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Lippincott's Magazine of Popular Literature and Science, Vol. 15, by Various

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In this same _Play_, Mrs. Kin peck soliloquizes thus: "I fell into a
most unquiet sleep. I thought I saw Cliqueteaux, the old croupier, who
died of love for me--of that and a complication of other disorders. A
man that was a genius, with a wart on his nose. It was hereditary--the
genius, not the wart," etc. Now this may be "funny," but it is not
dramatic. It reminds one of the most forced passages of Artemas Ward's
generally fresh and unforced humor. But perhaps the worst instance in
all Robertson's play of this pitiful sacrifice of situation and
character to a petty "joke" is found in _Caste_. Sam Gerridge, a
gas-fitter and plumber, desiring to marry Polly, the daughter of
Eccles, a drunken old brute, tells him so, casually mentioning that to
prove his affection he will do anything he can in "the way of
spirituous liquor or tobacco." This captivates the heart of old
Eccles, who joins the hands of the young couple, saying with a drunken
leer, "Samuel Gerridge, she is thine. Samuel Gerridge, you shall be
'er 'usband! I don't know a gas_fitter_ man!" (The italics are in the

These are but minor errors, however. The great fault in Robertson's
comedies is the lack of strong dramatic interest. There is no human
passion. There is no exhibition of human strength and human weakness.
There is little of that clash of character against character from
which results true comedy. But even if his characters are mere
empty-headed automata, even if his plays have not the literary value
of Mr. W.S. Gilbert's, even if his pieces have not the situations of
Sardou or the wit of Sheridan, he has a simple sweetness all his own.
And perhaps, after all, the greatest objection to him is the weakness
of his imitators. Success is always a schoolmaster. But it is not just
to hold Robertson responsible for the faults of Alberry or the
failings of the tea-cup-and-saucer school of comedy-writers.



It is the fashion to decry French memoirs of court-life, and,
considering the quaint freedom of style which characterizes much of
this voluminous literature, it is not strange. Many of these memoirs,
original letters, etc. are exceedingly interesting, because of their
merciless unmasking of some of the sublime figure-heads of history;
notably the letters of Madame Charlotte Elizabeth of Bavaria, widow of
Monsieur, the only brother of Louis XIV. She always hated the French
manners, and longed for her native _sauer-kraut_ and sausages, which
to her taste were finer than all the luxuries and dainties of the
French cuisine. She was counted a severe moralist, and her tongue was
more dreaded than a bayonet-charge. To be sure, her enemies more than
hinted that her extraordinary virtue was trebly guarded by her
ugliness. On the latter subject she says herself, "I must be cruelly
ugly: I never had a passable feature. My eyes are little, my nose
short and big, my lips long and flat, my cheeks hanging, my face long,
my waist and my legs large, my stature short: sum-total, a little old
fright." But she was intelligent and witty, and that, in France at
least, goes a long way with a woman. She was also loyal and truthful.
No one doubted her word when once she had spoken. This makes her
testimony valuable, though many incidents circumspectly narrated by
her seem incredible. Of the young duchesse de Bourgogne, second
daughter of Louis XIV., she says: One of her amusements was to make
her lackeys drag her over the floor by her feet. It is to be presumed
that the duchess was a _very_ young person at this time.

Madame Charlotte's portrait of Marie Therese, queen of _Le Grand
Monarque_, is not very flattering: "Her teeth were black and broken,
and she ate immoderately of garlic and chocolate. She was very fond of
basset, but she never won, for she could never learn to play any game.
She ate long and very slowly, taking mouthfuls for a canary." The
diagnosis of the disease of which the queen died displays the popular
pathological lore of those times. Madame says: "She died of an abscess
on the arm, for which Fagon bled her. The humor entered and fell on
the heart: he then gave her an emetic to remove the humor, and this
suffocated her." La Valiere, according to Madame Charlotte, was the
only woman who ever really loved the king. She limped a little, had
lovely eyes, irregular teeth, and was very neat in her person, while
Madame de Montespan was just the reverse.

Of Cardinal Richelieu we have a glimpse in madame's letters which his
biographers, generally at least, omit. She tells us that he used to
have violent fits of insanity, during which he would imagine that he
was a horse, jump over a billiard-table, kick his servants, neigh, and
make a fearful noise for an hour. His domestics would then get him
into bed, and after much sweating he would wake without the least
memory of what had passed. As "jumping over a billiard-table" might
appear an incredible feat, at least for an aged cardinal, it is proper
to remark that the billiard-tables of those times bore about the same
relation in size to our modern billiard-tables that the ancient
spinnet did to a grand pianoforte.


