor child--for she was only sixteen-tells her story twice over-once to Joanna, and once a year later to the man who had asked her to marry him. It is the only glimpse we have of her experiences. Here is the tale as she told it to Joanna :

" There's nothing to tell,” said the girl, becoming unexpectedly sulky. “Father was a schoolmaster, starved out by the board schools. A woman took me to live with her when he dies. She dies too; and I worked in a match factory. But I couldn't get what would keep me, and I fell ill. Then a girl they called Nella took me to her house. And they nursed me and were kind. I got plenty to eat there, and they promised me pretty clothes when I got better. And I owed the woman money, and I didn't know how to pay her. And Nella was happy, and it seemed easy enough, so one ight”-she stopped, turned pale, and dropped her head. Then she looked up defiantly, and dashed away the tears from her eyes. “And I'd have killed myself afterwards if Mr. Boas hadn't found me,” she concluded.

And here is the same story which the heart-broken girl sobbed out to the man who had asked her to be his wife, knowing nothing of her history :

* But it was sin,” she moaned. Though they were good to me, it was sin. Three weeks I was there... And I never thought...Every one was the same... Vella...she was kind ...and the rest. ..It was...a shameful place!...I knew afterwards... too late...that...that it was hell." It is obvious that a girl in such circumstances, a mere child, confronted with the ruthless compulsion of an evil destiny, was far less guilty from a moral point of view

than any young person who reads à risqué novel which she knows should be forbidden fruit. But technically and actually Christine was on the town.” Physically she was no longer intact, and in a society which has substituted the virtue of intactitude for the grace of purity, that was enough. Christine was a lost girl, a fallen girl, so-called. But she was rescued by a newspaper editor, who somehow reminds one of John Burns, and her restoration to virtue was undertaken by Joanna Traill, a lady of means living in a country house in Surrey, who is fired by an enthusiasm for helping the suffering, a generous flame kindled, if the truth must be told, at the torch of her own love for the editor in question. The story of Joanna Traill is the story of Christine's redemption. Christine, who was a charming young person, abundantly well worth saving, flatly refused to be saved in the ordinary normal way. Joanna had offered to take her into her own house after she had undergone some preliminary discipline in a home. Christine revolted at once. She would not go to any such establishment.

“I know them homes. They kill you with their pious ways. Good people ain't kind, like bad ’uns. I won't go. I don't want to be a good woman--not that sort leastways."

So Joanna consents to take the wild young girl fresh from the slums down to the country house in Surrey. The experiment at first was a failure. Christine was placed in the kitchen and given in charge of the housekeeper. Joanna sat lonely in her drawing-room, while Christine pined downstairs. The housekeeper eyed her askance, and the situation soon became intolerable. Christine was on the verge of running away when Joanna took a heroic resolve. Disregarding everything but the risk of Christine's relapse, she took her upstairs into the drawing-room and treated her no longer as a servant but as a daughter. The dictum was laid down that “the first course in her salvation is amusement," and the reader will agree with Mr. Boas when he declared, after seeing Christine in her new metamorphosis, “a confoundedly pleasant way to be saved it is." Christine, on her pony riding gaily over the common, learning to play the piano, and revelling in all Joanna's books, had a good time of it. She had even a better time shortly after, when Mr. Boas's friend Mr. Bevan came down to dine with Joanna, and fell in love with the little sprite. No one had said a word as to her past, and he proposed marriage before Joanna clearly saw unto what a pass she had allowed things to drift. Joanna then, instead of telling him herself, insisted upon Christine breaking the news. This she did, feeling sure he loved her so that he would forgive her for the misfortune of her youth. Instead of doing so, this is what happened :

* Woman!” he said at last, the word scorching his lips like a live coal; “ woman! you can't mean that! It is not true; for God's sake tell me it is not true! You were not ... three weeks ... in one of those dens."

“Oh, my God! a baby like that!” he cried. ... “And I worshipped your white soul.

“My love is dead! Did you think any man's love could stand-that? Let me go,” he said again sternly. “It is better for both of us.”

