. the rest of the municipal council will not take his advice or let him govern them for their good. How he reconciles the count to the village and the village to the count, lays hold of the young people, interests himself in cooperative farming, and is finally rewarded by well-earned promotion to a wider sphere, is very prettily and convincingly told, if perhaps somewhat in the manner of "The Monthly Packet." "The Lettres d'un Curé de Canton" opens with a scene or two of delicious humor, where the curé, just arrived at the big manufacturing town which is to be his future field, is besieged by priests from neighboring parishes and honorable women not a few, anxious to possess themselves of what they call his method, whereas the good man has no method at all, and does nothing but bring his "sanctified common sense" to bear on each case as it arises. As we read these books one after another, different in aim, in scope, in style as they are, and poles apart in sympathy, they still leave behind them the impression of the tremendous energy and vitality of that form of religion with which they are concerned. It is not for us to say which is nearer the truth. M. Zola with his "common people, tranquil in unbelief," on which he builds his hopes for the future of his country, or M. de Querdec with his certainty that the hostility of the people to the Church is a mere matter of misunderstanding. One thing we note; the issue is between Catholicism and unbelief. Protestantism is regarded, as High Churchmen in this country regard Unitarianism, namely, as no faith at all. And in the tremendous pretensions, and ever-fresh vitality of this organization, we almost accept its own proud boast, Semper ubique et omnibus; and we say to ourselves that if she be not indeed the eternal witness of God, she must be the crowning temptation of these last days, the power enthroned in place of God, to be the supreme test of the faith of his children, "upon whom the ends of the have come." world Translated for The Living Age. OUT OF TUNE. She ascended the polished marble steps gracefully, doubtless supported by her knowledge of her great beauty. She took her appointed place in the grandest and most royal of drawingrooms as if to the manner born. Yet little or nothing was known of her origin. Rumor had it, that she came from the lowest ranks. Her life began in a Parisian by-way, amid surroundings whose vice and misery can only be conceived by those who have had a like experience. It seemed only a question of time until vice should overwhelm her and draw her down to destruction. But it happened, when she was about fourteen years of age, that in crossing one of the better grade of streets, she attracted the attention of a wealthy and philanthropic man. She was on her way to the little shop in Rue des Quatres Vents where she worked for a woman who furnished hot-house flowers for balls and theatres. It was not her rare beauty alone that attracted the stranger, for upon the half developed features, was the shadow of a coming struggle between evil influences and a character naturally good. And, knowing only too well the awful power of evil, and the city's many unfortunates, he determined if possible to save this brand from the burning. As she was utterly alone in the world, it was no very difficult matter to obtain the necessary authority over her. He gave her a name and sent her to one of the best convent schools in Paris and soon the good alone seemed to dominate her. She developed an amiable if somewhat indolent disposition, a refined and charming manner, and a most marvellous beauty. When she had arrived at woman's estate her benefactor married her. And, in spite of the great difference in their ages, the marriage was a comparatively happy one, since he had the utmost confidence in her and she was entirely worthy of it. In France, man and wife are not so closely bound as with us; therefore, perfect sympathy is not SO indispensable an adjunct to married life. She was not radiantly happy but she was contented, full of deepest gratitude towards her husband and enjoying to the utmost the luxurious surroundings that became her so well. The world knew that she had not always been accustomed to luxury, but since it was impossible to learn anything with certainty Paris, having more important things to consider, forgot to question and wonder. She had forgotten her past. She had forgotten it as we forget the roses, the silken ribands, and the old love letters of our youth which we have laid aside in some hidden coffer now rarely opened. And yet, if there comes a time when we cast a glance into that old coffer, how quickly we notice if a rose or a single silken band is missing -for in a way we cherish them, those mingled memories of bitter and sweet! of So she had forgotten her past; laid it aside and cast the key away. Sometimes at night, in her dreams, the terrors of her childhood returaed. A heavy hand was grasping her shoulder to rouse her and send her out into the cold, dark morning with her flowers. Then she would rise in her bed and gaze out into the darkness in affright. But the silken coverlet over which her fingers strayed, the downy pillow beneath her head and the rich lace hangings about her soon calmed her fears. And when the dream angel drew away the mists of sleep she sank but back, realizing that it was dream. a She leaned languidly back against the soft cushions of her stately carriage as it rolled towards the palace of the Russian Ambassador. The nearer it came to its destination, the slower grew its motion until it moved forward but a step at a time. In the square before the palace, now all ablaze with light, an immense crowd had gathered-not merely loiterers but grey-haired laborers and working women, even some members of the demi monde packed