Some of our young ladies have a pretty art of constructing miniature
landscapes out of pebbles and mosses, strips of glistening paper for
brooks, little fuzzy pine sticks painted green for trees, and animals
and Swiss cottages from the toy-shop. Could these amateur artists once
see how the Japanese do this thing, they would abandon their mosses
and pebbles in despair. A late traveler in Japan says of one of these:
"It was a fairy-like landscape seen through a spy-glass reversed."
Some of the details were real trees dwarfed to pigmies by the art of
the Oriental florist. There were limpid lakes peopled with gold-fish;
grottos and summer-houses of exquisite finish draped with growing
verdure and large enough to shelter a small company of rabbits: lovely
walks winding through groves, lawns and by miniature parterres of
flowers, and finally, liliputian canals, spanned by elegant bridges
wide enough for the passage of a large rat.

* * * * *

Among the "Notes" in the New York _Nation_ of May 6th is the

"In the new edition of Prescott's complete works (Lippincott) we have
remarked that the introduction to _Charles V._, so admirable for the
time when it was written, is left untouched by the editor, not even
the notes giving any intimation of the great progress made in the
knowledge of the Middle Ages within the last hundred years. The editor
may have chosen to regard the work as a literary monument to be
preserved as it stands, and certainly it would require very extensive
if not entire recasting."

There would seem to be some misapprehension at the bottom of these
statements. No one, we believe, has ever undertaken to edit
Robertson's _History of Charles the Fifth_. Prescott appended to it a
long "Account of the Emperor's Life after his Abdication," and for
that reason it has been included in all subsequent editions of his
works. But no intimation has ever been given that the editor of
Prescott's histories had assumed the same office for Robertson. If any
one be engaged in editing _Charles the Fifth_, we can only wish him
joy of the task. We trust, however, he will not proceed on the plan
suggested by the _Nation_, of "recasting" the work in whole or in
part. Such a process could hardly be considered as proper treatment of
any literary production, which, whatever its demerits, should at least
be subjected to no worse perversions than those of dishonest or
incompetent criticism.


Macready's Reminiscences, and Selections from his Diaries and Letters.
Edited by Sir Frederick Pollock, Bart., one of his Executors. New
York: Macmillan & Co.

It is probable that this book will excite a degree of disappointment
in many readers, who, knowing Macready's position outside his
profession, may naturally have expected to find in the record of his
life ample and interesting details of his intercourse, often amounting
to intimacy, with a great number of notable persons. This expectation
would without doubt have been gratified had the autobiography, which
occupies a third of the volume and covers about the same proportion of
the writer's theatrical career, been carried to its close. Macready
was not one of those men who spring to eminence at a bound: his powers
were gradually and slowly developed, and owing partly to this fact,
but partly also to unfavorable circumstances, the recognition of them
was tardy and grudging. For many years after his _debut_ on the London
boards he, who at a later period was almost disparaged as a
pre-eminently intellectual actor, owed his chief successes to his
performance of melodramatic parts like Rob Roy and William Tell, for
which his mental as well as physical endowments were considered
especially to qualify him. When at length he had reached his full
maturity, he stood without a living rival as the representative of
leading Shakespearian characters; and maintaining this supremacy down
to his retirement from the stage, closed the line of great tragedians
and left a place which after the lapse of a quarter of a century still
remains unfilled. His high personal worth and his efforts to exalt and
purify the drama won him golden opinions from all sorts of men; and,
with the exception of Garrick, no actor probably ever mingled as
largely or came into as close relations with persons distinguished in
other and alien walks of life. Mere fashionable society he seems never
to have frequented, and his labors were too pressing and onerous to
allow of that continuous companionship with a chosen circle in which
men of letters or of science, however industrious, are generally able
to find relaxation. But he came in contact, at one time or another,
with most of the celebrated people of his day on both sides of the
Atlantic, his friendship was sought and prized by many of them, and
the occasional glimpses we get of them in his _Diaries_ are of a kind
to deepen our regret that the _Reminiscences_, in which the power of
skillfully elaborating his material is sufficiently evidenced, should
close abruptly just when the sources of its interest were becoming
wider and fuller.