And with many more bitter burning words of passionate and savage reproach, this man, over whose “high passion and noble purity” Miss Holdsworth waxes unnecessarily eloquent, flings off poor Christine and vanishes in blinding rage. Whereupon Christine writes this little note to Joanna, "It is no use trying to be good. I am going back. Don't try to find me. Girls like me can't be saved," and returns there and then to the old house of ill-fame,

I will not spoil the reader's interest in the story by lives such love plays but a minor part, or enters not at all. saying how it ends—they can read that for themselves. Will no one voice them, or find beauty in them? I have said enough to indicate this Modern Woman's idea

To the readers who feel that humanity will right itself the that it is better to try to redeem the lost by developing

sooner for facing all its wrongs, and more particularly to-day their wings instead of hobbling their feet. The book is

the wrongs which, through many past ages, woman have good and true and well written. It is a healthy sign of

silently borne, I commend “Lotus." the times indicating much thawing of many icy barriers,

Lastly, to all who feel that men and women will come to

closer and higher relationships, when they cease to wear when we have this loving warm-hearted protest against masks each towards the other sex, removed when in the comthe social ostracism that seals the unfortunate's doom

pany of their own, to those I have tried to show, in all purity even when she still lives, especially when we know it is of intent, and belief in the best of humanity, what women may written by a woman in full blazing revolt against what be, and often are, to one another. her Mr. Boas denounces as “ These damned conventions."

Lotus, the gifted but unhappy heroine of “ The Sunless A SUNLESS HEART.”

Heart," inspires the most ardent affection in all her girl The last book on my list is so different from all the friends. She is a teacher in a girls' high school, and others that I had more than once some doubt whether it every one falls in love with her— fellow-teachers, schoolought to be included under the heading of the novels of girls, friends, all love her to distraction. But amid all the Modern Woman. But its intrinsic merits, its this tempest of adoration Lotus remains calm and un

moved. She says herself :

“If the doctrine of re-incarnation be true, I must before have been a man of many loves, and the women somehow recognise the old lorer. . : . Think of the woman, held by the awful bonds of sex, seeing the spirit of the old love gazing at them through the eyes of a woman who cannot love them back.”

Lotus, whose sunless heart gives the title to this anonymous and sombre story, is a young woman wbo, when a mere child, is subjected to the extremity of outrage by her sister's husband. She becomes a mother. before she is more than half through her teens, and although she is a good mother, the laughter of the little one never brings back the sunlight into the life of Lotus. The outraged child, become woman under the sacrifice of premature and uninvited maternity, set herself bravely to struggle with her evil destiny and to battle down the almost insurmountable obstacles which opposed her progress. She was witty, capable, and possessed of a witchery of fascination which seems to have been more fatal on women than on men. The character of Lotus is the gem of the book. Gasparine, the luckless Gaspar, and the others are but as setting to the figure of the young-old teacher whom everybody feared and everybody loved, and nobody understood. Lotus is a distinct creation-vivid, life-like and original—a welcome relief from the horde of commonplace mediocrities with which most novels are cumbered. You do not wonder that wonien loved her. You only fail to understand how it was that men did not. The passions of love and jealousy

she excited among her girl friends are described with a A SUNLESS HEART."

minute fidelity of detail; but although they all loved (From a photograph by the London Stereoscopic Co.)

her to distraction, she regarded them all with pitying

indifference. Her sun had set while still it was high noon, originality, and its pathos, its distinctively woman's

and there was cold darkness in her heart. outlook into life, and the singular glow and genius of its author forbids its omission. In "A Sunless Heart” we

“Too, too often,” says the unhappy but gifted girl, “the have the first work of a woman who has suffered, and

blow that humiliates the body also profanes the soul. I feel who has trodden out the wine of life in the wine

my soul profaned. ... The power to love or to believe in

love is dead in me. press of misery and despair. It is a woman's novel

I said a great perfect unquestioning love

would heal me. I knew what I said. I spoke of the impossible ! treating woman as an object of interest apart from her

You see the agony was so great . . . that wicked and unrelations to lovers, and the difference is made all the

natural outrage dried up with flaming fire each natural and more remarkable because it deals with the love of a womanly impulse, turning my child heart to stone, my sister for a brother, and the love of women for each mother instincts to gall. Yet when I found I could not love I other.

found too that I could act love irresistibly and in return give In the apology to the chapter entitled “Lotus,” the patience and gentleness. To all them distant in humanity author, who has not even a pseudonym or a nom de plume,

my dead hands stretch yearningly. I am indeed like one thus explains her point of view:

dead. It would seem the very smell of death is on me, so the

people draw back. " It has been, so far, the province of the novel to deal almost exclusively with lives only in their relation to the passion of

