ONE can at least dimly perceive what is the point of view of the aristocracy of England when they look upon authorship as a little beneath their dignity. They felt it to be so even as far back as Shakspere's day; when a poet might circulate his "sugared sonnets" among his "private friends," but should not condescend to publish them. Do we not already begin to share that feeling, to a certain incipient extent, in this country? Do we not some of us shrink from the thought of the average publisher, with his puffs sent round to the newspapers, and his dreadful "notices of the press "? Will not the time come, with us as with the old country, when there will be a kind of aristocratic pride that will make men shrink from authorship, or only enter it beneath a mask? For the truth is what is the good of disguising it?-that many of the writers of the day, and of those, too, who have the ear of the public, are hopelessly vulgar. We do not mean what we do not mean, either. It is not so much any positive quality in them, as the lack of in-bred refinement, dignity, nobleness of intention. They may see things sharply enough, and recount their observations smartly, but what is the point of view from which they look? The black beetle may see the stone by the fence very well, but he sees the under side all the time. The same thing is happening to literature that has wofully happened to politics long ago: it is being vulgarized. There is a tremendous civil service reform needed in both regions-the access of gentlemen, and the removal of the cad. We are coming to need our Matthew Arnold on this side, quite as much as he is needed at home. course he would be misunderstood here, as he is there, to be prescribing rose-water and parmacetti; but some of us understand that the claim for culture and gentlemanliness is throughout abundantly robust and manly.

Of

This train of thought has sprung from Longfellow's poem, Michael Angelo, lately published in the "Atlantic Monthly." Here from beginning to end is a noble poem. We are moving among august figures, in a serene and upper air. What grander function has a work of art than this, first of all, of throwing round us a certain mood—of ennobling our point of view, of giving us pure and austere eyes to see with, as well as a noble vision to see? You may analyze this operation as you please: you may say it is the chosen vocabulary, or the stately rhythm of the verse, or the happy hit upon a subject, or so forth. We say it is rather the man himself, the poet, who through this art-the finest art because it has this power-is enabled to breathe his own spirit upon us, first of all, and afterward to show us the vision he Vol. I.-42.

beholds. From beginning to end of this poet's career such has been his effect upon the world. While so many of our writers have been diligently vulgarizing human life, he has ennobled it. Could we not afford to exchange all our bragging "material progress," all the smartness of our "statesmen," all the muddy depths of our profoundest poets, and all the slimy iridescence of our shallowest ones, if somehow there might be imparted to our people through its literature this dignity and purity, this loftiness of view and of intention, which breathes from Michael Angelo?

The wholly satisfactory thing, it seems to us, has not yet been said about Longfellow and his work. Is there any one of our poets, ancient or modern, who could more fitly than he enter these very scenes which he portrays in this poem, and talk face to face with those mighty spirits? It is no matter, perhaps, what we say now about him-the quality of his work and its effect will not be changed by our words; but one cannot but feel that the time will come when there will be a somewhat different estimate from the newspaper one now accepted as a finality.

66

WE shall have to agree before long upon a more precise definition of the sectional term "West." The resident on the Atlantic seaboard designates the whole region beyond the Alleghanies as out West." The denizen of Cincinnati or Chicago moves that indefinite region to the farther side of the Missouri, with a mental reservation that it is bounded by the Rocky Mountains. When it comes to speaking of our State, it is then the "extreme West," or the "Pacific slope." There is yet a tantalizing vagueness in the matter which ought to be cleared up. How hopeless the case is, however, is painfully apparent from the confusion of mind of Mr. Henry James, Jr. In his recent story "The Siege of London "-the heroine hails from San Diego, and the writer constantly speaks of her as from the Southwest. Moreover, the lady is residing in San Diego with her husband, whose occupation is that of editor of the "Dacotah Herald"; and a particular friend of hers, another of the characters in the story, rides over from New Mexico two or three times a week to spend the evening with her. We should not, perhaps, exact from a novelist the unities of time and space too strictly, and especially not from Mr. James, who can hardly be expected to have very clear notions of the geography of a country so remote from London and Paris as California.

