in thought will be readily recognized by those familiar with Mrs. Moulton's exquisite lines, after reading this work, especially a number of poems of which the following lines are typical:

Companioned.

Through days and dreams I seem to walk with one

Whose feet must shun

Henceforth the paths of earth; for whom the sun
Rises in unknown realms I cannot trace;

And still there is to me no vacant place.
Before me comes upon the air her face.
In the deep, luminous and wondering eyes
I read the rapture of a glad surprise;

A tender hand is clasped within my own,
And on the air there vibrates still her tone.

O friend! on whom the vision shines to-day,
What mystic sway

Hath wrought its spell o'er thee? What fair desire,
As o'er that sea of glass with mingled fire

Thy way hath sped-what fair desire

Is born within thy soul? What strange, sweet dreams
Transfigure thy new life, in wondrous gleams

Of rose and gold and pearl, through starry space?
Not vainly do I ask. Thy tender grace

Answers my love, and brings the new life near;
And all our baffled meanings grow more clear.

And the stanzas entitled:

Sometime.

Sometime you'll think of these summer days
Dreamily drifting through purple haze.

Sometime, with a thrill of passionate pain,
You'll long for their sweetness o'er again.
Sometime, when the moonlight is silvering all,
And the pansies sleep by the garden wall,—

In the mystic twilight's odorous dusk,
Freighted with clustering rose-blooms' musk,—

You will watch for a flitting figure there,
White-robed and noiseless, with falling hair.

And gazing deep in the luminous eyes
That made for your life its paradise,-

The silence and music and wonderful calm

Of this magical summer will linger like balm

Till, starting, you waken to clasp but air,
And list to a flitting footfall there.

Sometime you'll listen in silence lone
For a girlish voice that was all your own;

For words that only to you were given,
Telling of love and the sweetness of heaven.

Sometime you'd give all the wise world's praise
For one of these vanishing summer days.

For just one leaf from the swaying bough,—
Sometime you'd clasp it; oh, why not now?

The volume, while lofty and truly spiritual in atmosphere from cover to cover, is characterized by a pleasing variety in conceptions no less than in treatment. Here is a delightful little conceit:

As in Vision.

Little girl upon the street,

Laughing eyes and tripping feet,
With your hands all running over
Daisy blooms and flowers of clover,
You to me a picture bring
Of a long-lost sunny spring;
Waving woods and sunset skies
Rise like dreams of paradise.

Little girl, when coming days
Hold for you their memories;
When in womanhood's fair land
You shall, haply, one day stand,-
Keep your childish faiths as sweet
As the blossoms at your feet;

Though your hands no more run over
With the daisies and the clover.

Some day, little maiden fair,
With the wind-tossed, sunny hair,

Shall you flush at love's sweet praises,
That are sweeter than the daisies;
Woman's hopes and woman's love,
Sweetness sent by Heaven above,-

With these shall your hands run over,

Dropping daisy blooms and clover.

One of the noblest poems is dedicated to the memory of Phillips Brooks, and from this I make the following extracts:

Ah, where shall we lay our deep sorrow,

How speak of our loss,

That our noblest of friends has been given
The crown for the cross?

Since he, whom we knew but to honor,
To love and revere,

Who brought to all hearts the glad tidings
In messages clear,-

Whose hands, with their pure benediction,
Uplifted in prayer,

Were our pledge of the Saviour's direction,
His guidance and care,-

Since he, our pastor and helper,
So tenderly dear,

Has gone to the Wonderful Country
That lieth so near!

And now, in the hush of the morning,
In its silence and calm,

We would gather a few leaves of healing,
For sorrow a balm.

Our friend-full of gifts and of honors,
Of rare culture and grace,

Of sweetness and faith that no other
Can hope to replace-

Has fought the good fight, and has entered
The rest that God gave;

And the lives he has blessed bring the tribute
We lay on his grave.

For all, in his presence uplifting,

Were exalted and cheered;

And virtue seemed more to be cherished,
And sin to be feared.

Oh, still, from that life thou hast entered,
Behold us, we pray!

Vouchsafe still to guide and direct us,
And teach us the Way.

May we feel that ever upon us

Are the vows of the Lord;

May our lives be more worthy thy teaching,
And show forth God's word.

From these quotations our readers will perceive that this is a volume of verses of superior excellence. It merits wide reading, and its influence cannot fail to quicken the spiritual sensibilities and uplift the reader. At a time like the present such works as "The World Beautiful" and "From Dreamland Sent" are of special value, for in transition periods it is of paramount importance that while justice, freedom, liberty and progress are firmly insisted upon, we awaken man on the spiritual instead of the animal side of his being. Then, again, while the thought-waves of the world are being so profoundly stirred, sensitive minds call for literature whose influence is at once soothing and uplifting. This last volume will materially add to the already brilliant reputation of its talented author.