The child had been compelled to submit for four years, love between man and woman, and the complications arising

from twelve to sixteen, to the brutalities of the man who from it, as its depth, truth, fidelity, infidelity, the influence of

subsequently married her sister —“four years of slavery, circumstances, political, economic, social, geographical, upon it. torture, secrecy, and mortal terror." Yet though she did But this is only one side of life. There are others. In many not love him, " I was proud of his attention, half proud





even of his brutalities,” which is probably a true touch, forces are being relaxed; and it would be irrational strange though it may seem. The prematurely aroused optimism not to see that the results will, in many cases, sex instinct often elings to the man who has roused it, be disastrous. The example of women has a great and even though the reason recognises that he has inflicted a increasing influence upon the conduct of women. And cruel and remediless wrong.

the selfish corrupter of womanly innocence is prompt Lotus, with this dead heart in her bosom, but witli to use the precepts and example of other women to overinfinite capacities for patience and tenderness, commands come the barriers of scruple behind which his victim the love and devotion not merely of Gasparine, but of a fuebly attempts to resist his advances. Of this I had, bright and beautiful creature, Mona Lefcadio by name. the other day, a very significant and very painful Nona writes Lotus “beautiful letters speaking the illustration. worship of a young pure opening soul for a larger nature which it had idealised."

“Why not do as George Eliot did ?' If I have had that Hence much jealousy and many tears. After a time, said to me once, I have had it said to me twenty times however, the destined man arrived who kindled in Lotus's

by, men in London.” The speaker was a young lady with dead heart the living flame of love. And then, with the a childlike face, beautiful exceedingly, with a sweet bitter irony of fate, the man she loved made love not to

ingenuous innocence about it that was almost startling Lotus but to Mora. I leave the readers to find out for

from its incongruity with the remark I am quoting. She themselves how the story ends, merely assuring them was but just out of her teens, and had been for a year or that the author is far too inuch a woman of her genera two making her living as best she could in the great tion to avert the tragedy which broods in every chapter, city. It was a hard struggle at first, surmounted happily and which culminates and bursts fatally in the last.

“Who possesseth much?” asked Diego de "A Sunless Heart” is a woman's book-a young Estella, the Spanish mystic. “Even he that desireth Woman's book-it has been brewed in bitterness, and the

little," and my friend was able to survive, not so much by atmosphere over it is sorrow and pain, and a grim sense the extent of her resources as by the paucity of her of bitter destiny.

wants. She was telling me the story of her adventures In reply to my question as to what she wanted to when she dropped the above remark. “I can live quite prove, the authoress wrote:

comfortable,” she said, “on ten shillings a week. You What I wanted to do in “A Sunless Heart" was to show have no idea how much nourishment there is in a pennypeople the awful and hideous crime, the worst, the unpardon worth of haricot beans. But sometimes you find it able one of taking advantage of weakness. It is all one to me, difficult even to get your ten shillings, and then it is the whether it is taking advantage of man's weakness or woman's

temptation is so hard. I don't think any girl need go weakness—the crime is the same. And the crime is unending;

wrong unless she wants to, but when you are all alone in the effects can never be eradicated. The nature that is sub. jected against its will and without its knowledge-I mean

London without any money in your purse, if you don't, without the aquiescence of its reason and soul-will bear the

it is not for lack of opportunity. And always it was impress of the slave upon it while it lives. Therefore I want

George Eliot,” she repeated. “Why don't you do as fair play and justice; not to make women ape the man, but to

George Eliot did ? See how happy she was living with het women know and choose. Another thing I wanted to show Lewes, he was a married man. Why not let me be your the absolute rottenness of our social distinctions and convi']) Mr. Lewes? You would be far happier than struggling tions, and the eternal wisdom of the sayings, "Judge not that for bare life.'" ye be not judged,” and “Let him that is without sin among

ALAS POOR CRESSID ! you cast the first stone."

