theatre called La Petit Bourbon. Subseqently the company became "La Troupe du Roi," and was far the most popular in the capital. This was in 1665.

During the remaining nine years of his life, MOLIÈRE produced thirty or more plays, the most famous of which are "Les Précieuses Ridicules," "Le Tartuffe," and Les Femmes Savantes." The "Précieuses is a wonderfully brilliant satire upon the Parisian "blue-stockings," who rendered themselves ridiculous by their affectations of the manners and talk of the Hôtel de Rambouillet, and the "Femmes Savantes" is on the same subject and in the same strain. "Le Tartuffe" is the most powerful exposure of religious hypocrisy ever made, unless we are to make an exception in favor of Pecksniff; and that it hits somebody or some class is pretty clearly indicated by the fact that it was interdicted at Court, and that the Archbishop of Paris threatened to excommunicate whoever should act, listen to, or read it. The other best known plays of MOLIÈRE are "Les Fâcheux," "Le Médecin Malgré Lui," "Le Misanthrope," and "L'Avare." His last composition was "Le Malade Imaginaire," and it was while playing in this that he was attacked

by the illness which put an end to his life, on the 17th of February, 1673.

MOLIÈRE was married in 1662 to Armande Béjart, but by her coquetries and flirtations she almost drove him mad with jealousy, and rendered a separation necessary. They were reconciled, however, in 1672, and she was with him in his last moments.

The genius of MOLIÈRE displayed itself chiefly in the delineation of character. His plots and his method of work, judged by any high standard of art, must be pronounced loose and extravagant; but he has never been surpassed in developing an individual character (as in "L'Avare"), or in typifying a class (as in “Les Précieuses" and "Tartuffe").

MOLIÈRE was assailed and traduced throughout his life by those who were envious of his fame; and we can scarcely refrain our indignation even now, as we reflect that it was only by special request of the king that his body was permitted to be buried in consecrated ground. that happily was two hundred years ago, and the senseless intolerance of priestcraft has become as uninteresting as a twice-told tale, and as insignificant as the vagaries of witchcraft.

But

THE TELBIN STONE.

BRUNNEN, June, 1870. [ON the highest point of the Axenstrasse, near Brunnen, on the Lake of the Four Cantons, the passing traveller sees a monumental stone by the wayside, recording the death of a young English artist, in 1866, by a fall from the precipice into the lake below. The lake hereabouts is said on sounding to have been found to be 8,000 feet deep. No bodies drowned in these depths are ever seen again. The simple inscription on this stone is : "To the memory of Henry Telbin, who fell from this spot while sketching, September 14th, 1866, aged 25 years."]

O! wan gray stone, thus sadly set on high,
Telling my tale to every passer by,
Still looking down from thy stupendous cliff,
Telling my tale to every passing skiff,-
Why this appeal incessant for a woe
That came and went four passing years ago?
Within four years how many myriad men
Have died ungraced by chisel or by pen!
Within four years how many myriads tread
All unrecorded to the nameless dead!

Sharp was the horror of the dread descent, Wild was the parent's wail, the friend's lament,

For the young artist from my own far land
Who plunged in terror to the unknown strand.
But shall we grieve for those who in life's morn
Pass to the scenes to which mankind are born?
Life here at best is but the anchored stay
But who, like this young Telbin, lies in state
Of some strange bark which comes and sails away.
Which kings might envy, conquerors emulate?
No tomb like this did genius ever plan

Or nations raise to some immortal man.
A thousand fathoms deep his bones repose,
In mystery's fane, which no intrusion knows.
No mortal glance shall there forever fall;
No mortal hand shall lift the sleeper's pall:
Forever and forever-or while Time
Holds his forever-Nature's chant sublime
Shall peal about him, winds and waves intone,
The rushing avalanche fall with shuddering moan,
And thunders answer from the summits lone.
Still the tall pines their murmured requiem sing,
And odors breathe from all the flowers of spring;
And summer still the awful cliffs shall gein
With the red radiance of the lily's stem.
Vast are the crystal chambers of his shrine
And roofed above with purest hyaline;
And the huge mountains in their mantles hoar
Keep deepest, wordless watch for evermore!