But any loss from this cause of amusing anecdotes or graphic
descriptions of persons or scenes is more than made good by the far
higher value and stronger attraction of the book as the portraiture of
a striking character and a remarkable career. In this view the
_Diaries_ are not inferior in interest to the expanded narrative that
precedes them. Indeed, terse and concise as they generally are, they
have the advantage of presenting freshly and vividly the impressions
and reflections of the moment, and thus exhibiting the writer's mind
both in its habitual and exceptional states without reservation or
deliberate purpose. They do not, however, reveal any different image
from that which is presented in the autobiography: on the contrary,
they confirm the truthfulness and frank fidelity of the more conscious
self-delineation which is there attempted. There breathes, indeed,
through the whole book a tone of unaffected sincerity, the charm of
which cannot be overrated. Not only does every statement bear the
stamp of veracity, but there is an utter absence of artifice, of any
design, so to speak, upon the reader, which is as rare as it is
beautiful. Admiration and sympathy were needs of Macready's nature,
but he will have no jot of them beyond what he can fairly and
honorably claim. Least of all, will he exalt himself at the expense of
others. He pays no idle compliments, pours out no fulsome or insidious
eulogies, but he speaks of his rivals and his predecessors with the
warm appreciation of one who had felt the full influence of their
power, and who could never look on merit with an oblique eye. His
worship of Mrs. Siddons, as unparalleled in her genius, was life-long,
and his descriptions of her acting convey a more vivid idea of its
peculiar qualities and matchless effect than any others we can
remember to have read. Talma comes next in his regard as "the most
finished artist of his time, not below Kean in his most energetic
displays, and far above him in the refinement of his taste and the
extent of his research--equaling Kemble in dignity, unfettered by his
stiffness and formality." He says acutely of Kean that "when under the
impulse of his genius he seemed to _clutch_ the whole idea of the man,
... but if he missed the character in his first attempt at conception
he never could recover it by study." Of Kean, if of any actor, we
might have feared that his notices would be tinged with jealousy; but
not only does he render justice to his originality and "burning
energy," but his account of the only evening he ever spent in private
with "this extraordinary man" brings into full relief the charm of his
manners and personal qualities at a time when he was still unspoilt by
flattery and unenfeebled by dissipation. Sketches and criticisms more
or less complete are given of many other great performers, whom, it is
to be remembered, Macready had less opportunity of seeing in a variety
of parts than if he had not himself been a busy member of the
profession. He can censure as well as praise--less warmly, but not
less candidly. His verdict on Ristori, whom he saw after his
retirement, may not improbably appear harsh to her admirers, but we
should recommend them to ponder well before endeavoring to controvert