closely together and massed upon each side of the carriage-way. They fairly showered coarse witticisms about in the Parisian of the streets. She heard expressions unfamiliar to her ear for years and flushed as she thought, that doubtless of all the occupants of that long line of carriages, she alone understood Bohemia. There was food for thought in each of these faces. She amused herself by studying them and even reading their inner thoughts by the light of memory. No, she had not lost the key to that old coffer. She drew it forth now and gave herself up to reminiscence. How often as a child she had devoured with eager, envious eyes the grand ladies on their way to some ball or theatre! How bitterly she had wept over the blossoms that, half asleep, she was twining to adorn some proud beauty! Here about her was the same envy, the same bitter discontent. And those dark, grave-visaged men, who with half-angry, half-pathetic glance eyed the stately equipages-she recognized them all. Had she not as a tiny girl crouched in a corner and heard their feverish talk of life's injustice, of the tyranny of the rich, of the poor man's right which he had but to stretch forth his hand and wrench from his oppressors? She knew how they hated it all-the sleek horses, and the haughty coachmen-yes, but more than all the owners of all this grandeur, the remorseless vampires, the grand dames whose jewels and cosmetics cost more than their entire life's work could bring them! Meanwhile the carriage moved slowly forward; memory again turned the wheel and the picture shifted to kind fairy stood at your cradle to cona scene from her old school life. It was the story of Pharaoh and his chariots perusing the Israelites through the Red Sea. Strange to say, she had kept her childish idea of the waves being red as blood. And now she saw them parted and standing in two great walls on each side of the Egyptians. And Moses spake and stretched out his staff over the waves and the wall of waters came together and swallowed Pharaoh and all his chariots. She knew that the walls of humanity on each side of her were wilder and more dangerous than the waters of old. It needed but the voice of a Moses to cause them to close over in wreck and ruin. The thought made her shrink back out of sight not in fear but in sudden shame. For the first time in her life she was ashamed of her useless, careless way of living-surely it was an injustice to suffering men and women. Was her true place in this softlycushioned carriage among the tyrants and oppressors? Did she not rather belong out in the common herd? Half-forgotten thought and feelings raised their heads like beasts of prey, long caged. She was but an alien in her brilliant social life in such utter contrast with the degradation her childhood had known. She seized her costly opera cloak as if to tear it off. The carriage stopped before the palace door. She descended with her usual charming ease and grace, and a young attaché acting as page hurried forward and was delighted when she graciously accepted his escort, and almost overwhelmed with joy at what he deemed a friendly glance and the dim possibility that her hand trembled slightly as she took his arm. fer upon you such special gifts? There is such a dewy charm in a simple flower in your hair, and when you dance the very floor seems to bend to your motion." The count was secretly pleased at this long and well turned compliment. He paused to allow his beautiful companion to acknowledge it. But he was disappointed. She leaned out over the railing of the balcony where they had stepped to escape the heat of the ball-room and her eyes wandered over the crowd and the ever-increasing line of carriages. She seemed to have quite missed the count's gallant speech. He heard her murmur the extraordinary word "Pharaoh." As he was about to ask for an explanation she turned toward him, arose and taking a step nearer the door which led to the salon, said in her usual calm manner but with a new expression in her dark eyes: "Yes, count, I think perhaps there was a kind fairy at my cradle side. But as to what you say of my flowers and my dancing you make a great mistake. I will tell you of the dew on the flowers; it is only tears which envy and misery have shed. And when you think the floor sways to my footstep it is only trembling beneath the hatred of the masses." And then with a friendly nod she vanished into the salon. The count remained standing in some embarrassment. He cast a glance out over the crowd; the scene was a familiar one and he had made it a subject of frequent witticisms. Now for the first time it struck him as a most unsuitable site for a palace. Strange thoughts passed through his mind. He was in quite an alien mood And so with courtly grace he led her and-yes, the orchestra played an enup the polished marble steps. "Pray tell me, my Ladie Faire, what tire suite before he was again in tune. From the Norwegian of Alexander L. Kielland, by Helen Grace Greenwood. From The Speaker. Is there a more delightful character of them (a vulgar thing to do) no great shakes! Why, even the present writer, who never thought he had a collection of autographs at all, has a better; but this is to display an unworthy temper, for are not Captain Jackson's "silver sugar-tongs" worth all the contents of all the shops of all the silversmiths in both the Bond Streets? Most certainly they are. Dr. Hill is to be congratulated not so much upon his collection (which, indeed-but enough of that!) as upon the pleasant gifts of nature and stores of information which enable him to talk so agreeably about it. Who would not sooner have discussed the points of a bulldog with Dr. Johnson, or the merits of a turnip crop with Edmund Burke, than with the most noted fancier or experienced farmer of the