The dead-who calls him dead who never diedWho only passed unto the other side? Life has no pause, the soul no rifted chain,So ancient seers and modern truths maintain. To other lands the artist's gifts belong, In other lands the poet hymns his song, And on far loftier themes, with nobler fire, Than Raphael knew or Milton did inspire.

To the dead leave the dead-'tis ours to climb Through heights of life to life yet more sublime. The sons of God no chance nor change surprise; Onward they march through kingdoms to the skies;

Great pilgrims of the ages-radiant bands
Before whose feet the Eternal still expands,
Forever and forever. Hark! they call-
"On to Life's Source, where Love is All in All!"
WILLIAM HOWITT.

BRECON BBIDGE.

[BRECON, built at the confluence of the rivers Honddhu and Usk, has hence its native name Aberhonddhu (pronounced Aberhonndy). Llewelyn, the last independent Prince of the Welsh, was killed in Breconshire.]

Low to himself beneath the sun,
While soft his dusky waters run
With ripple calm as infant's breath,
An ancient song Usk murmureth

By the bridge of Aberhonddhu.
'Tis not of deeds of old, the song,
Llewelyn's fate, or Gwalia's wrong:
But how, while we have each our day
And then are not, he runs for aye.
He sees the baby dip its feet
Within his limpid waters sweet:

And hears when youth and passion speak
What smites with fire the maiden's cheek :-

Then, manhood's colors tamed to gray,
With his fair child the father gay :
And then Old Age who creeps to view
The stream his feet in boyhood knew.
From days before the iron cry
Of Roman legions rent the sky,
Since man with wolf held savage strife,
Usk sees the flow and ebb of life.

As mimic whirlpools on his face
Orb after orb, each other chase,
And gleam and intersect and die,
Our little circles eddy by.

But those fair waters run for aye,
While to himself, Where'er they stray,
All footsteps lead at last to Death,
His ancient song, Usk murmureth

By the bridge of Aberhonddhu.
F. T. PALGRAVE.

A SEA-TOWN.

A LONG street straggling up a church-crowned hill,

Whitened from end to end with rain and wind, The brown old houses, e'en more straggling still, Branching therefrom, cluster to cluster joined.

The Rob Roy on the Jordan, &c. By JOHN MACGREGOR, M.A. New York: Harper and Bros., 1870.

THIS is not the first time that Mr. Macgregor has come before the public with a record of his experiences as a traveller, nor is it the first time that the canoe "Rob Roy" has been heard of, upon the obscure and little known waters of the world. The "Rob Roy on the Baltic" was a popular book a year or two ago, and, if we recollect aright, this canoe was the first to penetrate

the inland rivers of Norway and Sweden, and the head-waters of the Danube, among the mountains of Central Europe. But we confess that in following up this last trip on the Jordan, we make our first acquaintance with the author. It would hardly have been necessary to make this confession if the companionship had proved as interesting as the theme and the novelty of the method of observation had led us to expect; but the Rob Roy, we suspect, will have to carry another master before many readers will be anxious to accompany it through more than the six or seven hundred pages of the present volume.

Mr. Macgregor seems to be a young man, with plenty of bravery and pluck and love of adventure, who, by a somewhat extended experience, has acquired a certain facility in making books, but who is signally deficient in the judgment and discrimination that are so necessary in one who would tell us of strange lands; whose ideas are crude and restricted, not to say narrow; and whose literary style approaches very nearly to what Voltaire held was the only fatal one in writing-the dull. The want of discrimination between what is im

portant and what is comparatively insignificant, between what is likely to prove valuable to the reader and what is interesting only to the author himself, strikes one as the most conspicuous deficiency of the volume.

