Jerome K. Jerome's Books T. Y. CROWELL & CO. JUST READY: STAGE-LAND. Curious Habits and Customs of Its Inhabitants. Illustrated by J. B. PARTRIDGE. 12mo, $1.00. IDLE THOUGHTS OF AN IDLE FELLOW. In cloth, $1.00; paper, 35 cents. "A charmingly written volume. They abound in shrewd reflections, in sparkling and glancing wit, in playful, sunny humor, and now and then a strain of deep and genuine pathos."-Chicago Times. "The Idle Thoughts,' by Jerome, with his special private views, is a book all busy people should undoubtedly peruse."-London Punch. "This especially delightful book."-Boston Transcript. THREE MEN IN A BOAT. PUBLISH THE AUTHORIZED TRANSLATION OF Sister Saint Sulpice, FROM THE SPANISH OF Don Armando Palacio Valdes, BY NATHAN HASKELL DOLE. 12mo, $1.50. This piquant and delightful novel, though written by a "realist," is a prose idyl. The scene is laid for the most part in Andalusia and in Seville, the poetic and beautiful city of the South, so full of Moorish traditions. The free and pleasure-loving life of the people, their customs and amusements, their graces and follies, are described with a master-hand. The heroine is a fascinating nun, not bound however, by perpetual vows, and conscious of having mistaken her vocation. Vivacious, beautiful wealthy, passionate, spontaneous, and true to her With illustrations by A. FRED- southern nature, she easily wins the hearts of ERICS. 12mo, $1.25. "This delightfully amusing chronicle. Very much better than droll; it is full of quaint philosophizing and of earnest thinking, so skilfully woven in with humor that the most frivolous reader shall not escape profiting by it."-Boston Transcript. Vol. III. Completing FYFFE'S HISTORY OF MODERN EUROPE. Svo, $2.50. The set, $7.50. HENRY HOLT & CO., NEW YORK. all. Equally seductive is she to a cool, cynical, selfish Malaganian and to the young Gallegan poet who tells the story of his courtship and final success with a delightful frankness that wins the reader's sympathy. The book is full of life and color; there is not a dull page in it; whether it describes the hero's railway journeys with amusing incidents, or life at the Springs, or picnics down the Guadalquivir, or receptions among Seville aristocracy, or wild and rather ferocious scenes among the common people. It is full of humor and humanity. The story is preceded by Señor Valdés' remarkable prologue concerning the art of the novelist. The author's portrait makes the frontispiece. T. Y. CROWELL & CO., 13 Astor Place. In winter you may reade them, ad ignem, by the fireside; and in summer, ab umbram, under some shadie tree; and there with pass awag the tedious howres. From Blaisdell's "Stories of the Civil War." (Copyright, 1890, by Lee & Shepard.) literature, has prepared a new book suitable for supplementary reading in schools and also for general reading, giving vivid accounts of our great Civil War, founded on the most reliable records by the publishers, and the volume from which the accompanying cut is taken is in every way a desirable one. It adds one more to the many books that delight boys. (Lee & S. $1.50.) BROUGHTON HOUSE. BROUGHTON HOUSE," as the first book of a new writer, is good, and worth reading. There is no complicated plot, but the story is dramatic, and well worked up to its tragical ending. The people are new-four boarders in a summer hotel, three men and a woman of widely differing characters, taste, and education-and the little tale shows these actors and their actions in a strong light and finally sets each in his "own place." The selfishness and heartlessness of Floyd, the artist husband; the weakness and lack of moral backbone of Tryphena Floyd, his wife, which forces her to feel that only one refuge opens to her misery when her husband forsakes her; the duplicity and pleasure-seeking of Collins, the wealthy manufacturer; and the strength and decision of John Sonderby, which finally prevails over his uncertainty, and sets his feet in the path of an earnest purpose; all these elements combine to form a story not only interesting, but well conceived, put together carefully, and finely told. Each of the minor characters is well drawn, and has its individuality. The minister and his wife; the old hotel-keeper, Bill Trumbull, and the new one, Evans, Rufus Johnson and the several others who play still less important parts in the story are each distinct and clearly developed. The local coloring and descriptive bits in several parts of the book are noticeable. That of the office and interior of the Broughton House; the pool in the Hollow, with the account of the fishing expedition of Collins for the big trout, and that of the journey of John Sonderby to Boston may be particularly spoken of. But best of all is the artistic finish of the strongest points, especially the last chapters, which make every word add to the force and intensity of the story. As a first venture, Mr. Perry's book is a pronounced success and his second attempt will be looked for with interest. (Scribner. $1.25.)