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New York Evening Post, as affording a grave illustration of the laxity of some modern minds on the subject of marriage and as presenting a problem the actual solution of which it is hard to reconcile with Ruskin's known austerity in faith and morals; while at the same time it supplies a new illustration of the old experience that all one's abstract views of right and wrong in conduct scatter to the winds when the testing moment comes of one's own personal relation. At least the tale attests the depths and reality of Ruskin's spirit of self-renunciation.

The privilege of burial in Westminster Abbey was promptly offered by Dean Bradley, and the acceptance of the offer would have added to the distinctions of the great English mausoleum, as it would have gratified England generally, and visitors to that august shrine in years to come; but there is something peculiarly fitting in Ruskin's own wish that his body should rest amidst the quiet scenes in which his last days were spent; and at Coniston he was buried on a Thursday, in a grave lined with white tiles and beneath a mass of flowers which included a "floral tribute" from the Queen. All England was represented at the grave, and a memorial service was held at the disappointed Abbey early in the day.

Mrs. Sarah K. Bolton writes for the Cleveland (Ohio) World an interesting account of a visit she paid to Ruskin at his home, "Brantwood," on Lake Coniston, which we condense as follows. She describes the exterior of the house as a rough mortared, blue slated, low and rambling structure, festooned with flowered and berried vines, framed with beds of poppies, and backgrounded with mountains. Foliage of the ash, spruce, holly, chestnut and oak embower and shade the building. Within one finds a "treasure-house of art, science and literature."

"As you enter, the square hall, green in color, is brightened by three drawings of Burne-Jones, with some sketches by Prout and from Ruskin's own pencil. The drawing-room is furnished in delicate blue, rich golden satin, handsome figured paper in subdued tints. Rugs are on the floor. A plant, with exquisitely shaded leaves, stands on the table in the center of the room. The dining-hall is furnished in pea-green. Here are the family portraits. The picture of the mother represents a woman of uncommon sweetness and strength; the father shows a fine, manly face. Most winsome of all is a 3-year-old boy, with flaxen hair, bright blue eyes, dressed in white, with blue shoes and a sash of the same color. Here also is a famous portrait of Andrea Gritti, by Titian; an Annunciation' by Tintoretto; sweet Angelica Kauffman, painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds; Raphael, from life; young Reynolds, by his own hand; and Turner, at the age

of seventeen, by himself. Mr. Ruskin's sleepingroom, upstairs, is simple, in light chintz, with bureau, washstand and bedstead of mahogany; but the pictures are worth a fortune. The walls are closely covered with Turners, incased in blue cam. bric lest the light fade the exquisite colors. Here is a Carnarvon Castle' and others about which Ruskin has written in 'Modern Painters.' The adjoining room, where he used to work, but which he left from a prolonged illness, has a tower with glass on each side, so that no sunrise or sunset may be lost to view. Most attractive of all is the master's study, furnished in green. Books fill cases on every side-one case for classics, one for botany, another for geology, while still another is filled. with old books and manuscripts. I look out of the window across the lake, upon an ivy-covered house with tower, once the home of Sir Philip Sidney, and then, taking from the case a French book that once belonged to the famous man, I read his name. Here is a work on Dante, with Michael Angelo's autograph written in a fine hand. Here is a large Chaucer of 1694, with some verses in Addison's handwriting. Here also is a manuscript Greek testament of the tenth century; an illuminated book of music of an early date; the prayer-book of St. Louis on vellum, illuminated with work so fine that a microscope is required to see its beauty. Here are some of the 'Waverly' novels in the original manuscript, and a bound volume of some of Sir Walter Scott's letters in his own writing. Linnæus' Botany' is here, with notes by Thomas Gray. A desk is opened, and it is full of Turners. Another desk has a most beautiful collection of gold, diamonds and other precious stones, laid on crimson or purple velvet; also the finest assortment of agates, probably, in the world. In one part of the room is a bundle of walking-sticks, hammers and big pieces of basalt which Ruskin has brought down from the mountain. His seal is the word 'to-day,' graven on the end of a piece of chalcedony, five or six inches long, like a stalactite. Here are vases from Rome aud Greece, and this three-cornered inkstand once belonged to Galileo. Here is a piece of a font from Florence, executed by Niccolo Pisano. In the center of the room is a circular table, covered with green cloth, where the scholar does his work. And what a student! He may work for a month on geology; then, if he tires, he turns to botany and writes a book; then to art; then, dearest of all, to his work for the poor.-Literary World.