THE LAND OF THE MUSKEG.*

REVIEWED BY B. O. FLOWER.

I have seldom been so agreeably surprised in a book as in this volume, which describes in a charmingly direct and candid manner the story of an expedition across the great swamps or muskegs of western British America, a region which was in part explored by Mr. Dawson in 1879, but which, for the most part, is only familiar to the Indian tribes and a few half-breeds. On the maps this vast expanse is indicated as "good land," and works describing this section of British America are actual Baron Munchausen tales when they attempt to show the plenitude or bear, moose, beaver, and other kinds of game. It was these alluring descriptions, together with the desire to penetrate a vast region of British possessions which was practically unexplored and a love for the freedom which Nature gives to those who break away from the trammels and the comforts of civilization, which led Mr. Somerset and his friend, Mr. Arthur H. Pollen, to undertake a tramp across this uncivilized region of our continent. In being able to purchase whatever was needed, Mr. Somerset enjoyed an advantage which few explorers have experienced; while, on the other hand, I remember no instance where a traveller only nineteen years of age has displayed the sturdy qualities of our ancestors under the most trying circumstances as did young Mr. Somerset during the long, weary tramp through vast, dismal swamps and trackless forests.

In this expedition the youthful traveller found that the expected game was conspicuous chiefly by its absence, while millions of mosquitoes and the dreaded bulldog fly made life miserable. Rain fell almost incessantly until the weather grew extremely cold; and this cold found the little party without food and reduced to such extremity that they had at length to shoot and eat one of their pack horses to sustain life. Such were some of the experiences of our author; yet a delightful spirit of wholesome, sturdy, healthy youth pervades the volume, which is surpassingly well written, when one remembers the writer to be in his minority.

The diction is excellent, and a spirit of candor pervades the work, which is most delightful and draws the reader very close to the author. It is good to find an absence of all artificiality and an honest frankness in viewing all things described. We have seen so much of shallowness, so much of insincerity and intrigue among the scions of wealthy families and have so often been disgusted at the spectacle presented by the fortune hunters of European aristocracy, who constantly visit our shores in search of the purses of the daughters of the few, who, through unearned increment,

* "The Land of the Muskeg," by H. Somers Somerset; with four maps and over one hundred illustrations, printed on heavy plate paper, handsomely bound in cloth, stamped in black and gold. Price $4. J. B. Lippincott & Company, Philadelphia; William Heinemann, London.

class laws, special privileges, and gambling, have acquired the millions which in justice largely belong to society and the wealth creators, that to find a young man of the order of Mr. Somerset is delightful. Of course I know that his noble-minded mother would desire her son to evince that superb loyalty to conscience and sturdiness of character that mark true manhood, but which are so frequently absent among the children of wealth. But sons are by no means always what their mothers desire them to be, and I feared that this work would be disappointing in more ways than one. In point of fact, it is one of the most entertaining volumes of travel I have read within the past few years. The narration is constantly relieved by the introduction of matter which gives variety and interest to the work, and the general observations are, I think, eminently practical.

Mr. Somerset regards as extremely unwise the action of the Church of England in sending missionaries to convert the Indians, who have for generations been converted to Christianity as much as their nature is capable of being converted by Catholic missionaries. Moreover, he shows how the hard-earned money of many who contribute to missionary work for the heathen sometimes is largely employed for the comfort of the wolf in sheep's clothing who acts as missionary. A case in point which he cites is so suggestive and striking that I give it below:

John Gough Brick was standing at the door of his house when we rode up. He wore a large pair of moccasins on his feet, blue overalls covered his legs, surmounted by a long black frockcoat, a grey flannel shirt and a celluloid collar. Mr. Brick was kindness itself, entertaining us with a jovial hospitality that was past praise, and with a fund of Rabelaisian anecdote marvellous in its steady volume. I have heard that he has gained for himself quite a reputation as a raconteur in this particular line. And there can be no doubt that few ministers of the Church of England have so full and varied a vocabulary of purely secular language.

He has a large farm near the river, which, as he told me, had been started as a school of agriculture for the Indians. The game is fast disappearing from the country, and unless the natives are taught to raise crops and till the land, they will undoubtedly starve. But as Mr. Brick boisterously observed, “I don't allow any of those damned Indians around my place." He has not even a rudimentary knowledge of the language of his congregation, and so would be quite unable to preach in the native tongue, even if he had a mind to. But he has resided at the Mission for some years, and he told me quite seriously that "he knew the Cree for bread."

The mission is, I believe, not financed by the Church of England Missionary Society, although the Bishop of Athabaska retains his hold over the place, which will return to the Society upon the death or retirement of the present occupant.

Mr. Brick is, without doubt, a most capable and energetic farmer, but he has, of course, no market for his produce, and so, although he can almost make a living by his own industry, he cannot make sufficient to carry on the good work amongst the heathen (i. e., Cath