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Tommy steals a penny, knowing that to steal pennies is wrong. He is very little, and a penny is very little, and your impulse, not to slap him, might be to tell him that he is a very paughty boy and have done with it. It will go to your heart to bring home to him quietly and inexorably the consequences of theft, especially as you cannot do it in the first urgent rush of your moral condemnation; but if, next time you are about to send him to the shop for something, you say, "No, I can't send you because you might steal iny pennies as you did the other day," this will be hateful for you to do, but

The New Witness.

it will show him more plainly than anything else what happens to people who steal. They are not trusted. And the same with lies. Show him that those who tell lies are not believed.

But, remembering how it felt to be a child, have pity, and do not teach him these lessons when anyone else is there. Let the humiliation of them be a secret between you two alone. Only when a wrong has been done which demands a restitution or an amende should the soul of the child, shamed with wrong-doing, be exposed to alien eyes.

E. Nesbit.

BOOKS AND AUTHORS.

To tell a pretty story of a blind girl and her devoted mother, to intertwine it with the happy closing chapters of the mother's romance, and to make the combination an indirect description of the new South and a tribute to its energetic women is an ambitious undertaking, but Mrs. Isla May Mullins's "The Blossom Shop" shows that it is quite within her powers. To direct the narrative so that it naturally culminates in the recovery of the sweet little girl's eyesight, and in three weddings seems easy to her, but, as "Easy reading means hard writing" is a perfectly veracious saying, much toil must have been expended upon the brief story to bring it to its actual excellence. It is prettily illustrated with four pictures by Mr. John Goss. L. C. Page & Co.

til he is close upon the last page. The man, a curate of High Church proclivities, and a perfect magnet for comic adventures, becomes uncertain in his faith, and falls in love with a hard-riding scion of a family devoted to racing; and the girl deliberately sins, and comes to confess to him as a clergyman, and to inquire where she can find God, a little matter that begins to interest her after she has decided to marry her fellow-sinner, some equestrian feats, undertaken partly in the hope of killing herself, having most vexatiously proved ineffectual. Matters are a little complicated by the lady's saving the curate's life, and by the curate's discovery that while he has been ransacking ritualistic manuals to find a way to array himself on the side of his Maker, he has been neglecting a plain duty, which would have guided him thither, but Mr. Bashford is quite capable of leading him into the right path. One hardly expects the man's problem in exegesis, and the woman's attempt to account for the workings of Providence to be solved as

Blind indeed are the man and woman for whom Mr. H. H. Bashford seems to demand the reader's tenderness in the title of his "Pity

the Poor Blind,” thereby puzzling him in various ways un

simply and directly as they are in the pire of the greatest consequence to her, story, but it would be no kindness to and her step-daughter sees that her deanybody concerned to reveal the solu- sired vocation is to make her halftion and catastrophe, especially as brother happy. Mr. Wriothesley does the book is not too big to be read in a not preach; he leaves other ambassafew hours. It will horrify not a few dresses and other dowerless girls to inby its calm presenta tion of a young terpret him, contenting himself with lady who swears as easily as any old showing how these two worked out sailor, or veteran stage driver, but their destiny, and constructs a story such, according to the British journal. abounding in spirited, intelligent talk, ist, is just now the speech of certain contrasting well with the enormously young persons enrolled in the baronet- conceited utterances of a German age of England. Mr. Bashford makes prince seeking a purchaser for his title the creature successively farcical and

and name. The book is not cheerful, tragic, and not in the least like a cari- but it is never bitter, and never undig. cature, and a good piece of literary nified. Mr. Henry James's “The Amwork is the result. Edifying? No, it bassador" has a worthy counterpart in is a novel, not a homily. Henry Holt “The Ambassadress.” George H. Doran & Co.

Company.