"How did you come to put this poem on the back of a government bond?" inquired the editor.

"I was tired of hearing you say my poetry wasn't worth the paper it was written on," the author serenely answered.

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Bib.-No, to tell the truth I didn't want to buy at all. In fact, I have a copy of the work at home, same edition and in much better preservation, and since it's so valuable I believe I'll let mine go. What will you give me?

Dea. (losing interest)-Well, really there is very little call for it now; rare book and all that, but few care for it. Style of binding appeals to few, and, of course, the contents are merely literature, and have no charm for bibliophiles.

Bib. (persisting)-But what will you give? Name your own price. Everything has some value.

Dea. To tell the truth, I know a dealer in Boston who is selling them for $5 apiece, or $50 in dozen lots. I'll give you $3 for it because you're a customer of mine.

Bib. (leaving)-It's mine. Good day.



New Clerk- Mrs. Jones has sent her maid for a copy of "Prisoners of Hope," but I— Proprietor-Oh, that's all right, Zenda a copy.


Cynthia-Here's another letter from Hiram at college. He wants $20 more for school-books.

Reuben-Great dumplings! That boy'll put a mortgage on the farm yit. What books does he want now?

Cynthia-Here's the list: "Gilligan on Tackling," "Short Rules for Bucking the Center," "The History of the Game," "Lessons in Punting," "The Signal System," and "First Aid to the Injured."


The following from the New York Press is evidently an elaboration of an old story. Yet, possibly, it is a true one: "An architect, well known in New York for some of his work on residences

and office buildings, recently received from a millionaire in Europe who had given him an order for house plans before sailing, this note: 'Dear Mr. H: I neglected to tell you about my library. Have the shelves broad and low, with plate-glass doors. Get up anything you like in the way of books. Have a variety. You might get "Lubbock's Hundred Best," and "Stone's Hundred Best," and if there are any new selections out put them in. Get a lot of histories and biographies. I don't care much about light novels. Have the binding uniform, as I want the books to make a splendid showing. Get hold of every edition de luxe in the market, regardless of expense. Have my monogram stamped on every cover. If you can't decide what I want, you might hire some poor literary devil to help you pick 'em out. Be sure to have Congressman M. send you all the war records of the Rebellion. He will do it for me. Have the Government binding taken off and my uniform binding put on."


"Why did Dr. Hansen's wife get a divorce?" "On account of the difference in their literary tastes."

"How was that?"

"He fell in love with a young poetess, and she with a lyric poet."


Not all the reasons given for the delayed publication of a book are as neat and conclusive as those advanced in the case of a recently announced book, "Ease in Cycling." The publisher had to beg for indulgence, because its author had just been pitched off his wheel, broken his collar-bone, and lain insensible for sixty hours.

A Massachusetts firm of silversmiths and engravers that has manufactured a number of "literary" souvenir spoons, recently wrote to "Frances Burney, care J. B. Lippincott Co., Philadelphia, Pa.," "for a picture of [her] home or birthplace, something suitable to design and make a souvenir spoon from."