It was not the first time I had heard this. But it was WHAT WILL THE END BE ?

usually from the other side. Women, impatient of the What will be the effect of all this kind of writing hardship and dreary loneliness of their position, have upon the girls who are just flowering into womanhood ? often pleaded George Eliot's example as a justification The effect of the revolt of the modern roman against for yielding to their inclination. Sometimes they do so loveless marriage,enforced motherhood, and the untrained after they have taken the plunge, oftener it is before, ignorance of the blindfold régime-all that is healthy and when they are contemplating it. "George Eliot, why good. Not less useful is their yearning cry for “a white should I not do as she did ?" is a phrase often on the lips life for two” and their impassioned protest against the of those who never read “ Romola” or “ Middlemarch." accepted social doctrine that any second-hand bridegroom “She did not lose caste, she was not a bad woman; her is good enough for a stainless bride. But there is reason books, people say, are wonderful. But she lived with a to fear that the recoil against social conventions even when married man as if she had been his wife. Now, there is hideously unjust, nay, because of their hideous injustice, Mr. So-and-So who is very unhappy with his wife. He is may be carried so far as to bring into existence evils which ssionately in love with me. If George Eliotwill afflict as with a scourge of knotted cords many of so forth and so forth. That I had often heard, for since the coming women. All this natural and legitimate the Maiden Tribute women have discussed these matters use of genuine but lawless love as a foil to bring into of conduct with me almost as if I had been a Confessor. stronger relief the hatefulness of loveless marriage will But I had not heard, till this bright young girl menoperate, is now operating in the direction of debasing tioned it in passing, that the greatest woman novelist the moral standard of the ordinary woman to the of our time had been appropriated as a weapon for level of the ordinary standard of the ordinary man. assailing the virtue and ruining the lives of her less Hitherto where a girl bas been pressed by her too ardent powerful and less gifted sisters. suitor to ignore the restrictions of law and religion, It sounds no doubt a harsh thing to say it, but it is not she has been sustained in her resistance by the con nearly so harsh as the fact that the honoured name of sciousness of the universality and cruelty of the verdict George Eliot, which with most of us is inseparably which will be passed upon her if she yields. The man associated with much of the tenderest but sternest moral also has, to some slight extent, been restrained by the teaching of English literature, is by many regarded only knowledge that his success entailed the social ruin of the as the supreme example of the success which, even girl whom he professed to love. Poth these restraiving in society, can sometimes be achieved by lawless love.

_” and


To multitudes, indeed, it seems as if the name of George can disport themselves without danger. Hence their Eliot will come to have the same significance that the importance. name of Sir Pandarus of Troy possessed in the Elizabethan drama; nor can any one say how many luckless

For we cannot put back the clock of time, and the Cressidas of our time may have reason to lament the day when Miss Evans met George H. Lewes.

ferment of the new wine will not be stayed by

warnings as to the danger to the old bottles into WOMAN AND DIVORCE.

which it has been poured. Woman having discovered, Another direction in which the novel of the Modern

apparently very much to her own astonishment, that she Woman points to danger is that in which it leans towards has really a soul after all, and that all the rhapsodies of increased facility of divorce. That there is such a ten the poets but faintly suggest the essential divinity of dency is unmistakable. It will operate evilly for society, the element of sex, is not going to go back to her old but its most disastrous consequences will be felt by position. Through whatever stormy seas and across no women themselves. Some of these novels of our day are

matter what burning desert marked by the skeletons written by creatures who have been unkindly denied

and haunted by the ghosts of those who have

fallen by the way, she will press on; fleeing from the by nature the instincts of their sex, and few of them

monogamic prostitution of loveless marriage and the have had the advantage of personal experience of mar hideous outrage of enforced maternity as Bunyan's riage and of motherhood. But they reflect only too accu Pilgrim fled from the City of Destruction. All social rately the confused ideas, the crass ignorance, and the conventions, all religious teachings, and all moral conlack of experience which characterise many of the young ceptions will have to be reconsidered and readjusted in women of the day, who do not write novels, but who are harmony with this new central factor in the problem, making experiments 'in living with all the recklessness and woe be to us if we leave that reconstructive task to natural to those who have not learnt the a, b, c, of the fretful fingers of impatient ignorance or the hot hand the elemental forces amid which they imagine they of impulsive passion.



EAR MR. SMURTHWAYTE,-June has been a ŪT quiet month, void of sensation--of course I speak

of books alone,-and adding but little to the literature of the year. The twelve weeks of June, July, and August are always quiet with publishers, and even in the book-shops, as you will see from the following list, the successes, with two exceptions, are works which have reached a cheap edition, or which have been some while before the public:

The Lowell Lectures on the Ascent of Man. By Professor

Books on Parish and District Councils.
A Superfluous Woman.
The Jungle Book. By Rudyard Kipling.
A Little Chill's Wreath. By Elizabeth Rachel Chapman.