eighteenth century? I know a fellow who really has a collection of autographs; but as to talking to him about them after any intelligent fashion, I would as soon discuss Rousseau's Social Contract Theory with Policeman X. The fellow is but a custodian, and the only possible interest one can have in his collection is the probable date of its dispersion, when, dealers permitting, it may be possible to pick up a thing or two. Dr. Hill has never bought an autograph in his life. He says so, and I believe him, thus proveye ing that he has none of the spirit of a But what in the name of all the Irrelevancies has Captain Jackson got to do with Dr. Hill's pleasant talk about his autographs, now in our hands, a handsome quarto a delight ful present for the coming Christmas? Well-I can only say that somehow or another, by some odd trick of the brain, Dr. Hill, chatting about his autographs, has reminded me of Captain Jackson and his silver sugar-tongs. The captain's silver sugar-tongs were (or is it was?) a plated spoon; and Dr. Hill's autographs are, if you come to count them up and make a catalogue 1 Talks About Autographs. By George Birkbeck Hill. London: T. Fisher Unwin. collector. Your collector can no more help buying than the miser can help hoarding. It is amazing what collections have been made by downright poor men. If you really want a thing in this world, you get it. Whilst the man with £5,000 a year and no family is gravely considering whether he would be justified in buying "Sentimental Tommy," his cousin with £500 a year and seven children has paid ten guineas for the first edition of "Gulliver's Travels." Nor is he blameworthy. Dr. Hill tells a touching story of a poor man belonging to the working class who had the book-collecting craze, and of the artifices he had to employ to smuggle his purchases home unbeknown to his wife. Ah, those wives! and yet, poor things, let us not too harshly condemn them. It may be they have their troubles. But Dr. Hill has never troubled his wife after this fashion. Some of his autographs he inherited-an excellent root of title. No doubt, as a rule the legatee seldom takes that individual interest in each particular thing which the testator (assuming him to have been the original collector) was able to do. I know some of these legatees who have thus acquired whole libraries, closetsful of blue china, cases of coins. They are mighty proud of their collections, brag of them incessantly, and may be heard asserting in their empty pride of ownership that no such treasures are to be found in the county or even, so complete is their ignorance of rival collections, in the country. But (I have often noticed this) no sooner do you descend to details with them, seek (for example) to ascertain the precise date of a book's publication, or whether the usual page is missing, or but turn a cup upside down in search of its marks, than these legatee-creatures become uneasy and fidget with the keys, and it is at once brought home to you that you are not conversing with a man who knows, and who can therefore pit his knowledge against yours, but only with a man who happens to have. Still, it is excellent to inherit; and, despite Sir William Harcourt's Finance Act, the rich men who protest so loudly are content to squeal and wholly omit to disclaim. Amongst Dr. Hill's autographs (inherited, I fancy) is an interesting letter from Sir Thomas Browne to Dugdale, the antiquarian. A facsimile is given; and it is pleasant to notice how admirable modern facsimiles are. If our architects could only reproduce roofs and aisles of old buildings with the same fidelity, one might entertain with composure the notion of a new City Hall for the London County Council. Another beautiful facsimile is of the envelope addressed by Cowperthat still unapproachable letter-writer. the to his publisher. Dr. Hill is justly proud of his autograph of George Washington; but a list of such things has small interest, though when they are strung together, as in this volume, by a thread of intelligent converse it is amazing what a pretty show they make. There is a good deal about Dr. Johnson in the book; there naturally would be. Dr. Hill tells us, with a grim humor, how Dr. Jowett kindly offered to look through Dr. Hill's notes for his edition of Boswell. After a while Jowett professed himself well contented; he did not want (he said) to see any more. But. Dr. Hill's appetite only grows with what it feeds on; he can never have enough of his great man. Nor can I. On pages 142-3 Dr. Hill prints-I believe for the first time from the orignal-the famous letter to Ossian Macpherson which was sold in 1875 for £50. Dr. Hill protests it was well worth the money, but he did not buy it all the same; he has been allowed to copy it. How good of Macpherson to keep it! This single act of self-effacement entitles him to his tomb in Westminster Abbey. It is, I think, worth while to compare the actual letter with the copy Johnson dictated from memory to Boswell, which, of course, is printed in the "Life." When the two are examined, it is found that in substance they are the same almost to a shade, but verbally they differ very widely. Johnson was far too vigorous a writer to be able to repeat himself word for word; yet, knowing precisely what he had meant to say to Macpherson, he was able to reproduce the effect of his letter with astonishing fidelity. They are worth reprinting. Here is the actual letter as received by Macpherson and sold for £50: Mr. James Macpherson,-I received your foolish and impudent note. Whatever insult is offered me I will do my best to repel, and what I cannot do for myself the law will do for me. I will not desist from detecting what I think a cheat from any fear of the menaces of a ruffian. You want me to retract. What shall I |