-Eva Lovett Carson, in The Epoch. LURING TROUT WITH BANTAM CHICKS. BUT the third time, as he pulled the bait in over the water and was just snapping it carelessly into the air toward the rock, there was an eager rush and ac leaving splash, and the huge trout leaped half out of the water like a salmon, and missing the yellow morsel, was driven straight toward the bank by the impetus of its spring, so that both men saw it clearly as it shot forward, then turned with a single sullen flap of its broad tail, and darted off into deeper water again. The men looked at each other with dilating eyes, and each caught his breath. Collins sank on his knees, twitched the wet bantam chicken, in his excitement, right into the minister's face, then grabbed it and tried to untie the silk, but, old fisherman that he was, his hand trembled so that he failed to hold the knot. "Untie it," he whispered. Ellerton took the chicken in his palm. It was quite dead. "Cut it," ordered Collins. "No, it's got to be untied; I haven't any more silk. Wait a minute." He pulled out a cigar and lit it nervously. But Ellerton had already taken the thread off and laid the dead chicken on the rock. "Now my hat, quick!" cried Collins. "We've got to try him with this other one: he won't come over here again. He tied the second chicken to the hook, swiftly, puffing hard at his cigar. It took a minute, this changing of the bait, but it seemed like ten. When all was ready he crawled out to the end of the rock, cautiously, exposing nothing but his arm and head. Ellerton lay beside him, flat on his stomach in the wire-grass. The sun was down almost below the northwest bend in the ledge, and just as Collins dragged himself forward the last inch, and took a firm grasp of the butt of his rod, a shadow came quite over the water, and a hundred little ripples shivered across it. "Now for you," muttered Collins; and once more the rod whistled and the bait flew out over the steel-gray pool. It was a nervous cast though, and fell short. But that was no matter. The bantam shook its downy wings, drifted free of the outer circle of the eddy where it had fallen, and floated off, squeaking, just below the clump of brakes that bent down into the water. But there the big trout, not to be foiled a second time, darted up from his lurking-place, and with the waters swirling all around him as he leaped, closed his wide jaws over the trembling, frightened bit of yellow fuzz, and with a vicious sideways shake of the head, plunged straight for the bottom. Collins struck sharply, jumping to his feet, but the rod straightened in his hand, and the empty line flew back into the air. The three pounder had caught the leader between his teeth and cut it as if with scissors. Collins stood motionless for twenty seconds, staring blankly at the water. Then he took his thumb from the reel, letting it buzz until the line was wound, and then began to unjoint his rod, silently. Ellerton caught for a moment a fanciful resemblance between the manufacturer and Napoleon Bonaparte. Perhaps that was why he exclaimed: "Well, I declare! That was a Waterloo." (Scribner.) From Perry Bliss' "The Broughton House." BECALMED IN PLEASANT COMPANY. ly. AT last the Merry Chanter was got around, the wind filled her sails, the boats cast off, and, pulling to a little distance, their occupants waved their hands and cheered; there was a slight inclination of the deck to leeward, and our ship was under way. It is seldom, I think, that a ship goes to sea with a crew composed entirely of captains, but the consideration of the fact gave us great comfort. Not only seamen of vast experience, but able and lively seamen, were our captains. No one could imagine that years hung heavy upon them. Captain Timon stood at the helm with the bold, bright eye of an old sea-king. Captain Garnish, acting as mate, strode tall and strong along the deck, looking up at the sails and rigging with the air of a man who knew exactly what each inch of canvas, each stick of timber, and each piece of cordage should at that moment be doing, and ready, if he saw the least thing amiss, to roar out condemnation. Captain Teel had assumed the duties of cook, and was now shut up in the galley; but Captain Cyrus, as lively as a squirrel, and still wearing his embroidered velvet slippers, was here, there, and everywhere, stowing away this, coiling up that, and making things generally ship shape, and always with a pleasant grin upon his face as if it were all an old story to him and he liked it. Doris ran forward to see how the Merry Chanter himself was getting on, and I followed. We leaned over the bulwarks of the bow and looked at him. There he stood, part of his right arm still extended, his head thrown back, and his long hair appearing ready to float in the breeze, while his open mouth seemed drinking in the fresh salt air. . . We had fine sea appetites for our meal, but Doris ate hurried "I am so afraid we'll pass around the point while I am down here," she said. "I wouldn't for the world miss our actual passage out on the bosom of Mother Ocean!" When we ran on deck we looked about and beheld the point still head of us. "Why, Captain Timon," cried Doris, "have we sailed a bit ?" "Oh, yes," he said cheerily; "we're gettin' on, we're gettin' on. We haven't lost no headway so fur. This wind 'll freshen before long, and then you'll see." And, leaving the helm in care of Captain Garnish, he went below. Whether the wind fell off instead of freshening, or