Lombard Street in Lent: A Course of Sermons on Social

A Yellow Aster. By Iota.

The Invisible Playmate: A Story of the Unseen. By William Canton.

Fifty Years of My Life in the World of Sport at Home and Abroad. By Sir John Dugdalo Astley.

Perhaps the most encouraging item in this list is that which points to an awakening of interest in the different books on parish and district councils. But I am especially glad to see that Miss Chapman's book, “ A Little Child's Wreath,” which I praised very highly last month, is meeting with the reception which it deserves. Another little volume, not of verse but of prose intermingled with verse, which appears in this list, is Mr. William Canton's “The Invisible Playmate," a book with a motive not unlike Miss Chapman's, for it, too, breathes the deepest spirit of regret and almost inconsolable grief for the death of a little child. But unlike the little one whose loss Miss Chapman has sung in so beautiful a series à sonnets, Mr. Canton's baby-heroine was responsible for much recourse to the muse even during her life. Carrying her

up and down the house on his shoulder, to breakfast and
to bed, the little woman's father evolved a series of
nursery rhymes and ballads perfect and charming in their
naïve simplicity. What think you of this, for instance,
as a song for little children :-
She was a treasure; she was a sweet;
She was the darling of the Army and the Fleet!
The crews of the line-of-battle ships went wild !
Whole regiments reversed their arms and sighed !
When she was sick, for her sake
The Queen took off her crown and sobbed as if her heart

would break.
The little poem has just that touch of extravagance
which children love. But you will find that the book
has too its deeply pathetic side, and here it trenches on
that ground of image and phantom in which some
children seem so much at home.

You may possibly have felt some little curiosity at seeing the announcement of a book entitled “The New Party.” It is the rage of the day. Everything is labelled new nowadays. The New Journalism, the New Humour, the New Woman, the New Unionism, and now it is only fit that we have“ The New Party." There is so little novelty in many of these, that it is to be feared that the announcement of “ The New Party will create but a languid interest in those who have examined half-a-dozen new things, and found them so like the old that it was difficult to tell t'other from which.

The New Party," however, is so new that it can hardly be said as yet to have an existence. It is a Party of the Future rather than of the Present, and exists fonly within the two covers of the book which Mr. Andrew Reid has edited, and Messrs. Hlodder Brothers have published. Its name is the Isocratic Party, a title which

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is as good as a guessing story. It seems to be an Captain Raymond Portal. Mr. Rennell Rodd, Sir Gerald" established principle that,

when you cannot have a good, Portal's successor at Zanzibar, writes a memoir of the simple name, your title cannot be too mysterious. Mr. brilliant young Englishman who perished in the very Grant Allen is its god-father, and among its prophets prime of his manhood; and Lord Cromer, in a touching there is a miscellaneous assortment of poets, philan- introduction, tells us how great a loss the Empire suffered thropists, parsons, and politicians of all kinds. Mr. Walter when Sir Gerald Portal died. The book is copiously Crane sings of the “ New Era," and Mr. Herbert illustrated, and is the latest and most authentic account Burrows discourses upon “Principles, Hopes, and Ideals.” of the latest annex to the Empire. “Sarah Grand” tells us " What to aim at”; Mr. Dearmer Mr. Andrew Lang's “Common-sense and the Cock Lane waxes eloquent in praise of the “Social Work of the Un Ghost” is a collection of characteristic observations by divided Church ;' the Dean of Westminster, the Rev. the most popular literary essayist of the day upon subC. L. Marson, and the Rev. Dr. Horton describe the jects which are more and more commanding the lattenreligious aspect of the Isocrats. Dr. Alfred Russel tion of the civilised world. Mr. Lang is not the stuff Wallace tells us all about the “Social Economy of the of which enthusiasts are made, but he has sufficient of Future;” Mr. Alfred Foster, a London Guardian, the sixth sense to see that there is more in Borderland describes "London's Pauper Chaos,” which may be said than is the fashion among most men of his set. to illustrate the social economy of the present. Lady I am glad to hear that you like the little book by Mr. Henry Somerset, Mrs. Francis Hicks, and Miss Margaret Hayes, on the “Great Revolution of 1905." You will be Macmillan write on Women, Factory Girls, and related interested in knowing that Mr. Alfred R. Wallace has subjects. Mr. Fred Hammill and Mr. Keir Hardie set been so much taken by it as to write a leading article, forth the views of the Independent Labour Party. analysing and praising it, in Land and Labour. Mr. Hayes

