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the hero accepts the conditions, and having a long score to settle with English monks and priests, he naturally gravitates towards Luther when he finds himself in his neighborhood, and thenceforward the story is Luther's plus some fighting with English rivals and German Catholic noblemen, and glimpses of Ulrich von Hutten. Dr. Martin befriends Lady Elfrida in every way possible to one who carries no sword; and the hero and heroine leave him safe at Wartburg and go to England to find Henry much better than his word, and so the tale ends well. It is a good love tale and its historical part is well-managed and uncommonly free from the bitterness to be expected in a story of the Reformer. E. P. Dutton & Co.

strangle it, but was itself blighted and withered by the frost of Gilbert's jest and Du Maurier's art. Less obvious, and far more artistic than the portrait sketch of Wilde introduced by Mr. Hichens in "The Green Carnation," he presents the natural development of Wilde's philosophy, cruel, repellant and disgusting, but always intent upon elegance. With such a group of personages and such incidents, the book would be unbearably painful, were it not that both girls have been educated by good teachers who have so trained their minds and hearts that they are able to break the meshes entangling them, and to save their souls alive. It must be owned that they discourse at enormous length and that their husbands are unnaturally tolerant of their eloquence, but the fault is easily tolerated inasmuch as they have something to say. "The Long Gallery" is equally remarkable in its English and in its personages. Henry Holt & Co.

Miss Eva Lathbury's "The Long Gallery," superficially, is the English family romance in which mother and daughter pursue the possible wealthy husband, not altogether willingly, not quite shamelessly, but in obedience to the instinct of self-preservation, the daughter almost invariably atoning for her sin against love by falling into utter misery, the mother often discovering that she has overreached herself and made herself the permanent prey of remorse. In reality the book is a subtle study of varied selfishness, as seen in the lives of four married pairs, and one unmated baleful figure, abandond to unchecked self-worship. One girl desperately separates the man whose fortune she desires and the girl to whom he is beginning to turn, and flings her to a richer husband, from whom she is easily won by a man who also deceives the schemer, and almost succeeds in making a chaos of her life and her husband's. This villain is no simple Don Juan, but the perfect flower of that spurious æstheticism, that parasite of the wholesome Ruskin-Morris movement, which for a time bade fair to

The world belongs to him who will convince it of his perfect stupidity, but although everybody knows it, nobody remembers it until the gross of green spectacles are in his pocket, until he has invested his last penny in the dearly bought whistle: until the swamp-lots of Eden are his to settle at will, and the professed stupid person is o'er the border and awa'. The hero of Mr. Edward A. Balmer's "Waylaid by Wireless" was no wiser than the rest of the world, but possibly he was more excusable because in his case the stupidity exhibited for his undoing was of that English variety in which the reader of American comic newspapers and international novels devoutly believes as generic. Therefore did this young American allow himself to be played with every grace of the gentle art of angling, reckoning each new cast and fly as a national trait, and obligingly doing the angler's will,

esteeming himself an acute reader of smile with unearthly sweetness from character all the while, yet he was by the centre of the stage. The Bauno means a dull fellow. On the con- crofts do not fulfil this anticipation. trary, both he and the heroine are They tell their story, now one and now acute in their reasoning, discreet and the other speaking, frankly, gently and able, and guilty of nothing more fool- sweetly relating their experience. They ish than excessive trust in accepted may have heard of hearts unkind, ut generalities, and upon the whole they they make no sign of having met them. are as interesting a pair of modern Possibly this description may suggest lovers as American fiction has fur- insipidity not only to the disciples of nished for many a day. The author's Wilde and Mr. Shaw and their like, but management of wireless, the machin- also to those who still practice the ery of his story, is excellent, and, al- habit of sneering at the players, but though actual occurrences have veri- in truth, there is nothing so free from fied some of his theories as to its pos- insipidity as charity. The charm of sibilities, very slight acquaintance its strangeness never fails, and to those with the exigencies of writing, making readers to whom Marie Wilton bas and publishing a book will show that hitherto been only a lovely name enhe owes nothing to the recent noto countered in the literary and dramatic rious cases of its employment, but memoirs of her time she will henceforth was himself the architect of his hero's be as a friend to be sought again and varied fortunes. The story should be again in her pleasant pages.

There is in the library of all passenger steam- scarcely any contemporary English perships plying between English and son of any prominence whom either one American ports, that passengers may or the other of the two authors did not be warned of the dangers besetting encounter while in active life, and in him who ventures into the lair of the the later chapters they include many British police, and it is good enough to kind letters sent to them on various occonsole the home keeping youth for casions; but the story of their picturthe homeliness of wit arising from esque youth and energetic prime is persistent enforced sojourn in naturally more interesting, as it is prachis native land. Small, Maynard tically the history of the best English & Co.

comedy of their day. They never

stooped to conquer, but, no matter what This being a world in which preju- prosperity might attend evil or evil dices and baseless traditions outlive en- suggestion at other theatres kept their during brass, it is not strange that one own free from any and all stains, and, is surprised to find “The Bancrofts” the as it ought not to be necessary to say, do most charitable volume of reminis- not boast of their abstinence, but mencences published by any one belonging tion it in the simplest fashion as a mat. to the same generation as Sir Squire ter of history. The forty illustrations, and Lady Bancroft. One expects a vol- chiefly portraits of actors and drama. ume of theatrical memoirs to abound, tists, include a few interiors, and are if not in actual scandal, at least in pas. carefully chosen photogravures and sages in which the author's contempora- good duogravures and the index seems ries will appear at some disadvantage, very good, but this last point can be wbile the authors themselves, perfect in really tested only by those repeated make up, the limelight becomingly dis readings which the volume will cerposed, the supernumeraries and minor tainly have from all its possessors. personages in the dim background, E. P. Dutton & Co.

or

SEVENTH SERIES
VOLUME XLIV.