There are few peoples in the world about whom so little is known as about the Arabs of Syria and Palestine, or who ought to be more interesting to intelligent readers; yet, though Mr. Macgregor would seem to have had exceptionally good opportunities for observing them, he devotes twenty pages to his own mishaps and the personal aspect of his adventures, where he devotes one to this singular people, or, in fact, to anything else. Nothing can be found in his book to give so much as a hint as to their government, customs, habits, and modes of life,-whether they are shepherds, agriculturists, hunters, or traders. True, he somewhere apologizes for this by remarking that his record is confined to facts, incidents, and adventures afloat, but a rigid adherence to this rule would have excluded at least half the matter to be found in the book. The author, doubtless, found it exciting work to protect his boat, while floundering with his caravan through swamps and mo rasses; but adventures which are confined to this soon become commonplace, if not tedious, and it is surely of scarcely less importance for each traveller to record his impression of the country and its inhabitants than to give his opinion as to the precise course of the Jordan, or whether the Pharpar really ends in the marsh of Ateibeh.

Despite these drawbacks, however, the "Rob Roy on the Jordan" will be found by many both instructive and interesting, and probably some of the very reasons which render it somewhat dull to the general reader will enhance its value in the eyes of those who support the Palestine Exploration Fund, for instance. The River Jordan, the Lake of Genesareth, and the surrounding country, must ever be interesting to a large part of the human race, and no book regarding them would be absolutely without a raison d'être, and Mr. Macgregor has settled finally two or three geographical problems which have long puzzled travellers. Whether the decision to which he has come will, in every case, be accepted as conclusive, remains to be seen; but he is unquestionably entitled to the credit of first adopting the only method by which such problems can be settled. If he has failed to write a satisfactory book, he has done some good work, and done it bravely and well, which is doubtless a much more important matter.

The route of the "Rob Roy" was from Port Said through the Suez Canal to the Red Sea; thence overland to Damascus, and down the Pharpar to the marsh of Ateibeh; from the head waters of the Jordan (the three branches) down that river to the Sea of Galilee; and from there back again to the Mediterranean. Quite daring enough, we should say, and lengthy enough for a canoe fourteen feet long.

The illustrations of the volume are numerous and well executed, but are open to the same criticism that has been made upon the book itself— they are too personal to the author, and not as interesting as they might be. The maps, however, of which there are six, are excellent, and are probably more nearly correct than any which have ever been made of that portion of Palestine and Syria.

ON.

Free Russia. By WILLIAM HEPWORTH DIXNew York: Harper & Bros., 1870. BEFORE saying anything in favor of this work it is doubtless advisable to warn the reader that Mr. Hepworth Dixon is considered very suspicious authority, whether he records conclusions drawn from his own observation, or whether he attempts to gather spoils from the " ample page of history; and that "Free Russia" has been treated with special contempt by the best Russian critics, who alone, probably, are capable of pronouncing accurate judgment as to its merits and deficiencies. One of these critics, Professor Kapustin, has addressed a letter to the editor of the St. Petersburg Góloss in which he disclaims all responsibility in connection with the book, and says: "My respect for the author made me endeavor to induce him to abandon all idea of writing about a country perfectly unknown to him; or, at least, to postpone doing so. I did not succeed. It was necessary for Mr. Dixon to bring out his book at once, in order to anticipate the work on Russia by Sir Charles Dilke, which was to appear in the spring of the following year. Signs of the haste with which Mr. Dixon has written are very evident. I will not undertake to enumerate the errors of which the composition is full. Having read it in proof only, I still hope that

.

much which provokes laughter in its pages is to be attributed to the compositors. Nevertheless, the views expressed belong undeniably to the author himself, and the boldness and originality which distinguish them awaken this sad thought :-That there exists in Europe a nation about which it is permitted to speak unrestrainedly without knowing its language, and without taking the trouble to become acquainted with its life, even at secondhand."