It is an old story, that every great poet or original literary genius, of whatever kind, has supplied, first

and last, about as much lucrative employment as a factory. Not to speak of the paper-making and type-casting, the printing and binding and circulating of the successive editions of his own works, there are to be considered the generations of other writers inspired by him, and the artists that illustrate him, and the mechanical work of producing and distributing their work also. Literary criticism, historical essay, biography, eulogistic verse, magazine articles descriptive of the poet's birthplace and study-chair-all gather about him, far outweighing in mass the original text. Some one well informed both in the history of Shakspere criticism and in the mechanical and commercial processes of book-making and selling should get up the statistics on the subject. We should find a quantity of employment supplied to artisans and artists, literati and draymen, such as would stagger our friends who clamor for an overpoweringly industrial education, and enlarge on the superior commercial value to the state of the mechanical element compared with the literary.

THE influence of science, through its practical applications, on the occupations of mankind is, of course, enormous; but the literature of scientific or other scholarly research has not had that radiating influ. ence, that vigor to create large auxiliary literatures, that pure literature has. It is, however, now beginning to produce one. As the group of leading scholars in each line get deeper into the particular subject they are mining at, there begins to be employment for an auxiliary corps to go back and forth between the explorer and the "general reader," carrying results. On the whole, this is a good and a needed industry. It is true that no good is done by discouraging the habit of going to original authorities, and setting everybody to swallowing weak dilutions of scholarly authors, instead of the good strong substance itself. Particularly in rehashing knowledge for children are we in danger of guarding their brains too tenderly against much exercise. But there will always be a majority, both of children and grown people, who must get their knowledge in easy books, or not at all. Some few of the greateat authorities on given subjects write popular compendia of their own researches, or even text-books; the text-books in the classical languages are notably of this sort, and it is an important cause of a certain intelligent habit of study developed from the outset by the classical training in our schools. But the classics are exceptionally (though not quite exclusively) favored in having eminent ability bestowed on the most elementary text-books; as a general thing, no man who is pushing deeper the limits of the world's knowledge on any subject is going to spend his time in explaining to children and the rest of the unlearned the knowledge already gained. Nor would it always be an advantage that he should. Especially in the text-book matter, there is much special fitness required, which might or might not

be possessed by the great scientist, philologist, or historian. Moreover, there is much of a class of special research going on of which educated people desire to keep generally informed, but which it is simply impossible for them to follow in the records of the specialists, nor would it be anything but a waste of time to do so. Such readers are thankful enough for a really trustworthy summary of the main points that they wish to know.

There is, however, no such body of excellent popular rendering of modern scholarship as one vaguely supposes, knowing how largely the rank and file of the literary profession is engaged in this sort of thing. That excellent and intelligent, but not profoundly learned, person, "the general reader," goes with easy assurance to his friend, the professor, to ask for the best simple treatise on this or that, and discovers to his amazement that there is nothing for it but to let the subject alone, or go direct to the formidable "best authority." And, lest by any chance his knowledge should become increased, the small possibility of his summoning courage to attack this best authority is generally frustrated by his unfortunate encounter with some very entertaining, but, alas! very delusive, treatise on the same subject. Herein is the mischief of popular information: that it is so generally given from insufficient knowledge. Sometimes grotesque untruth is gravely put into circulation, as the venerable fallacy that the italicized words in King James' Bible represent originals of whose exact meaning the translators were doubtful; or the appalling theory of an Ohio lecturer, quoted in the "Nation," that the prehistoric monsters had left their fat in the shape of kerosene deposits. More often the book or article or lecture is merely inaccurate, misleading in minor points, showing that the author has not kept track of the best and latest scholarship on his subject, does not discriminate well between what is sound and what is unsound authority-and has, in fact, merely scraped together more or less loosely such information as came handy, without its ever occurring to him that his task was one that required much study. In greater or less degree, this lack of scholarly spirit haunts popular writing; the publishing firms, the periodicals that "have never give in to it," may be counted on few fingers. We have to read with a slight reserve of distrust the article that comes into our hands on the very subject we wanted to find something about. We do not expect there will be any glaring errors; but we cannot tell which sentences contain the two or three untrustworthinesses that will probably be in the article, and so we feel shy of the whole.