It would, however, be difficult if not impossible to name a volume of
memoirs in which there is so little dispraise of individuals, such an
absence of what can be characterized as depreciation either in the way
of direct remark or of insinuation. There will be no call for
contradiction of any slurs upon character through perversion of facts
or the repetition of hearsay calumny in its pages. Nor does this seem
to proceed from either a mere distaste for the chatter of gossips or an
unwillingness to wound the feelings of survivors, though both these
traits are discernible enough. The strong and more pervading cause lay
in an instinctive nobility of nature which sought only what was
excellent and had no keen scent for blemishes or meannesses. There are
in his _Diaries_ many bitter reproaches and vehement denunciations, but
they are all directed against his own conduct. Like Orlando, he will
chide no breather in the world but himself, against whom he knows most
faults. He had the defects incidental to a sensitive organization, an
irritable temperament and an aspiring mind. He was apt to suspect
hostility where none existed, and to resent indignities that were never
intended. He confesses on one occasion at least to an unworthy elation
at the inferiority of a rival. Above all, he was unable to curb the
outbreaks of impatience and anger excited by negligence or
stupidity--outbreaks which were often sufficiently amusing to the
bystanders from the contrast between the old-fashioned violence of the
language and the refined tones and lofty bearing of the speaker. In
fact, so foreign were such displays to the dominant qualities of his
character, while yet so closely connected with the fine sense and
exacting spirit of the artist, that one is tempted to wish that he
could himself have viewed them with more indifference, accepting this
thorn in the flesh as a slight but irremediable misfortune, instead of
making it the constant subject of penitence and self-abasement. But
such a course would have been still more foreign to his nature, ever
aiming at perfection, moral and artistic, ever summoning his faculties
and actions to the stern inquest of conscience, and refusing to accept
the verdict of any lower tribunal. And the struggle had its reward in a
real if not complete victory. The weeds, if never wholly eradicated,
could not choke the nobler growth; the stream, if it retained its
turbid coloring, increased always in volume and majesty. The fine
qualities which might so easily have deteriorated remained unscathed.
His keen sense of justice and honor, his inborn candor and generosity,
his fervent love of virtue and goodness in their simplest and least
obtrusive exhibitions, his cordial admiration of true greatness,--these
and kindred traits never lost their freshness or force. Above all, he
retained throughout life that deep and exquisite tenderness of feeling
which formed the supreme charm of his character, as it did of his
acting, and to which it would not, we think, be easy to find a parallel
in a person of his own sex. It was not alone in his ardent family
affections--his fond recollections of the mother he lost in boyhood,
his devotion to his sister, wife and brother, his passionate love of
his children, or his anguish and abiding sorrow at every severance of
such ties--that this quality displayed itself. His sympathy with all
suffering, especially if conjoined with innocence and patient
endurance, was not only quick but strong. His eyes fill with tears at
the sight of a fellow-passenger in a mail-coach, a poor deformed boy,
who is carrying a basket of toys from one town to another, and he
shakes his hand at parting with a "God bless thee!" that comes direct
from the heart. It was strikingly characteristic of him that, with all
his intense ambition, his resolute desire--to use a phrase which we
have heard him apply to himself--"to rise above the crowd, and stand
when others fall," he chose for his wife a young provincial actress,
whom he had once chided for her inattention or inability, but whose
artlessness of manner, purity and sweetness of nature and aptness for
improvement so enlisted his sympathies that he constituted himself her
friend and guide until the death of her father and brother awakened a
still warmer solicitude, bringing with it the discovery that "love had
been the inspiration of all the counsel and assistance he had rendered
her." Nor is the noble frankness less noticeable with which he tells
of his sister's unconcealed disappointment on her first introduction to
the _fiancee_, whose person as well as mind he had so extolled in his
descriptions and whom happily she learned ere long to look at with his
eyes, so that the happiness and serenity of his home were destined to
be pure and undisturbed.

Within a few years after his marriage he fixed his abode at a short
distance from London, where the sight of open fields, of trees and
flowers, never failed to exercise its soothing and restorative
influence upon him. The love of Nature was a passion with him, and in
the record of his journeys--whether the few which he was able to make
for the sole purpose of pleasure or his many professional tours--his
notices of the scenery show how large was the enjoyment he derived
from this healthful source. When, too, he withdrew from public life,
it was to the neighborhood of a small town, remote from the former
scenes of his struggles and triumphs, but commanding a wide view over
a pleasing landscape. Here, as the friend who has edited this volume
tells us, "he devoted himself almost exclusively to labors of kindness
and usefulness; his charity was so extensive that, although his left
hand knew not what his right hand did, it was impossible that it
should escape observation even beyond the sphere of the recipients of
his bounty; and while thus engaged in relieving distress in the
neighborhood of his new home, he continued to remit money to old
pensioners elsewhere up to the day of his death.... But his great
interest was in the cause of education, especially among the poorer
classes, which he developed at the cost of incessant personal
exertion, and mainly at his own expense. He established a
night-school, which he conducted himself, and in which he was assisted
by voluntary teachers from among the gentlemen and tradesmen of the
town, who attended in turns, but he was himself never absent from his
post, except under very urgent necessity. After a time some of his
friends raised a subscription in order to relieve Macready of a part
of the burden which his own zeal in the cause had brought upon
himself. Yet, although his own contribution to it had not been ever
less than one hundred pounds a year [about a twelfth of his whole
income], he was so fond of the night-school that he accepted this aid
as a proof of the estimation in which his work was held, and as an
additional fund, but not in ease of his own payments." Such a close to
such a life will seem either a lame and impotent conclusion or a most
fitting and harmonious cadence, according to the point of view.