Nunquam" of the Clarion describes the “New has made an honest and painstaking attempt to think
Party of the North.” Mr. Byles, of Bradford, writes on out the next stage in social evolution, and you will
“Imperial and Social Ideals," from which it would seem probably find more practical interest in this little book
that in Foreign Policy the New Party is to be nothing than the more posing volume of “ The New Party."
more nor less than a resurrection of the old Manchester You have often spoken to me concerning the difficulty
Little Englander School. The Rev. W. J. Dawson sings you have had in finding good, popular addresses to read
the “Song of the Peoples;” Mr. Richard Le Gallienne to the working men in your village club, whom you
asks in verse what he should do with his vote, and gather together for a social evening on Sunday nights.
finishes with giving it up, the Isocratic candidate not Most of the sermons that are published are too conven-
being in the field, and, finally, Mr. Andrew Reid brings up tional for your purpose.

I think I have come upon
the rear with a dithyrambic dissertation concerning “Our the very thing that will suit you. It is a book by the
Policy,” which he sums up in the Duke of Wellington's Rev. Charles Leach, entitled “Sunday Evenings with
final order at Waterloo-"Let the whole line advance." Working Men.” Mr. Leach has delivered these Sunday
Unfortunately, this is just exactly the last thing Afternoon Lectures to crowded audiences of from 1,500 to
that the New Party is doing. Instead of bringing up 2,000 working men, and you will find that while his dis-
the whole line of social reformers to attain those objects courses are not above the heads of any intelligent listener,
upon which all decent people are agreed, they are career they are full of good sense, humour, illustration, and
ing far ahead in a fashion which I have no doubt you interesting and suggestive observations.
will regard as magnificent, but not as war.

After these books of serious weight perhaps the next A book of a similar kind, but much less ambitious and place should be given to Mr. Le Gallienne's “Prose optimist, is Mr. Arnold White's "English Democracy: Fancies,” which, relatively to the amount of praise it its Promises and Perils.” You will remember “Problems has evoked, is very important indeed. But I must conof a Great City," a book which Mr. White published long fess that the book has disappointed me. In the Westago, and by which he established his right to be regarded minster Gazette and in the Academy Mr. Grant Allen has as a serious authority in the discussion of social ques hailed it as a work of the highest genius, but to my tions. Mr. White writes sententiously, and every page mind it is by no means an advance upon its author's is full of thought. You will be pleased to know that “Book Bills of Narcissus,” which, published three years he regards the increasing influence of good women, the ago, still remains one of the most charming volumes of infusion of Jewish mind and thrift, and the gradual prose of the decade. Nearly all the papers in the present recovery of the reasoned conviction that the main lessons volume are reprinted from the newspapers and weekly of our English Bible are true, as among the more reviews. The best-as “A Borrowed Sovereign” and hopeful elements of the situation. The book is one to “ Sandra Belloni's Pinewood”-date back three or four be read slowly, and thought over carefully. Mr. White's years; the majority have appeared in the Speaker during the description of the vulgar, notorious ladies of our smart last twelve months. Perhaps it is the daily wear and tear of set as abandoned women in the true sense of the term, critical journalism which has gone to weaken the very pecuis sarcastic but accurate. You will be glad to see also liar and intimate charm of Mr. Le Gallienne's prose style; that Mr. White does not shirk the Population Question. but, whatever the cause, there seems to me no question He hopes that some high intelligence, some one pure and that it is in such pieces as “ A Tavern Night" (written, holy among women, instinct with enthusiasm for her it is manifest, before the majority of its companions) he is sex, will rise up to carry on the work which Mr. at his best. And yet, perhaps“White Soul,” the last paper Bradlaugh and Mrs. Besant took up with the best inten in the collection and the last to be written, is the finest tions in the world, but with such unfortunate results for and most delicate piece of prose work that he has achieved. the cause which they championed.

Here, more than on any other page, he seems to have The best book of travels of the month is the post arrived nearer the mystery, the heart, fragrant and elusive, humous work of the late Sir Gerald Portal. “ The British of all created things. And with all the disappointment Mission to Uganda in 1893” is a composite work, the with this collection which I have confessed to above, I bulk of which was written by our late Special Commis can still honestly recommend the book to every lover of sioner, the balance made up by the diary of the late literature. Its very faults are the defects of its virtues;

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