PROBABLY the very best work that is done in the way of popular information is in the best children's magazines, and in a set of children's books more or less connected therewith. Probably the worst is in school text-books. It is curious enough to go into a school-room and find the children undergoing

drill in grammar, or physiology, or history, from the point of view of twenty-five years ago, and often with statements even of facts as they were believed ten years ago. And this, not because school boards and teachers have clung to the obsolete books, but because the makers of the books (which will often be less than a year from the presses) had no idea where to look for the living and growing knowledge on their subject. There is some stirring among the dry bones of text-books within a few years, that offers better promise for the future.

THERE needs, for the work of popularizing the results of scholarship, a class of writers who are not themselves of the class they would minister to-"general readers." They should be habitual and appreciative readers of heavy books, should follow closely and comprehendingly the work of the eminent investigators. There would thus be not merely a gain in the accuracy of facts, but a far greater one in the spirit of the books and their influence. Such

books, that is, would not foster the spirit of selfsatisfaction and shallow forwardness of judgment that are sensibly enough deprecated as the results of a thin layer of smattering information on all topics: for they would unconsciously be permeated with a suggestion of the width and depth of the knowledge they were merely stepping-stones toward. It is the experience of the schools that a thoroughly good textbook leaves the pupil well aware of the elementary nature of its contents, and both curious and reverent toward the vast expanse of the subject beyond. It is rare, however, that any one becomes competent to write such books without becoming himself seized with the fascination of original research, and undesirous of the secondary work. No one could wish to reduce the number of scholars or the quantity of original research; but for the sake of the unprotected victims of popular science and of the ordinary textbook, it is to be hoped that there will soon rise a large enough scholarly class to do both things. And indeed, the indications are good that there will.

Sacred Scriptures of the World.1

FOR Some little time disquieting rumors have haunted the press of a forth-coming "Expurgated Bible," as it was generally called. The impression seems to have been current that a dangerous and subtle undermining plot was on foot against the Christian religion. It is not, however, surprising considering the magnifying effect of advance circulars —to find the book that now comes to hand neither very dangerous nor very subtle. Indeed, but for the circulars and the preface, it is probable that the interesting collection of selections would have been very well received. For that, in fact, is all that the "Sacred Scriptures of the World" turns out to be. Of the four hundred and six pages, two hundred and eighty-two are occupied by selections from the Scriptures of the Old and New Testaments, the rest by selections somewhat delusively headed, "Persian Scriptures," "Egyptian Scriptures," "Hindu Scriptures," "Buddhist Scriptures," "Chinese Scriptures," "Grecian Scriptures," "Roman Scriptures," "Arabian Scriptures." Delusively, we say, for under these headings are quoted any writings whatever of a religious cast, Scriptures or not. To quote Cicero and Epictetus as Roman Scriptures, or Plato and Plutarch as Greek, is just as accurate as to quote á Kempis under the name of Christian Scriptures. Had the collection been entitled "Religious 1 Sacred Scriptures of the World. Compiled, edited, and in part retranslated by Rev. Martin K. Schermerhorn. New York. G. P. Putman's Sons.

Writings of the World," had the selections from Hebrew and Christian Scriptures been confined-as are those from the writings of other religions-to purely devotional and moral portions, one could but welcome it as a great addition to the religious knowledge of many who would read it. The small group of scholarly works on comparative religion, and scholarly translations of sacred or devout writings, do not reach the general reader; and these extracts, if reduced by the omissions we have suggested, would have reached him, with very desirable influence on his Christian liberality. His impression has always been that, with the exception perhaps of Socrates, the religious conceptions of all humanity save Hebrews and Christians have always been of the crudest paganism, and the morality to correspond. But if the compiler wished to place in comparison the religions of the world, that the reader might see for himself how far all are to be respected, it would have been only fair to have included the cosmogonies and theogonies of all or of none. In fact, the great divorce between the popular religion and the religion of the wise, that characterized all faiths except the Hebrew and Christian, makes this sort of comparison exceedingly difficult.