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Berlin is the scene of Mr. William M. Edouard Le Roy's “The New Wriothesley's “The Ambassadress," Philosophy of Henri Bergson" and the great truths that a man should abounds in enthusiasm that it fairly marry a fortune and that a girl should

sweeps a sympathetic reader from his marry a title, and that, once married, moorings and speeds him on his course neither girl nor man needs to worry towards acceptance of the theory of about any of the obligations mentioned the simple unity of productive intuiin the prayer-book are the principles as tion with a pleasing violence. It is by to which girls and men, maid and ma- "considering this philosophy as a liv. tron, discourse with frigid, cynical ing act, not as a rather clever disunanimity. The Ambassadress herself course, by examining the peculiar exis more concerned about a man whom cellence of its soul, rather than the she loved before her marriage, than formation of its body, that the inabout her little son, but her step- quirer will succeed in understanding daughter, having been thrown aside by it,” says M. Le Roy.

coldthe same man, quietly asks to be in- blooded person such injunction formed why a husband should be seems to demand unconditional aca mere mustard-plaster, a kind of ceptance of the philosophy in quesremedy for all manner of evil.” “You tion, and in the two chapters of his should have taught me a trade," she in- "General View" M. Le Roy falls little structs her stepmother; "I think some- short of commanding it. Small wonder thing will surely turn up in which I that M. Bergson found deep symcan be useful.” The “something" is pathy of thought in them, when they provided by a motor-car which runs appeared as articles in the Revue de over her little half-brother, as he races Deux Mondes but in commending about the Berlin roadways on roller- them he went still further, and attriskates, and fractures most of his bones, buted to M. Le Roy the power of rewhile his mother is arranging the af- thinking the subject in a personal and fairs of Europe. Too late, his mother original manner and declared himself feels that she has lost the em- willing to accept his critic's views as

an

to the possibilities of further devel- teresting and bristles with suggesopments of the doctrine. To this tions. Henry Holt & Co. "General View," M. Le Roy has now appended eight chapters of "Addi- The theme of Mr. Edwin Davies tional Explanations," and gives as the Schoonmaker's drama, "The Ameribasic thought of his whole study, cans," is the present conflict between “M, Bergson's philosophy is a philos- manual workers and their employers. ophy of duration.” It gives positive The chief actor is J. Donald Egerton, a metaphysics, the metaphysics of experi. "lumber-king" and mill-owner, who, ence, the supreme place. M. Bergson having built a mansion wherein to rejects doctrines confining themselves dwell at ease, discovers too late that its to personifying the unity of nature, very walls and stairs audibly reveal or the unity of knowledge in God as the business methods by which his motionless first cause. He accepts the fortune was gathered, and that the idea of a free and creating God, pro- whole structure is a horror to his wife, ducing matter and life at once, and and to his son, Harry. Harry, murdercontinuing creative effort in a vital ously assaulted by a workman on the direction by the evolution of species erroneous suspicion of being in league and the construction of human person- with his father, dies in a pitiable deliralities. Of morality, he says nothing ium, and the capitalist, in the presence and will, in M. Le Roy's opinion, say of his dead son's body, orders the arrest nothing, until his method shall' lead of a leading worker, who is carried off him to results as positive as those of by detectives, leaving J. Donald Egerhis works already published; he is wait- ton to sneer, “We'll see, my man, how ing and searching. “I seek vainly," you'll shake down the pillars of this says M. Le Roy, "for the decree for- land!” A few minutes later, a wounded bidding him the right to study the militiaman breaks down the door, problem of biological evolution in it- staggers in with Harry Egerton's will self and for the necessity which con. giving the workmen a mill of their pels him to abide now by the premises own, and falls dead, with his last contained in his past work. Life has breath blowing a bugle blast to summore than one order, action more than mon the militia. A secondary plot exone plane, duration more than one poses the ways by which the millrhythm, existence more than one per- owner's timber interests are used to spective. Life, both in its first ten- serve his mill interest, inasmuch as he dency and in its general direction, is strips the country of its forests, reascent, growth, spiritualizing and gardless alike of the farmer and of the emancipating creation. No doctrine is worker. The Governor of the State, more open, none lends itself better to the Bishop of the Diocese, the Comfurther extension. M. Le Roy does mander of the State Militia and the not find it part of his duty to state Chief of Police participate in the what may be extracted from it or to drama, all as more or less subservient foresee what M. Bergson's conclu- to Egerton, but a figure “with the tensions will be. “Let us confine ourselves.” der, bearded face of the Christ” aphe says, “to taking in what it [this pears to the dying Harry, and holds doctrine] has expressly given us of out both hands to him. Presented on itself.” Whether one accept M. Berg- the stage, the drama would about son's philosophy or not, it is im. equally vex the workman and his empossible not to admire the spirit in ployer, because it shows the best and which M. Le Roy writes of it and of the worst of both of them. Mitchell its author. The volume is deeply in- Kennerly, publisher.