whether, as Doris surmised, we had become accidentally anchored, we certainly made but little progress, and there were times when it seemed THE MERRY CHANTER. From Stockton's "The Merry Chanter." (Copyright, 1890, by The Century Co.) as if the distant point were actually becoming to Robert Browning the whole world was full of more distant. As there was no probability of an immediate rush out upon Mother Ocean, we went below to look over our little stock of literature; and while so engaged we heard a great sound of flapping and banging upon deck. Hurrying up, we found that the sails were loosely swinging and hanging, and that the crew, assisted by Captain Timon, were engaged in pulling them down. "What is the matter?" we cried. vague possibilities of friendship. No one resented more keenly an unpleasant specimen of humanity, no one could snub more royally at need, no one was certain premises being establishedmore ruthless in administering the coup de grâce; but then his surprise gave weight to his indignation. He had assumed a new acquaintance to be a good fellow, and behold! against all ordinary experience, he had turned out to be a bore or a sneak. Sudden, irreparable chastisement must "Nothin' is the matter," replied Captain Cy- fall on one who had proved the poet's optimism rus, cheerily. "We're goin' to fish." Doris sat down on something. 'Fish!" she gasped. Captain Timon now came towards us. "You see," said he, "it ain't no use tryin' to make headway against this flood tide; and so we thought we'd a great sight better anchor and fish. The fish'll be comin' in lively with the flood. The tide will turn about six o'clock, and then we can go out on the ebb and pass the p'int in just the prettiest time of the evenin'. And if you want to fish, there's lines enough on board for everybody." For some minutes we were disgusted to the point of not being able to say how disgusted we were. Then Doris, seeing the captains gathered at the stern all busy in preparing their lines, sprung to her feet and declared that she might as well make the best of it, and that she was going to fish. Captain Cyrus took charge of her, baiting her hook, and cheerily giving her all needful help and advice. As for me, I did not care to fish; and as for the butcher, he did not care to fish; and, together, we walked forward. (Century Co.)— From Stockton's "The Merry Chanter." to be at fault. And, to those who shared a nearer intimacy than genial acquaintanceship could offer, is there one left to-day who was disappointed in his Browning or had any deep fault to find with him as a friend? Surely, no! He was human to the core, red with the warm blood to the centre of his being; and if he erred, as he occasionally did-as lately, to the sorrow of all who knew him, he did err-it was the judgment not the instinct that was amiss. He was a poet, after all, and not a philosopher. (Houghton, M. 75 c.)-From Gosse's “ Kobert Browning Persona lia." A SEA-BIRDS' HAUNT. THE sea and shore, and cave and cliff, are not only thus crowded with unnumbered birds, but all the while an incessant stream of flying figures is passing through the air. Every moment puffins emerge from their crevices and burrows and fly swiftly downward with strange moth-like flutter to the sea. Every moment hundreds more come up from the water, carrying fish into their holes. As you make your slow way down the grassy slope under the cliff, among the piles of granite, puffins start in scores from the ledges of the THE HUMANITY OF ROBERT BROWN- rocks. It cannot have escaped the notice of any one who knew Robert Browning well, and who compares him in thought with other men of genius whom he may have known, that it was not his strength only, his vehement and ever-eruptive force, that distinguished him, but to an almost equal extent his humanity. Of all great poets, except (one fancies) Chaucer, he must have been the most accessible. It is almost a necessity with imaginative genius of a very high order to require support from without; sympathy, admiration, amusement, must be constantly poured in to balance the creative evaporation. But Mr. Browning demanded no such tribute. He rather hastened forward with both hands full of entertainment for the newcomer, anxious to please rather than hoping to be pleased. The most part of men of genius look upon an unknown comer as certainly a bore and probably an enemy, but But when you pause in the shelter of a great block, hoary with its long gray lichens, the birds return to the resting-places from which your coming startled them. Some of them, perched in little companies on their favorite ledges, have not stirred at all, but allowed you to pass almost within arm's length, without sign of fear. One by One particularly pretty group of some fifty puffins has collected on the shelves and ledges of a picturesque pile of granite within a dozen yards. Nearer still, on a broad stone, hardly two yards away, another company is gathering. one the birds drop out of the flying stream and settle down upon the stone. Then walking up to the edge, with steps half dainty, half awkward, they stare at you with odd, reproachful, inquisitive faces. A sudden rush of wings passes overhead; a puffin hovers over the rock before you, with legs |