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starred with jewels, and clouded with a pale-blue mantle.

She lowered her lamp and saw the young face, austerely

beautiful.

"Forgive me, young ascetic," said the woman, "graciously come to my house. The dusty earth is not a fit bed for you."

The ascetic answered, "Go on your way, fair woman. When the time is ripe I will come and see you."

Suddenly, the black night showed its teeth in a flash of lightning.

The storm growled from the corner of the sky, and the woman trembled in fear.

II.

The new year had not begun yet.

The wind was wild. The branches of the wayside trees were aching with blossoms.

Gay notes of the flute came floating in the warm spring air from afar.

The citizens had gone to the woods, to the festival of

flowers.

From the mid-sky smiled the full moon on the shadows of the silent town.

The young ascetic was walking in the lonely city road, while overhead the lovesick koels urged from the mango branches their sleepless plaints.

Upagupta passed through the city gates, and stood at the base of the rampart.

What woman was it lying on the earth in the shadow of the wall at his feet?

Struck with the black pestilence, her body spotted with sores, she was driven away from the town with haste for fear of her fatal touch.

The ascetic sat by her side, taking her head on his knees, and moistened her lips with water and smeared her body with balm.

"Who

are you, kind angel of mercy?" asked the

woman.

"The time, at last, has come for me to visit you, and I

have come," replied the young ascetic.

The Nation.

Rabindranath Tagore.

BOOKS AND AUTHORS.

"The Yoke of Pity,” translated from the lovely; Grantly, the military; Uz the French of Julian Benda, and pub- and Buz, the twins; Ger, the liberal; lished by Henry Holt and Company has and Kitten, the audacious. The hero, the form of fiction, but it is clear that Eloquent Abel Gallup, the victim of his the story was written purely for the father's taste in names, and predespurpose of developing the author's the- tined from his birth to a political casis. F'or he seeks to prove that in an indi- reer, is also the victim, in one way or vidual the highest intellectual passion another, of all these children, but the cannot exist at the same time with author allows him to escape being in love or pity or devotion to domestic the least ridiculous, gives him a great life. The first part of the story tells soul, and in immense earnestness how the hero loved a woman to the ex- leaves him a eally triumphant figure. clusion of every other interest for sev- The noteworthy feature of the story eral years. Then came the struggle of is the extreme neatness of its craftshis individuality for freedom, and its manship. It is terse without being assertion of its rights, despite the abrupt, and logical without being dry, bondage of pity he felt for the woman and its humor never becomes caricahe cast off. The second part finds the ture. No more agreeable story could hero married to a marvelously sane be desired either for private perusal and self-effacing woman, with whom or for social reading. Charles Scribhe had the understanding that she ner's Sons. should never intrude upon his inner life. For a time all went well under Mr. John Fox has well entitled his these circumstances, and his intellec- new story “The Heart of the Hills." tual work progressed. Then the child for every one of its pages seems acdeveloped incurable hip disease and tually to pulsate with life, and as the the father's passion of pity for her climax approaches, the reader finds swept away all his other interests. The his own heart set throbbing by its "yoke of pity" this time was too much mingling of young passion and the for him and he became a thoroughly fire of hand-to-hand contest in politics, domesticated man, captive and longing and finance, and ancient feud. The for his former state.

occasional glint of ironical conscious

ness that the conditions under which The family history seems to grow the action has proceeded are swiftly in favor as a form of fiction, and every departing, and in a generation will day brings a new phalanx of kindred, seem incredible heightens one's pleasincluding at least three generations, ure, and the wildwood atmosphere in the individuals well differentiated, but which the author revels half intoxistill resembling their nearest relatives. cates the reader. · It is this attribute of The latest example, Mr. L. Allen Har: his work which Mr. Fox himself holds ker's "The Ffolliot's of Red Marley," as most precious, judging by his dedihas a hero whose birth and training cation, “In grateful memory of my combine to make him unpleasant to father who loved the great mother, the reigning Ffolliot, almost as un- her forms, her moods, her ways. To pleasant as the reigning Ffolliot is to the end she left him the joy of youth his wife and his six children, Mary, in the coming of spring." From the

logical tables and statistics. Many an old Colony may envy the young State its chronicler in fiction. Houghton Mifflin Company.

very beginning of his literary career, he has been as faithful to his motherearth as a Greek to the "maiden and mother of men, the sea," and his singleness of heart is a rare quality in these days when too many allow themselves to be persuaded that one place, one party, one religion is, upon the whole, as good as any other, and end by being of no value whatsoever to any place or party, and no credit to any religion. His reward is the tremendous increase of power revealed in “The Heart of the Hills." Charles Scribner's Sons.