We have left untouched the points on which probably discussion will most dwell, namely: Mr. Schermerhorn's use of his own translation instead of the authorized version of our Scriptures, and his intricate explanation of his position in his preface. It is, however, the most obvious thing in the world, that where the same word admits either of the rendering

"homage," or the rendering "worship," a Unitarian will translate it "homage," and a Trinitarian "worship"; and neither is to be accused of unfairness, nor does the translation of either constitute the least argument on the point at issue between them. In his preface, indeed, Mr. Schermerhorn gives us to understand that he is going to take the most startling liberties of translation, accommodating himself to our feeble deductive powers by translating every figurative word into what he himself conceives to be its implication. He does not, however, do anything as absurd in the way of simplifying the original by translation as his preface would lead one to expect. As for the curious preface and table of contents, we shall only say that it presents the appearance of an effort alternately to convince the orthodox that there is nothing at all here to which they can object, rightly looked at, and to catch them unawares by an innocent-looking suggestion of profound, even revolutionary, changes in their faith to be made by the ensuing pages. If we could afford the space for it, we could here quote various sentences that are simply droll. We content ourselves, however, by saying that the reader had better tear out the preface, write above the Hebrew and Christian translations, "From a Unitarian point of view," and then read the book, not over-suspiciously nor with unlimited confidence. It is no secret that the authorized versions are trans

lated from a Trinitarian point of view, adopting without uncandor or narrowness the orthodox rendering in all cases of ambiguity, and the same privilege should certainly be accorded to other doctrinal standpoints; but to have any weight, or to deserve any, such a translation should be backed by an array of scholarship and reputation equal to that represent ed by our authorized versions.

A Mingled Yarn,1

MANY will recognize the name of the author of this volume as that of an actor who for several years held a prominent position upon the stage of the California Theater, and who, by reason of much good sense, geniality, and refinement, proved himself a pleasant companion, and gained many friends. In this new role of author, they will give him the plaudits with which they were accustomed to greet him before the footlights, and will with friendly consideration take up the book and enjoy this to some new and to others renewed communion with him. It contains a pleasant narrative of a three weeks' stay at Mazatlan, with an account of that city and its people; an address upon iron and its relation to civilization, which was delivered at the annual opening of the Mechanics' Fair in San Francisco in 1876; with what he has entitled "Bubbles from Bohemia" and "Trifles light as Air." In the former his fel

1 A Mingled Yarn. Sketches on various subjects. By Henry Edwards, Comedian. New York: G. P. Putnam's Sons. For sale by A. L. Bancroft & Co. San Francisco.

lows of the Bohemian Club of this city will be pleased to read a paper which they have heard from the author, upon Shakspere; memorial papers upon Edwin Adams, a favorite actor, James Hamilton, an esteemed artist, and Joseph Maguire, a warmhearted singer; and his address at the midsummer High Jinks in the redwoods of Marin County, in 1878. The latter are made up of a narrative of two balloon voyages, a letter written in Australia in defense of the stage, and memorials of Agassiz, Harry Larkyns, and William Barry.

In a prefatory note the author would disarm hostile criticism by laying upon his friends all blame, if it should appear that he has imprudently made this publication; because it was in sole obedience to their wishes. We have it not in our hearts to do other than respect his modesty; and therefore, as we close the volume, we renew the expression of approbation which it was our wont to utter with our hands as the curtain fell and shut the actor from our sight.

Recent Fiction.

Mr. Black's last novel, Shandon Bells,2 probably hits as exactly the point of neither lessening nor increasing its author's reputation as a book could do. There is indeed some disappointment in finding out that a new book from an author who has done as much excellent work as Mr. Black is not an advance, for the reader likes to believe that any good book is only an earnest of much better to come.

It would really seem as if Mr. Black is now resolved not to quit the playful tone and happy endings that the public seems to demand from him; and it is a style that gets monotonous. As if himself aware of this, he takes pains-more than perhaps any other novelist to introduce into each novel a totally dif ferent phase of human life, distinguished by as many idiosyncracies as possible. This time it is literary life in London; and it is made as modern as may be by the scientific work among the poor, the various kinds of newspaper men and work touched upon, the artistic talk on current subjects, and so on. It might be said to deal with almost exactly the same side in London life that "A Modern Instance" deals with in Boston life. In the one point, therefore, of the occupations, acquaintances, and surroundings of the hero, there is room for interesting comparison between the two novels; but in no other respect would any comparison be pertinent. The characters are fresh, and no repetitions of any previous ones of the same author; Fitzgerald is a winning fellow, and both his ladies-the false and the true—are lovable, and abundantly justify his taste; the minor characters, especially Hilton Clark and John Ross, are even better than the major ones; the narrative does not flag, and the conversation is much of it excellent; and yet Shandon Bells is a little thin and a little

2 Shandon Bells. By William Black. New York: Harper Brothers. 1883. For sale by A. L. Bancroft & Co.

wearisome. The reader objects to the playfulness of manner which was rather an attraction at first; but now that it has appeared in book after book, one begins to feel that he is being addressed like a child. The excess of good fortune and happiness all around that comes showering down in the later part of the story makes it seem all the more like a story told to a child. We cannot escape an impression that if Mr. Black would write something in solid earnest, and without reference to his reader's tastes, he would write much better than this. Yet if his own work had not done so much to raise our standard of judgment, Shandon Bells would have to rank very high among contemporary novels.