In The Independent W. G. Bowdoin gives a very happy picture of the emotions of an author who had achieved such success that publishers and editors were at his beck and call, which incidentally gave him the opportunity to pay off a lot of old scores. "A small colored boy guarded the outer door, and took the cards of editors who crowded his anteroom, jostling one another, and who wanted special Sunday and other features. He had, however, a very retentive memory, and for the ordinary editors who had returned his manuscripts unconsidered and unread when he was unknown he had a printed form that read:

* * *

"Washington Irving Browne has received your

request for a manuscript. He regrets to say that it will not now be possible for him to consider your present wishes in this regard. His time is so engrossed in his regular channels that he is unable to consider anything outside of his present clientele. This does not imply any lack of appreciation on his part of your suggested patronage or signify in any way that the standard of your magazine is not acceptable to him. It has been a pleasure for him to have received the courtesy of your submitted request. Respectfully,"

Here was revenge sweet to be sure. And once Robert Louis Stevenson partook of it in his own genial, gentle way. When he visited New York for the first time he called upon the well-known editor of a well-known magazine, presented a letter of introduction, and asked the privilege of writing something. The editor eyed him dispassionately, and told him that his stuff would hardly do. Nine years passed. In the meantime the "stuff" had been disposed of elsewhere, and the literary journals were filled with notes about the new author. In the full blaze of his fame he paid another visit to America. Among the first to leave cards at Mr. Stevenson's hotel was the aforesaid editor of the aforesaid magazine. Mr. Stevenson, like Washington Irving Browne, had a “very retentive memory." He rolled a cigarette and repeated the incident. "How provoking," said the editor. "I wonder which of my clerks could have been so discourteous to yon." Stevenson lighted his cigarette and replied mildly, and with his usual beautiful smile-"Why, now I recall his face. You are his very image."


A Little Lay. "Three poets came to London town,

(Sing O for a crust and a stoup of ale!) All proper men and all unknown, (Sing O for patient merit !)

"And one was a lovers' verse maker,

(Sing Ring-a-ding-ding and Ring-a-ding-dee!) And honey-sweet his verses were

(Sing O for the pretty ladies!)

"And one dreamed old-world dreams, God wot, (Sing O for the quaint pre-Raphaelite touch!) And many a flashing ballad he wrote,

(Sing O for fit and finish!)

The Rubaiyat.

Omar Khayyam, you're a jolly old Aryan,
Half sybaritic, and semi-barbarian,
Not a bit mystic, but utilitarian,
Fond of a posy and fond of a drum.
Symbolist, poet, and clear-eyed philosopher,
Had you a wife I am sure you were boss of her,
Yet you'd be ruled by the coquettish toss of her
Garland crowned head at you, Omar Khayyam.
For their vanity,
In your humanity,
Else your urbanity
Were but a flam.
And the severity

Of your austerity
Proves your sincerity,
Omar Khayyam.

Well I remember when first you were heralded,
Persian-born poesy ably Fitzgeralded;
Impulse said buy you-and I to my peril did:
Now a meek slave to your genius I am.
Some of your doctrines to us may seem hatable,
Though we admit that the themes are debatable;
But your ideas, are they really translatable
Into our languages, Omar Khayyam?

"Now, these three go like fashion plates,

(Sing O for the pink, beneficent cheque!) And they lack neither wine nor delicates, (Sing O for English Poesy !)"


In your society
All inebriety

Seems but propriety
Truth but a sham;
And the reality

Of your carnality

Court immortality,
Omar Khayyam.

From the grave depths of your massive tranquility
Thoughts you produce, knowing well their futility,
Thoughts that you phrase with a fatal facility,
Hurl with the force of a battering ram!

But we care not though your message be cynical,
Not very creedal and scarcely rabbinical ;
We, your adorers, put you on a pinnacle,
For that we love you, old Omar Khayyam.
Though you're erroneous,

Still you're harmonious,
And you're euphonious
In epigram.
O'er the censorious
You are victorious;
We hold you glorious,
Omar Khayyam.

"And the third one was a man of might,

(Sing O for the flushed, fair, scholarly page!) Mother Goose

And words of gold he did indite,

(Sing O for the quotable passage!)


Mother Goose According to Whitman. Here is the poem of me, the entertainer of children.

See! a cat is passing through my poem:
See it plays the fiddle rapturously;

It plays sonatas, fugues, rag-times, gavottes, gigues, minuets, romances, impromptus-it plays the tune that led to the defunction of the aged cow;

Why so passive, thou moon?

See the dog.

But most of all it plays nocturnes, and plays them
pyrotechnically, as befits the night-time.
See the moon shining in the pellucid sky;
See the cow, inspired by the intoxicating strains
of the Stradivarius, throws off her habitual
languor and leaps over the moon.

