the well-ordered and methodical nature of Mr. Churchill's Muse, last year at this time we ventured the prediction that about the early summer of 1906 Mr. Churchill would publish a new novel of five or six hundred pages and that it would instantly be in great demand. The announcement of Coniston for publication this autumn did not disturb us in the least, and the latest reports bear out our conviction that the book will be ready for circulation about the time expected. Dr. Watson and Mr. James Lane Allen seem to have grown weary of story spinning, and nothing that Sienkiewicz has done since Quo Vadis seems to threaten an American popularity of any magnitude.

First place in the list of the best selling books in the January issue of last year was held by The Masquerader,_which had displaced Mr. McCutcheon's Beverly of Graustark, the leader for the concluding month of 1904. Mrs. Thurston's

book was credited with two hundred and fifty-nine points, while Beverly was second with one hundred and eighty-one. Trailing behind the leaders were The Sea Wolf, The Prodigal Son, The Affair at the Inn, and The Undercurrent. The Masquerader was again first in February, but Beverly was forced down to third place by the appearance of Ralph Connor's The Prospector, although but four points separated the two books. The Sea Wolf and The Affair at the Inn were, respectively, fourth and fifth, with Miss Michelson's In the Bishop's Carriage sixth. In March The Masquerader was still leading, with Thomas Dixon's The Clansman second, and The Prospector and Beverly of Graustark third and fourth. The April list showed The Clansman in first place by the narrow margin of six points over The Masquerader, with The Prospector a poor third and Beverly way down in fifth place. The Clansman's lead was, however, of brief duration, for the May lists saw The Marriage of William Ashe first by well over one hundred points. Mr. Dixon's book was second. The Masquerader fourth, while the other contestants in March and April had dropped entirely out of the race. The Marriage of Wil

liam Ashe held first place until July, when it was superseded by Sandy. In August, Sandy again led, while Mrs. Ward's novel was passed by Robert Hichens's The Garden of Allah, which had been third in July, and which was destined to be first in September and October. In both of these last-named months Sandy was second. In November, Rose o' the River took the lead, closely followed by Nedra, while The Garden of Allah dropped to fifth place. Curiously, the two leading novels of December, 1905, were by Mrs. Thurston and Mr. McCutcheon, who were the authors of the books that had been first and second in the lists for the final month of 1904.

These lists show that one may consistently count on about thirty different books appearing among the six best of each month during the course of the year. In 1901 there were twenty-nine; in 1902, twenty-eight; in 1903, thirtytwo; in 1904, thirty-one; and last year, twenty-nine. Of these twenty-nine, thirteen were written by men, eleven by women; three, Rose of the World, The Princess Passes and My Friend the Chaffeur, were collaborations in which husband and wife worked together; one was a collaboration of three women, and one, The Breath of the Gods, was written

by an author whose sex and identity is still a matter of conjecture to the reading public at large. This is an exceptionally good showing on the feminine side of the ledger. The lists show a renewed interest in the books of English authors. In 1904 but two out of thirtyone books were of English origin, and one by a Canadian. Last year there were ten English men and women, one Canadian, and three of the collaborations were part English and part American. The six books which scored the greatest number of points were divided equally in authorship, both as to sex and nationality.

Mr. Lord of the "Sun."

It is a habit of writers on American journalism to lay special stress on the idea that the one-man newspaper has become a thing of the past. In the main, this idea is unquestionably a true one. The days undoubtedly have gone when readers entirely subordinated the newspaper to its editor, as was the case when people talked not of theTribune or Times or Herald or Sun, but of what Greeley or Raymond or the elder Bennett or Dana had said that morning. Yet there are still in our journalism a few men who are thoroughly editors in the modern sense of the term, who bring to their work great experience and culture, and among these there is none more admired and esteemed by the newspaper profession than Mr. Chester Sander Lord, who recently completed his twenty-fifth year as managing editor of the New York Sun. Mr. Lord studied at Hamilton College, and in 1872, at the age of twentytwo, entered the service of the Sun as a reporter. Eight years later he was made managing editor.

The completion of his twenty-fifth year in this position was celebrated by a breakfast at Delmonico's on Sunday morning, December 3d, at which there were present about eighty members of the Sun staff and thirty ex-members. In the accompanying picture Mr. Lord sits

with his feet crossed just where the borders of the rugs join. To his left is Mr. W. M. Laffan, who is only the proprietor, and at Mr. Laffan's left is Mr. E. P. Mitchell, the editor. Mr. Laffan has his feet apart and his fingers intertwined. Mr. G. B. Mallon, city editor, is furthest from Mr. Lord of the four men seated at his right on the floor. Mr. D. F. Kellogg, financial editor, is nearest to Mr. Lord of this same group. Among the men present were representatives of every department of the paper, although, of course, it has many notable absentees. This is the first time that anything like a group picture of the Sun staff has been taken.

More McCutcheon Cartoons.

Like a good many thousand other Americans, we regard the publication of a new volume of cartoons by Mr. John T. McCutcheon as an event not to be passed over lightly. Mr. McCutcheon's latest book is entitled The Mysterious Stranger, and all we can say in criticism is that any other title would have served as well. Frankly, the volume is a collection of cartoons of all kinds, without any definite plan or purpose, and yet we do not think that any one who takes it up will lay the book down until every page has been subjected to the most careful scrutiny. Of the two cartoons which we reproduce, one has an exceedingly familiar appearance. It is another of those ludicrous processions of Hoosier authors which Mr. McCutcheon every now and then depicts with great humour and ingenuity.

aroma of its old-time sanctity. To shoot bob-cats in a magazine is apparently only a little better than shooting them in a Sunday newspaper; but when the President shoots them in a well-bound book, the thing is eminently respectable and worthy of his high office. Mr. Roosevelt is the first President of the United States to write and publish a book during his presidential term. All other Presidents have lacked the time, if not the inclination; and even after leaving office not many of them have written books. To this rule the most conspicuous exceptions among ex-Presidents are General Grant and Mr. Cleveland. As to the question of dignity, criticism is rather absurd, in view of the various royal authors whose example might be cited. Napoleon III. wrote, or at least professed to have written, a book on Julius Cæsar; and the present German Kaiser has written all sorts of things, from his theological treatise on the Babel und Bibel controversy down to his poem on the Norse god Ægir. And there is Queen Victoria, whose two books are the most wonderful examples of the strictly commonplace that have ever seen the light. Talking about dignity, take the following typical passage from her Majesty's Our Life in the Highlands:

We got up at a quarter to six o'clock. We breakfasted. Mamma came to take leave of us; Alice and the baby were brought in, poor little things, to wish us "good-bye." Then good Bertie came down to see us, and Vicky appeared as voyageuse, and was all impatience to go. At seven we set off with her for the railroad, Vicomtess Canning and Lady Caroline Cocks in our carriage. A very wet morning. We got into the carriage again at Paddington and proceeded to Woolwich, which we reached at nine. Vicky was safely put into the boat, and then carefully carried on deck of the yacht by Renwick, the sergeant-footman, whom we took with us in the boat on purpose.

If the Queen of Great Britain, France and Ireland, and Empress of India could publish four hundred pages of this sort of thing, surely the elected President of an easy-going Republic may be allowed to write an interesting little book on bears.