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Approbation from the late Sarah Orne Jewett was praise indeed, not easily earned or lightly bestowed, but evidently her favorable criticism of Miss Willa Sibert Cathers's early work was not won by the flattery of imitation. Miss Jewett loved to show the beauty of quiet, unpretentious souls following the trivial round, accepting the common task. Miss Cathers likes to exhibit the fine quality of a nature almost unconscious of self; living only to guide others, to save them from themselves, to compel them to conduct their fortunes wisely, incessantly active and operative to the utmost limit of its influence. Probably the traits which especially won Miss Jewett's admiration were that Miss Cathers's charity is ready to pardon all sins and that she never preaches, no matter how great the temptation. Through her novel "O Pioneers!” move a beneficent woman and a girl whose very loveliness is mischievous, and even deadly, and about them seethes the motley assemblage of European immigrants that peopled so many parts of the Nebraska of thirty years ago, and Miss Cathers makes their history a message of enlightenment, to those whose imagination has not sufficient force to perceive all that is implied in chrono

The peculiar attractiveness of Mr. Arnold Bennett's “The Old Adam” is its perfect symbolic presentation of all varieties of the music-box, from the now aged pioneers, contemporary with the daguerreotype to the latest and hugest machines which, once started, repeat yards, miles, leagues of dialogue, monologue, or collective speech, regularly punctuated with clicks, and when silence seems inevitable, begin anew, until the magic roll of paper comes to an end leaving the auditor profoundly content to hear nothing at all. Mr. Bennett takes Mr. Edward Henry Machin to London at the age of forty-three and a half years, after he has made £341 by a stock speculation, and sets him to spend his unearned wealth. He is as helpless as any part of a piece of mechanism and is passed through endless changes as to clothes, food, and occupation, always on the point of stopping but ever clicking and continuing. Sybarite, theatre-owner, stage-manager, patron of actresses, partner of actor-managers, at regular intervals on the verge of ruin, always triumphing, he astonishes everybody but Robert, his son and heir, who ends the last chapter as he begins the first, by inquiring, “Isn't Father a funny man?" He is nothing less, and both his newest set of acquaintances and those who knew him when he was only "Denry” will find him equally funny. One mentally laments that Mr. Bennett does not produce something more natural, but does one close the book? Not until one ar rives at Robert's last question. Thus does Mr. Bennett shape his readers' taste, and they would not bave him change. George H. Doran Company.

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SEVENTH SERIES
VOLUME LX.

No. 3609 September 6, 1913

FROM BEGINNING VOL. CCLXXVIII

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Slavery in Anno Domini 1913. By Joseph Burtt.

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Father Michael.

By John Barnett.

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CONTENTS

Modern Feminism and Sex Antagonism. By Ethel Colquhoun.

QUARTERLY REVIEW 579

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CONTEMPOrary REVIEW 594

Color-Blind. Chapter XX. By Alice Perrin.

(Conclusion.)

TIMES 599

Some Account of Arcady. By Louise Imogen Guiney.
BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE 605
TIMES 612
CORNHILL MAGAZINE 618

Charlotte Bronte's "Tragedy": The Lost Letters.

PUNCH 629 NATION 630

SPECTATOR 632

X.

The Barbarity of Realistic Tragedy. By Ernest A. Baker.

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THE LIVING AGE COMPANY,

6 BEACON STREET, BOSTON.

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"GINGER."

The screaming gulls—the torturing,

vagrant winds When dusk comes slowly and tenderly, That swept your naked streets, Creeping up, vaporlike, out of the The streets that were at once your waters,

shame and joy. Softening, blessing, transforming, The giant factories,

You left me at the first touch of The wharves, and engine houses,

restraint, Gasometers and chimneystacks

You visioned dreary rounds of obligaPut on a dignity and beauty magi. tion. cal,

Clotbes “to keep nice"-to join the And Silvertown

dismal stream (By grace of God) is really Silver Of the beaten and tamed. Town.

The flaring streets were calling to

your heart, There in the poignant peace I see you

The lights, the laughter-and the stand,

liberty. As once I saw, facing the dim waters,

The tide that brought you to me bore A strange, vague figure-one with the you hence, warm darkness,

Peluctant yet resolved. Indolent, hesitant

The river and the streets had claimed A little picturesque in roomy rags,

their own. Palefaced, redlipped-half smiling and 'half sad,

And when the waters sing in the sum. A boy too many in the working world.

iner's peace, Pathos, audacity

When the crop of yellow flowers Met in the tilt of your red-crested spring out of the mist, brow.

I see your eyes defiant, affectionate,

And know no man shall tame The tide had beached you in my hun

That proud, shy spirit but the Man of

Griefs, gry heart, The Tide of God, beside that other tide

Of Joys and Agonies-of Wanderings, That we both loved—I with a dream

Of Nakedness, and Homelessness,-of er's love,

Shames, You with a dumb desire.

Rejections, Mockings, Blows.

No heart shall tame you but His Fiery You gave me love with both your

Heart. nervous hands,

C. W. Hutchinson. With the pale eyes that watched me

The British Review. by my hearth, With the poor, piteous notes from

prison and home And yet your heart retained Secret allegiance that you gave me

NORTH AND SOUTH. not.

The North bends o'er the South

His frosty mouth. I could not hold you at the ultimate Within each other's eyes hour.

A vision of far skies. There was a spirit in you that was kin "All, all my snowy monuments I give To all the wild things in a half-tamed

to thee world;

For one full hour of thy rich Italy." The irresistible

“Take all the vines and sunshine I love Impact and rush of the dark waters'

best flood

For one rapt instant on thy rugged That swirled and eddied round your

breast." wharves at home,

Edroard Storer.

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