No. 3395 July 31, 1909.

FROM BEGINNING

CONTENTS

I. Great Britain, Germany and the United States. By Sydney

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NINETEENTH CENTURY AND AFTER 266 Saleh: A Sequel. Chapters XXI and XXII. By Hugh Clifford.

(To be continued.)

BLACK WOOD'S MAGAZINE 275

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THE FINAL MYSTERY AT Then shalt thou drink, 0 Soul, and
ELEUSIS.

therewith slake

The immortal longing of thy mortal [This myth is believed to have come from Egypt to Greece, and there to have formed

thirst; part of the doctrine communicated to the ini

So of thy Father's life shalt thou partiated at the Eleusinian Mysteries. If this be so, it is important as a source to which may

take, be traced certain aspects of the modern belief

And be for ever that thou wert at in the persistence of personality after death, and of the assurance feit by most religious

first. thinkers that the individual soul, though

Lost in remembered loves, yet thou merged in the Universal, will not lose the memory or the affections of its early life.

more thou -H. N.1

With them shalt reign in never-ending Hear now, 0 Soul, the last command

Nore. of all

Henry Newbolt. When thou hast left thine every mor

The Spectator. tal mark, And by the road that lies beyond re

call Won through the desert of the burn

SONGS OF CYMRU. ing dark, Thou shalt behold within a garden

(After Ceiriog's “Alun Mabon.") bright

Songs of Cymru, through the years A well, beside a cypress ivory-white.

Sounding still upon our ears;

Gay or grieving, loud or low,
Still is that well, and in its waters cool Down the mountain wind they go;
White, white and windless sleeps Songs the old folk ever sung
that cypress-tree;
Round the hearth when

were Who drinks but once from out her

young. shadowy pool Shall thirst no more to all eternity. Songs of love that set the leaves Forgetting all, by all forgotten clean, Sighing round our cottage eaves; His soul shall be with that which hath Fragments fierce of battle tunes I!ot been.

Tempest-flung across the dunes;

Psalm and hymn the Cymro hears But thou, though thou be trembling

In the music of the spheres! with thy dread, And parched with thy desire more

fierce than flame, Think on the stream wherefrom thy Still the mountains stand rockfast, life was fed,

Still around them roars the blast; And that diviner fountain whence it At the blueing of the day came.

Still outpours the pastoral lay: Turn thee and cry-behold it is not Underneath the frowning scaur far

Still the daisy lights her star; Unto the hills where living waters are. But the sun and moon behold

Other shepherds than the old. “Lord, though I lived on Earth, the child of Earth,

Over cottage, church, and grange Yet was I fathered by the starry sky:

Steals the silent hand of Change; Thou knowest I came not of the shad- Like the ocean's ebb and flow, ows' birth,

Generations come and go.
Let

me not die the death that Life's tempestuous struggle o'er,
shadows die.

Alun Mabon is no more;
Give me to drink of the sweet spring But unto the dear old tongue
that leaps

Still the dear old songs are sung. From Memory's fount, wherein no cy

Alfred Perceval Graves. press sleeps."

The Athenæum.

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GREAT BRITAIN, GERMANY AND THE UNITED STATES.

.

In much of the discussion that has recently been stirred up by Germany's naval expansion, it has been either assumed or openly stated that the matter is not one that concerns Great Brit. ain and Germany alone, and that the United States is remotely but none the less unescapably affected by it. Put in this moderate form the proposition is, I think, indisputable, infinitely more so, at any rate, than some of the inferences drawn from it. The Americans, indeed, have not been slow to recognize and express their very real, if indirect, interest in the situation which threatens to throw Great Britain and Germany into an antagonism as sharp as that of two gladiators in a Roman arena, The gravity of the crisis has impressed them far more than our way of meeting it. We could not, as a matter of fact, have done more to alienate American sympathy than by the humiliating panics we have indulged in over phantom torpedo-boats, invisible airships, and belligerent German waiters. Like the rest of the world, Americans have noted our attack of "nerves" with ridicule and contempt, wondering, as they well might, what has come over us, and half-inclined to conclude that if we fail in the ordeal that awaits us it will be because we deserve to fail. But they have not on that account disguised from themselves that between American interests and the ultimate outcome, whatever it may be, of the prodigious preparations for war both sides of the North Sea, there exists a tangible, and possibly a vital, connection. I do not say that the realization of this connection and of all that may be implied in it has as yet cut very deep into the American consciousness, or that it holds even

second place in the thoughts of the "man in the cars" and of the average journalist, or that it is potent enough to have any immediate influence on American policy or on the growth of American shipbuilding. Considering the self-contentment and isolation of American life, its happy or harmful immunity from the fierce juxtaposi. tions and imminent contentions of Europe, and the lack of anything in the nature of a constant education in the realities of world-politics, one could not expect the ordinary, busy, and complacent citizen to feel much more than a purely spectacular interest in the successive phases of a distant old-world rivalry. That he should feel any sort of interest at all is, however, something; and that the better sort of American journals and of American politicians and publicists should not only discern

but proclaim the fact that the German question is

an American well

British question, is little less than revolutionary. Thirteen years ago, at any rate, when I first visited America, nothing like it would have been possible. Americans in 1896 would not merely have disavowed, they would not even have sus. pected, any relationship whatever between their own fortunes and policies and the rivalries of two European Powers. Had the Anglo-German situation in its present or anything like its present form developed a decade and a half ago, Americans would have discussed it, as they discussed the Græco-Turkish war, with a wholly impersonal detachment, and would have repudiated with the most ingenuous incredulity any suggestion that its is. sue could possibly affect or involve themselves. In those untroubled days

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