O me! O pulse of my life! O amazement of things! victions on the subject of fiction was that

Why so active, thou cow?

He grins and runs through the city,

Seeing humor in his surroundings.

Have all dogs so keen a sense of humor?

See the dish, maliciously meditative. See, it takes advantage of the general confusion. and absconds with the silver spoon.


Authors Itemized.

Maurus Jokai has already received high honor from his countrymen, but another one, almost unique, is in store for him. At the Paris Exhibition the Hungarian section will include "a Jokai exhibition," containing a copy of every edition of each of the several-score works which Jokai has written. It is estimated that this collection will consist of some thousands of volumes, for Jokai's books have been translated into most of the European languages.

While "Madcap Violet'' was running as a serial, some one wrote:

"Oh, Mr. Black, oh, Mr Black,
What makes you write so blue?"

The answer is, of course, found in the statement recently published, that one of his strongest con66 a novel with a sad ending is remembered longer than one with a happy ending." It was, however, a strong conviction based upon observation merely, and not reinforced by any morbid tendencies in his own nature. Happiness came to him through the longsustained and successful practice of his art, in the companionship of many friends, in the opportunities to gratify his taste for out-door life, and, more than all else, in his home.



I wonder to what extent Cooper is still read. He ought to rank as the first of American novelists, but he certainly does not. Indeed it is rather taken for granted that Cooper's novels are fit only for very young people, and that they are immeasurably inferior to the work of half a dozen of American writers of to-day. Certainly Cooper's Indians and sailors never existed in real life, but that is no reason why they should not exist in fiction. A more preposterous plot than that of "The Pilot," in which an American frigate makes her way into a difficult harbor merely in order to find a pilot to take her out again, could not be imagined, but how glorious is the description of the frigate beating out to sea in a gale, with the enemy close at hand. Chingachgook is as impossible as Mr. Bret Harte's delightful gamblers, but how admirable is the scene in which he captures a canoe for the Pathfinder and his party from the swimming Hurons. I can smile at Cooper's heroI can smile at Cooper's heroines, or "young females," as he prefers to call them, and I can recognize the fact that his Indians and sailors never had their prototypes on sea or land, but for all that Cooper as a storyteller is far and away the best that America has produced. He may not have fallen into neglect, so far as the number of his readers is concerned, but he certainly does not hold the position to which he is entitled in American literature. W. L. ALDEN.


It is said that Sir Walter Scott used to pay $750 a year on letters and parcels received by post. Once a bulky package came to Sir Walter all the way from the United States, for which the famous Scotch author paid postage. He tore off the wrapper, when out fell a MS., called The Cherokee Lovers," sent by a lady of New York, who requested Scott to read and correct it, write a prologue, have it produced on the stage of Drury Lane, and negotiate for a copyright. In about a fortnight another large, bulky letter arrived, C. O. D., calling for five pounds sterling, postage, and this the author thoughtlessly received and tore open. Out jumped a duplicate copy of "The Cherokee Lovers," with a letter from the same lady, saying that, as the weather had been stormy, and the mails so uncertain, she thought it prudent to send a duplicate, as the first copy might have been lost. This little affair cost the gifted gentleman fifty dollars.


M. Jules Claretie is responsible for this story of Erckmann and Chatrian. Those who have studied the works of these men in the original can appreciate how conscientious they were. In the height of their popularity they agreed to supply the Journal des Debats with a romance. It is said that the skeleton of the story always came from one and the giving of flesh to it from the other. When the work was concluded, the joint authors sat in judgment over it, and read it all over. "What do you think of it?" asked one of them. "C'est bien mauvais," said the other. "Then let us make a good fire with it," and so page by page the manuscript was burned in a stove. The Debats had to wait. In time, however, a fine novel was sent to the paper, and the fame of Erckmann and Chatrian increased.

At length de Maupassant stands near his teacher and his master, Gustave Flaubert-that is, their busts now stand in close proximity in the old town of Rouen, which witnessed the youthful trials of each. The Flaubert memorial had been there alone

for several years; it was only recently that de Maupassant was set up to keep it company.