After such a verdict from such a source there would seem to be nothing more to be said, for certainly no outside critic would have the temerity to differ with Professor Kapustin upon a subject connected with his own country; yet there can be no doubt that to the vast majority of readers "Free Russia" will prove not only a very entertaining, but a very instructive work. Of the rest of Europe we have numerous histories which picture the past to us more or less accurately, and innumerable travels, sketches, papers, and periodicals which enable us to gain a pretty clear conception of what is going on at present; but of Russia the average reader knows absolutely nothing, except that it is a vast territory, nearly as large as the remainder of Europe, inhabited by heterogeneous tribes of Tartars, Finns, Lapps, Samoiedes, and Russ; whose government is an absolute despotism, and whose people have been raised by the reigning Emperor from a condition of serfdom to something like citizenship. Of the customs, laws, religion, and habits of the people; of their peculiar social organization; and of that new basis for the structure of civilization which the Russian conservatives claim is being developed, we have been in darkness which not even the cyclopedias attempted to dispel. Now, whatever may be the deficiencies of Mr. Dixon's book, however false may be its conclusions (and that they are many and glaring can very well be believed), there can be no question that it does at least this much it lifts the curtain upon a new drama in the growth of peoples, and gives us a glimpse at least of what the Russians really are while serfdom is being abolished; of the relation which religion bears to their ordinary life; and of what customs and habits they are retaining, and what they are giving up. All this is done very imperfectly, it is true, and with the very faintest perception of the relative importance of facts; but we know of no other popular work in which it is done at all.

Until, therefore, some other book on the subject makes its appearance, which shall be popular and at the same time better, we feel called upon to commend "Free Russia" to the perusal of all who would learn something of that peculiar people whose life and whose civilization (if civilization it can be called) are based upon ideas which Western Europe is prone to look upon as the wildest of transcendental vagaries.

The Modern Job. By HENRY PETERSON. Philadelphia: H. Peterson & Co.

WHATEVER else the author of "The Modern Job" may be, there can be no doubt that he is a thinker-a bold, strong, courageous thinker-who is not afraid to confront some of the deepest and highest problems that challenge the intellect of man, and who is yet no vulgar rebel, impatient of

all restraint merely because it is restraint, and proud of his own infidelity. That his book will awaken fierce opposition in many, and even frighten some, is more than probable; but he has at least proved himself to be an earnest, devout, and reverential seeker after truth.

"The Modern Job" is a dramatic poem, and as its whole substance consists of speculations upon the Divine government of the world, the nature and origin of evil, and the relation which the individual bears to religion, it may be questioned whether the drama is the best form in which it could have been cast. The advantages of dramatic treatment are too obvious to require mention, but there are also disadvantages which have succeeded pretty well in keeping abstract reasoners out of the field, such, for instance, as the fact that the argument is effective or ineffective in proportion to the impression which the personality into whose mouth it is put has made upon us; and that it is shorn of its just weight when we are compelled to regard it as the spontaneous expression of individuals like ourselves, with whom we are brought face to face. That Mr. Peterson has succeeded, nevertheless, in touching our convictions so closely, and inspiring us with an interest in his characters, shows that he has genuine dramatic talent; and though his work is too "impact with thought" to leave much room for poetry, there are some very powerful passages. The whole of it, moreover, with a few exceptions here and there, is written at a sustained elevation of thought commensurate with the dignity of the theme.

The spirit of the poem will be sufficiently indicated by the statement that it is the old story of Job adapted to the nineteenth century, and that it is modelled upon, or at least suggested by, Lord Byron's "Cain." The figure of Job himself is grand, patriarchal, and dignified, not unworthy of his immortal prototype; and the Dwarf is a striking and strong characterization. The other characters are lay figures merely. The poem is di̟vided into three parts, the first two of which contain the history of Job in prosperity and adversity, and various theological discussions; while the third is the "Vision of Job," in which he has an interview in space with the Archangel Michael, who corroborates and amplifies his ideas on morals and theology. It is somewhat startling to read the following, by way of stage directions:"Michael waves his hand and the walls of space open, and Job beholds myriads of flaming suns and glittering planets and spheres, a huge network, as it were, of infinite splendor ;" and after Milton and Goethe it is certainly daring for any author to tamper with this celestial machinery; but except where Michael speaks of "the late civil war" and the Reconstruction policy, dragging the subject down from high Heaven and questions of eternal moment to the vulgar level of a political debate, the treatment does not impress one as being altogether inadequate.

Of the author's doctrines, of course, opinions will differ. His idea that the world is governed, not by the Almighty, but by some intermediate agent who is neither omnipotent nor omniscient, is curious at least; and though Hawthorne undoubtedly expressed the aspiration of many when he wished that if there be a hereafter he might be permitted to rest a few thousand years before