No reviewer will be able to criticise Julian Hawthorne's Dust without mentioning Thackeray. It is unfortunate for the author that it should be so; for the reviewer can but say that the best things in his book are the parts that sound like Thackeray. Yet this likeness is something better than a good echo: it is more like a degree of the same sort of ability. It is in mapping out his people and their surroundings, and in giving us a vivid sense of the characteristic tone of society at the date-the early part of the present century that he is thus simple and strong; in the working out, his characters all lose life and sink into stock types; while the plot is ordinary and sensational-almost absurdly sensational in several points, such as the more than sentimental self-sacrifice of Charles Grantley, the second sight of the heroine, the unnecessary murder, the suicide of Perdita. general, about everything in the book that is merely sketched is strong; everything that is elaborated is commonplace.

In

Stories of the Civil War are becoming rather oldfashioned now; but as long as participants in those campaigns are living, their stories of field and camp and hospital will be capable of a vigor and truthfulness that will make us like to read them. The Red Acorn deals with certain members of a division whose badge was a red acorn. The author evidently writes from personal experience in describing army life, and this imparts to his story a pleasant air of reality. Moreover, the frankness with which he starts in with an admitted coward and shirk for hero is refreshing; the more, as he does not at all depart from nature in describing a good character, spoiled by ease, and redeemed by the real work and danger of a campaign. He cannot resist, however, some dime-novel touches in the bush-whacking episodes; and the heroine, whose hospital experiences sound very candid and real, has to come in for a bit of sensational action at the last, as a spy on a splendid horse.

Tim and Tip is in most respects a pleasant little

1 Dust. By Julian Hawthorne. New York: Fords, Howard & Hulbert. 1883. For sale by A. L. Bancroft & Co.

children's story; but it is much to be desired that writers of children's books would unanimously and forever abjure the brutal master, guardian, or so forth, keeping such dark aspects of life for the perusal of grown people, who can do something about it. When the brutal part is once fairly over, the adventures of the boy and dog are amusing and childlike.

My Trivial Life and Misfortunes has attracted some little attention, and it is entitled so to do, for there is much ability in it. It is like one sort of oldfashioned novel-leisurely satirical, with a good deal of caricature, possessed of no plot but plenty of narrative, and frankly "intense." The caricature jars on our modern taste for truthfulness and justice; associations for befriending indigent dogs or encouraging black silk skirts in Turkish harems can no longer be introduced as ridicule of the evangelical party with any effect but that of flippancy; and a state of moral feeling in English society of rank, such that nobody loses caste by running away with any one else's husband or wife, does not tally with our ideas as derived from other sources. Moreover, as the plan of the story is ingeniously and aggravatedly cruel, it is not a pleasant book to have read.

5

No recent American novel has been more lauded than But Yet a Woman, and by critical admirers. It certainly does excite surprise and admiration to see an author of one nationality able to catch so perfectly the literary spirit of another, that no one could dream this novel was anything but a translation from a French story of the pure and serene school. It is said to be a first novel, which makes its perfection of style the more remarkable. We do not note a crudity or mannerism in it. Nor has it any extravagancy nor lapse of taste in characters-on the contrary, they are very agreeable people-nor in story. However, a book has not necessarily all the virtues because it has none of the vices, and about this one there is certainly nothing either great or original. Even its remarkable reproduction of the virtues of a foreign literary school is not so significant an indication for American literature, since scene and characters are all French; a man who could transfer to

American subjects this same handling would indeed have taken a new departure.

Miscellaneous.

6 English Literature in the Eighteenth Century. By Thomas Sergeant Perry. New York: Harper & Broth1883. For sale by A. L. Bancroft & Co.

ers.