The centenary of the birth of Pushkin, the popular poet of Russia, will be celebrated this year. Like Dumas, he was of African descent, his grandfather being a full-blooded negro. Pushkin began writing early, and by his twentieth year his works were known throughout Europe.


The story is told that a friend, invited to dine with Schopenhauer at his favorite restaurant, where a number of officers were in the habit of meeting, noticed that Schopenhauer took a gold coin from his pocket before eating and laid it on the table beside him. When the meal was over the philosopher replaced the coin in his purse. Upon a question from his friend, Schopenhauer explained: "I have been dining with these officers for some time," he said, "and about two months ago I registered a silent vow to give this gold coin, of considerable value, to some worthy charity, on the very first occasion upon which I should hear these gentlemen talk of anything but women, horses and the chances of promotion. You see I still have my money."

Kipling writes all his verses while humming tunes, which are generally Irish, if William Strong, the artist, who visited Kipling before his illness, is correct. The interesting confession is given in the poet's words: "I take up, for example,' he said, "the 'Wearing of the Green,' and I hum it over and over, and the spirit moves me to write words to fit it." It is queer to note, now that the thing is mentioned, that "Mandalay" goes to the tune of "Wearing of the Green." Try it : "Take me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is like the worst,

Where there aren't no ten commandments and a man can raise a thirst."

The story is told of George Moore, the author of "Evelyn Innes," that when he was talking with the artist Manet concerning London customs he said: "You will see an extraordinary city. Until seven o'clock in the evening every one is in tweeds and has a pipe in his mouth, even in the street, but after seven o'clock-evening dress and a gardenia in the buttonhole."

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Balzac used to hunt names for the characters in his romances. He would not be satisfied with one of his own invention. It had to have actual existSo perambulating Paris or Tours, he would study the signs, and was delighted when he found a name which suited his personages. Dickens, we It is said, fancy, rather invented his funny names.


however, that he took Oliver Twist from an omnibus conductor. There was a 'bus driver, and as the conductor shut the door of the vehicle he cried out to the jehu, "Go on, Oliver Twist," and Dickens, who was a passenger, at once adopted the name for the boy who asked "for more."


A Very Curious Letter.

'Cowper, you know, was the man who wrote about John Gilpin, and the letter by him is about another poem of his called 'Charity.' Here it is :

"My dear friend, I am going to send what, when you have read, you may scratch your head, and say, I suppose, there's nobody knows, whether what I have got be verse or not; by the tune and the time, it ought to be rhyme; but if it be, did ever you see, of late or of yore, such a ditty before? I have writ Charity' not for popularity, but as well as I could, in hopes to do good; and if the reviewer should say, to be sure, the gentleman's Muse wears Methodist shoes, you may know by her pace, and talk about grace, that she and her bard have little regard for the tastes and fashions, and ruling passions, and hoydening play of the modern day; and though she assume a borrowed plume, and now and then wear a tittering air, 'tis only her plan, to catch if she can, the giddy and gay, as they go that way, baited her trap in the hope to snap all that may by the production of a new construction. She has come, with a sugar-plum. His opinion in this will not be amiss; 'tis what I intend my principal end; and if I succeed, and folks should read till a few are brought to a serious thought, I shall think I am

paid for all I have said, and all I have done, although I have run, many a time, after a rhyme, as far from hence to the end of my sense, and by hook or by crook, write another book, if I live and am here another year. I have heard before of a room with a floor laid upon springs and such like things, with so much art in every part that when you went in you were forced to begin a minuet pace, with an air and grace, swimming about, now in and now out, with a deal of state, in a figure of eight, without pipe or string, or any such thing; and now I have writ, in a rhyming fit, what will make you dance, and as you advance will keep you still, though against your will, dancing away, alert and gay, till you come to an end of what I have penned; which that you may do ere madam and you are quite worn out with jigging about, I take my leave, and here you receive a bow profound, down to the ground, from your humble me.-W. C."


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