We have spoken chiefly of Macready's character as a man, which was so
attractive in itself, and is so faithfully and lucidly mirrored in
this record of his life, that the work may be commended to readers of
every class and ranked with the choicest specimens of biography. As
the record of an artistic career its interest is of course more
limited. Yet in this respect also its excellence is very great, and if
the art which Macready practiced with such assiduity and devotion,
though with no undue estimate of its value or importance, held a
higher place in the world's regard, the light which is here thrown on
its processes and requirements would be received as an inestimable
boon. But at least his example, the spirit in which he worked, is
worthy of the study and emulation of those who cultivate any art. In
none has excellence ever been achieved by deeper thought or more
unremitting labor. It would be absurd to question Macready's real
eminence, based on the judgment of critical audiences with whom great
acting was not a mere matter of tradition. But we may readily concede
that in natural endowments he fell short of the most illustrious of
his predecessors, that he lacked the intuitive grasp which he ascribes
to Mrs. Siddons and to Kean, and that he never reached the intensity
and complete _abandon_ which gave an overwhelming effect to their
highest performances. We may apply to his acting what Carlyle has so
justly said of the poetry of Schiller, that it "shows rather like a
partial than a universal gift--the labored product of certain
faculties rather than the spontaneous product of his whole nature."
There was always the perception of the natural limit of his
qualifications, instead of any suggestiveness of a boundless capacity.
His voice, though rich and musical and of extraordinary compass, had
not the sonorous roundness and the penetrating sweetness of the rarest
organs, and was subject to a tremulousness which, though often
pleasing, could not but be considered as a defect. His features,
though capable of great expression, had neither the beauty nor the
extraordinary mobility so desirable in an actor. His attitudes and
walk were graceful, picturesque, often superb, but not absolutely free
from conventionalism. Instead of bursting away, as Kean had done, from
the meshes of tradition, he had only expanded and attenuated them to
the utmost, and if they did not really cramp, they still appeared to
circumscribe Nature and truth. It is evident that without the most
persistent efforts he could never have triumphed over obstacles and
gained the highest rank in his profession. How ardent and
conscientious was the struggle a thousand details in this volume bear
testimony. Perhaps the most curious is the description given in a
letter written after his retirement of the methods he had practiced
for repressing exaggeration in gesture, utterance or facial
expression. "I would lie down on the floor, or stand straight against
a wall, or get my arms within a bandage, and, so pinned or confined,
repeat the most violent passages of _Othello, Lear, Hamlet, Macbeth_,
or whatever would require most energy and emotion; I would speak the
most passionate bursts of rage under the supposed constraint of
_whispering them_ in the ear of him of her to whom they were
addressed, thus keeping both voice and gesture in subjection to the
real impulse of the feeling.... I was obliged also to have frequent
recourse to the looking-glass, and had two or three large ones in my
room to reflect each view of the posture I might have fallen into,
besides being under the necessity of acting the passion close to a
glass to restrain the tendency to exaggerate its expression--which was
the most difficult of all--to repress the ready frown, and keep the
features, perhaps I should say the muscles, of the face undisturbed,
whilst intense passion would speak from the eye alone." If the
propriety of some of these exercises be questionable, there can be no
doubt that the general effect of such discipline was to correct the
acquired tendencies of his youth and to chasten his style until it
lacked nothing less than refinement.

All this concerned the _technique_ of his art. Its soul--the thoughts,
the feelings, the characters to be embodied by it--formed the subject
of deeper, more constant and more delightful meditation. Here at least
Macready was at no disadvantage in a comparison with the most
illustrious of his predecessors. Some there may have been who gave
more vividly the salient points of a character, or who, as in the case
of Kean's Othello, infused into their personations of some of the
grandest but least complex of Shakespeare's creations an intensity of
passion that defied all rivalry. But none ever brought to the study of
the poet the intellectual discernment, the sympathetic spirit, the
true and heartfelt devotion with which Macready ministered at his
shrine. Not his own part alone, but the whole play, including the
words and scenes omitted in representation, were imprinted in his
memory and continually revolved. The groundwork was thus laid in a
thorough knowledge of the _medium_, to use the expression of Taine,
applying it, however, not to mere external facts and circumstances,
but to that individuality of form, ideas and style which the great
dramatist has given to each of his works. Then the meaning and bearing
of every phrase received their share of light from the same general
source, and the performance was pervaded throughout by a consistency
and a subtle discrimination which rendered it a living commentary,
acting on the intellect through the emotions.