BIVENTA SERIES
VOLONB LX.

No. 3605 August 9, 1913

FROM BBGINNING VOL. OCLXXVIII

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CONTENTS 1. Will the Government Survive? By Harold Spender.

CONTEMPORARY REVIEW 323 II. The Chinese Drama, Yesterday and To-day. By A. Corbett-Smith.

FOBTNIGHTLY REVIEW 330 WI. Color-Blind. Chapter XV. By Alice Perrin. (To be continued.)

TIMES 340 IV. The Story of Modern Bulgaria in Brief. By H. M. Wallis.

BRITISH REVIEW 346 V. Rothenburg and Its Festival. By Ian Malcolm.

CORNHILL MAGAZINE 349 VI. At Cherry-Tree Farm. By C. Edwardes. (Concluded.)

CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL 356 VII. A Great Englishwoman. By John Telford.

LONDON QUARTERLY REVIEW 359 VIII. Balzac.

TIMES 364 IX. Past American Tariffs.

ECONOMIST 372 X. Panama and British Trade. By J, Saxon Mills.

OUTLOOK 375 XI. Praise and Punishment. By E. Nesbit.

NEW-WITNESS 378 XII. The Secret of the Hills. By Weyland Keene.

SPECTATOR 380 A PAGE OF VERSE XIII, To My Children. By Sylvia Lynd.

NATIOI 322 XIV. Content and Aspiration. By A.

822 XV. On Beachy Head. By F. W. Bourdillon.

SPECTATOR 322 BOOKS AND AUTHORS.

382

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TO MY CHILDREN Beloveds, when you smile at me, It is the birthday of my soul, It is the day of blossoming; The day of welcome to the sun When lambs do play and birds do sing, When flowers blow and glad streams

run. Beloveds, when you smile at me, Then am I healed and made whole, It is the day of blossoming, It is the birthday of my soul.

And I will wear some too, in mine. Under the hawthorns we will play, And watch the stately angels pass, And see new wonders everywhereAs you play now upon the grass.

Sylvia Lynd. The Nation.

CONTENT AND ASPIRATION.

The God who loves the Seraphim
Will guard my lambs of snowy fleece,
Will guard my little singing birds;-
Will make them gentle, make them

good,
Will fill their hearts with merry words,
With valor, and with hardihood.
The God who loves the Seraphim
Will make a mighty shield of peace
To guard my little singing birds,
My little lambs of snowy fleece.

And I will travel all the way
That you may enter Paradise;
May enter by the pearly gate
The meadows of the blessed sea.
The way that is both long and strait
We'll shorten with good company.
And I must travel all the way
Among the simple and the wise
That enter by the pearly gate,
That enter in to Paradise.

Thus far forth on the march I have

fared to a region of darkness; Winds blow loudly and stern; pon

dering, doubting I stand. Yonder the plain of the homes of the

people, the streets of the city, Masts on the smooth-flowing stream,

fields, and the charm of the cot: There dwell the pleasures of love,

calm faith, sweet peace for the

lowly; Daytime labor and wage; sleep is

the end of their toil. There, too, the mean and the base,

souls lost in the marshes of Mam

mon, Blind-eyed slaves of the sense,

wreathed with the vapor of lies. This is the Heroes' Gate, and the long,

long pass through the mountains, Rugged and swept by the storms,

dim-lighted footing for one: Ever the thundering surge of the tor

rent is dashing across it, Ruthless into its jaws sweeping the

bones of the dead. Past the abysses, the crags, and the

hunger and cold of the mountains, Gain we wider domains, nearer the homes of the gods.

A.

I that should lead, so will be led
By small strong hands and wayward

feet,
Because they must not fare forlorn.
And if I go not who will keep
Your lips from poison, hands from

thorp ? And who will lay you down to sleep? I that should lead, so will be led By careless bonds that are most sweet; Because they must not fare forlorn, The small strong hands, the wayward

feet.

ON BEACHY HEAD.

Under the hawthorns we will play,
(As you play now upon the grass),
And see new wonders everywhere;-
And all the flowers, like stars, will

shine, And you shall wear them in your hair,

Gold of the gorse-hill, sapphire of the

sea! Oh that such grace were granted unto

me That cheaper than this vision I might

hold A sea of sapphires and a hill of gold!

F. W. Bourdillon. The Spectator.

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