It is easy to understand why, in the great variety of Macready's
impersonations, none stood out by universal consent as indubitably the
greatest. To all he gave his unstinted devotion and the full measure
of his powers, and the choice was left to be determined mainly by the
peculiar taste of the spectator. Yet there were some which must be
recalled with especial vividness as best exemplifying the scope of his
genius and his general characteristics. Two of these parts, Werner and
Melantius, were not Shakespearian creations, but they were at least
devices of the poetical imagination, not of the mere playwright's
handiwork. In both we have the spectacle of a proud and sensitive but
open and loving nature blighted with dishonor and misery through the
crimes of one near in blood and cherished with an unsuspecting
affection. Here were conceptions that made no demands on his
imaginative power. He had not to transform himself into the
characters, but only to give free play to the springs of his own
nature. The grief, the passion, the sudden revulsions of feeling were
not mimetic displays: one could imagine no different expression of
them. He was Werner and Melantius because Werner and Melantius were

Shakespeare's characters do not so adapt themselves to individual
idiosyncrasies. No man can hope to identify himself with them unless
he can give wings to his faculties and soar above the plane of his
actual emotions. Often, no doubt, apparent triumphs have been gained
by displays of histrionic power that owed little to the informing
spirit of the poet. But Macready has never been accused of seeking
such results: whatever his performances may have lacked, they were
always imbued with a fine intelligence which brought all the details
into harmony and kept the attention fixed on the conception of the
character. Thus in Macbeth, which was perhaps, on the whole, his most
perfect impersonation, every look and gesture, every intonation,
conveyed the idea of one who lived on the border-line of an invisible
world, to whom all shapes and actions were half phantasmal, for whom
clear vision and sober contemplation were impossible. All his
utterances were abrupt, all his movements hurried; a certain wildness,
not of mere mental agitation, but of a spirit nurtured on unrealities,
marked his manner and countenance throughout. In Hamlet there was the
drawback of a physical appearance unsuited to the part. Yet it was the
character which he had studied most profoundly, and in which, as we
remember him in it, he held the most complete sway over the minds and
feelings of his audiences. None of his performances, as may be
imagined, was so distinguished by its intellectuality, yet none was so
simply and irresistibly pathetic. The abstraction and self-communing
in the delivery of the famous soliloquy can never have been surpassed,
and were probably never equaled; and throughout the closet scene there
was a reality in the tenderness, the vehemence, and the awe which
held the spectators breathless and spellbound. "Beautiful Hamlet,
farewell, farewell!" are his closing words in recording his last
performance of the part. But this was no final parting: while memory
retained her seat in the mind of this great artist, this true and
loving servant of Shakespeare's genius, the matchless creations with
which he had so identified himself could never cease to be the
subjects of daily meditation. "On one occasion," we are told, "after
his powers had so much failed that it was long since he had been
capable of holding or reading a book to himself, he said he had been
reading _Hamlet_. On some surprise being expressed, he touched his
forehead, and said 'Here;' and when asked if he could recollect the
whole play, he replied, 'Yes, every word, every pause; and the very
pauses have eloquence.'"

Books Received

The Internal Mission of the Holy Ghost. By Henry Edward, Archbishop of
Westminster New York: D. & J. Sadlier.

Man and Beast Here and Hereafter. By Rev. J.G. Wood, M.A., F.L.S. New
York: George Routledge & Son.

Lakey's Village and Country Houses, comprising eighty-four pages of
Designs. New York: The Orange Judd Co.

Social Science and National Economy. By R.E. Thompson, M.A.
Philadelphia: Porter & Coates.

A Defence of the United States Patent System. By J.S. Perry. Boston:
James R. Osgood & Co.

Brief Biographies: English Statesmen. By T.W. Higginson. New York:
G.P. Putnam's Sons.

The Best Reading: Hints on the Selection of Books. New York: G.P.
Putnam's Sons.

How to Make a Living. By George C. Eggleston. New York: G.P. Putnam's

Ralph Wilton's Weird: A Novel. By Mrs. Alexander. New York: Henry Holt
& Co.

Warrington's Manual. By William S. Robinson. Boston: Lee & Shepard.

Home Talks. By John H. Noyes. Published by the Oneida Community.

Spain and the Spaniards. By N.L. Thieblin. Boston: Lee & Shepard.

Social Pressure. By Sir Arthur Helps. Boston: Roberts Brothers.

In the Camargue. By Emily Bowles. Boston: Loring.

Book of the day: