All existing forms of religion will pass away. Neither moral conceptions nor art forms have an

eternity before them. To how much, after all, is it our duty to hold fast? Who will vouch for me that two and two do not make five on Jupiter?"

To those who read English only no better estimate of Ibsen can be offered than the one thoroughly good critical article to be found in the American translation of Dr. Georg Brandes' "Eminent Authors of the Nineteenth Century" (Crowell), in which he devotes a chapter to a masterly analysis of his life-long friend.

From the dramatist Ibsen authors of all nations, especially novelists, can learn much. He has a genius for life-like description. His scenes are naturally developed, his characters are distinct and real, and his power of writing conversation, in which every character speaks a distinct and positive individual language, is genius. His workmanship is always satisfactory. But the thinker Ibsen has not yet a settled place. To many he appears the prophet of the century; to others he seems almost wilfully wrong-headed and obstinate. Even his most earnest partisans are not certain whether to class him as réalist or idealist. His methods are realistic, but whether an ideal purpose underlies his iconoclasm it is difficult to determine. He asserts again and again that the conventional law and order of the world produce disorder in the individual soul, he insists that every soul shall develop not only its individualities, but its eccentricities, and he does not give us a picture of a world in which such strong individuals may live without being driven to murder or suicide. The whole fair-seeming temple of the world is in Ibsen's eyes a whited sepulchre; all his plays contain a baffling philosophy of despair. To live one's own life and follow the natural impulses is his highest rule of conduct. Truth and freedom are to form the atmosphere in which this life is to be lived, but truth and freedom are not made attractive to the present intellect of humanity in Ibsen's plays. He points out nothing beautiful to struggle for. He does not seem entitled to the name of satirist, so often given him, for he totally lacks humor, and he can hardly be called a moralist and reformer when he has not given an inkling of what he considers the highest of which humanity is capable. The effect of Ibsen's work is discouraging, and all successful reformers have inspired enthusiasm. Almost all who have written of Ibsen have dwelt upon his love of solitude. No man spending most of his life alone in this busy age gets close enough to the heart of humanity to feel its steady, strengthening beat. After all, the human race must be saved through its heart. Ibsen preaches the sacrifice of all that stands in the way of the improvement and development of self. Only after we ourselves have reached our highest possibilities, can we do anything to make the world

better. In the meantime, if we are so placed that we can only stand and wait," we must think our lives a complete failure, and know that we are only encumbering clogs on the wheels of progress. The great Idealist from whom the world is slowly but surely learning a different lesson of sacrifice, better knew the needs of humanity, and preached above all things hope, and faith, and love, and kindness, emotions perhaps unknown to Ibsen, certainly not inspired in his readers. Ibsen would rather be without hope than take courage from a hope that cannot be scientifically demonstrated to be unchanging truth.

This way of looking at life may do for a few strong intellects, but cannot help the great majority whom Ibsen openly scorns and is willing to see destroyed to make room for a discontented minority, who probably have a discord in their souls that must always make the world look all wrong to them.

His writings will always make intelligent readers think, but it is well to have them think also of all that has been taught before Ibsen of a way of righting the world, which they have not yet by any means worked out to the furthest possibility.

Ibsen's friends pronounce him a kindly man. His picture would seem to show this nature also. We still hope as he mellows with age he will forget the many knocks he has received from the world about him, and paint us a picture of happy lives under conditions that may be realized by the people we see and know. If Ibsen would set his clear mind to work he might patiently seek out a slow evolving medium for all the changes he deems necessary, so as to avoid shocks, leaving time and experience to prove the excellence of each reform.

Nature, the only God he worships,

may in time teach him the lesson of her endless patience. "The admirers of Ibsen are fierce folk," says Andrew Lang, “and it is not safe to hold the individual opinion that Dr. Ibsen's new social plays are in temporary vogue: that this vogue reposes on the non-literary desire to be always and everywhere talking diagnosis;' they have passages of power, and some characters masterly drawn, but that they are destitute of kindliness, and that they lack the salt of humor. They suit the time and many persons who live in the time, but they cannot live, one hopes, into a more joyful day; and, like the trolls of the north, they will be slain by the rising of the sun, the sun of gladness and of happier cheer." To this opinion, after careful reading of almost all of worth that has been written of Ibsen, we heartily subscribe. There is no denying that Ibsen has interested his readers and has succeeded as a writer, and we remember with Alexander Dumas that "there never was even a small success without a great talent." A. H. L.

64

DAY AND NIGHT STORIES.

"O DAY and night," said Horatio, "but this is wondrous strange!" To which Hamlet characteristically added, “and, therefore, as a stranger give it welcome." Mr. Sullivan has not strained good art to be strange, or what the critics like to call " ingenious," but he is nevertheless so pleasantly original, varied, and animated that one might read a good ways before coming on anything so good. Mr. Sullivan's stories have the thoroughly modern quality of being carefully finished, dainty in adjective, quick in movement. In "The Lost Rembrandt," and in more than one other, there is a lively touch of the imaginative, suggesting frequently the prose poem so familiar and captivating in the French. There is, indeed, even when relatively modern and homely subjects are in hand, a strong element of the romantic in all the fiction that Mr. Sullivan writes. Of social analysis there is a good deal in "Out of New England Granite," where it has quite a Howellsian flavor, though different enough. Love-stories that end with a No" instead of a "Yes" are not always pleasant, but the artistic success of this example is notable, and there is the practical justification that those who are expected to say yes do not always do so. "The Tincture of Success," "The Rock of Béranger," "Maestro Ambrogio," and "Through the Gate of Dreams" are other examples of Mr. Sullivan's healthy and attractive style. (Scribner. $1; pap., 50 c.)-Brooklyn

Times.

PROF. WOOD'S LIFE AND WORKS. THE life and works of Rev. J. G. Wood, who has contributed so materially to the popularization of natural history, is interestingly told by his son, Rev. Theodore Wood. The latter is well known as the author of "Our Insect Allies," Our Insect Enemies," and other works on entomology. Rev. J. G. Wood, the subject of this memorial volume, led a three-fold life as clergyman, author, and lecturer, in each of which he achieved marked excellence. He was born in London, 1827, the son of a famous surgeon, John Freeman Wood, and Juliana Lizette Aintz, a young lady of German parentage, who had been educated in Düsseldorf. His early years were characterized by an intense and absorbing fondness for books. He graduated at Merton College, Oxford, and was soon after ordained as a priest. His love for nature always drew him to close observation and record, and when he began lecturing on natural history he originated a new and a very attractive method called the sketch lecture, illustrated with colored chalks on a blackboard. These lectures became famous all over the world, and in 1883 Dr. Wood was invited to deliver a course before the Lowell Institute, of

Boston. The extracts from his journals given in this volume, recording his impressions of Boston, are peculiarly interesting. Of one day he writes:

"In the evening I went to the meeting; very interesting, but all were wretched speakers except the Rev. Phillips Brooks, of Trinity Church, who is good. The American prayer-book is almost entirely the same as ours."

And of one of his own lecture-nights he says: "Such an audience (runs the 'log'), and such a Some 600 of them were gray, white, or success. bald, with beards to match, and I heard that almost every man of science was there. Mr. Lowell was present, and I have established my reputation as originating a new epoch in lecturing. People seem wild for tickets, and if the hall had been twice as large it could have been filled."

Prof. Wood is well remembered in Boston,

where he made many friends. His work is of and the personal impression that he left is one that imperishable nature which perpetuates itself, singularly grateful. This biography is one full of interest and variety, and also offers much suggestive history of modern developments of entomological science. (Cassell. $2.50.)-Boston Trav eller.

BRIGHT SKIES AND DARK SHADOWS

No one who has contrived to keep track of current American writing of the partially theological and wholly pictorial sort during the last eight or ten years can be ignorant of the books of the Rev. Henry M. Field, who has just added a seventh to their number in "Bright Skies and Dark Shadows." It is a record of recent travel at the South, over mountains and along old battlefields, like those of Chattanooga and Atlanta, and others across the march of Sherman's army. From these Dr. Field takes us into Florida, after the vanished footsteps of Ponce de Leon, through St. Augustine, where the palms whisper to the pines, where we catch the flames of Jupiter Light, concerning which Miss Woolson had such a strik ing story to tell, where we are reminded of Robinson Crusoe, and where we are confronted with, bewildered by, but not discouraged over, the Race Problem, whether it takes the form of voting, the capacity of the Negro, or the regard and care of his old master, after which we find ourselves at the battle of Franklin, at the Hermitage, with Stonewall Jackson in his Valley Campaign, and watching the last days of Gen. Lee. Topics like these, and the reflections which they suggest, and which fill nineteen chapters in Dr. Field's volume, are not to be described, or even hinted at, in a note like this. We all know how well Dr. Field writes, with what pains and what precision, how clearly, kindly, and picturesquely. Not to know this is to know nothing of Dr. Field. (Scribner. $1.50.)-Mail and Express.

WHEN WE WERE BOYS.

It would be unnecessary to point out similari. ties between Mr. Wm. O'Brien's "When We Were Boys" and Benjamin Disraeli's “Lothair." If Disraeli, with elegant finish, drew a glittering rapier and ran full tilt at Fenians, Jesuits, and alien interventions, so does Mr. Wm. O'Brien have a bout with weapons quite his own-at Saxons, Tories, and British institutions in generaland he throws a blaze of romance at the same time on Celto-American aid for Ireland. The motives in both the books are really not so far apart. It is only in the method that they differ. Mr. O'Brien's way of writing fiction is impossible. In "When We Were Boys" there are some half-dozen heroes and heroines, and every nice boy falls in love with two or three girls, and though the dénouement is neither complicated nor difficult to unravel, for all that it is a difficult plot to follow. Chapter after chapter might be taken from the story and detached, each one spirited enough and strong enough to stand up by itself. It makes no difference to the author whether a new character is introduced on any page. That personage is at once stamped with a certain individuality.

There is no evidence that "When We Were Boys" was written with any avowed purpose of a political character, though it would be quite impossible for an Irish member who had suffered so much not to feel strongly for the cause he had espoused. And yet he is never exactly bitter against his English foes. He rather dances around his Englishman, and above all, laughs at the Anglicized Celt. He believes that an IrishAmerican democracy will yet wrest the green Island from British thraldom. It is the boys who will free Ireland. After they have gained their rights, then, perhaps, the older men wil rule in the Council, but it is through the boys that will come regeneration. . .

Mr. O'Brien, at the conclusion, tells us how this story was written during two terms of imprisonment under the Coercion Act. " With the exception of four chapters it was written wholly in prison." The leading idea the author wishes to present is the progress of American Democratic ideas in Ireland. Mr. O'Brien tells us his trouble was "how to soften for strangers' ears those minor chords of sorrow which haunt Irish life like a nightmare sighing through one over ruined shrines." The story told, as far as Fenianism goes, is of the past, for “* Irishmen have discovered a saner resource than the wild weapons of boyish insurrection, and Englishmen a more glorious revenge than a handcuffed wrist and a convict's brand.”

Very good men might pass their lives in a prison and not write as clever a book as "When We Were Boys." It is that elasticity of spirit, under the most depressing of influences, which is

a notable Irish trait. The Messrs. Longmans, Green & Co., it ought to be known in this period of book piracy, have received from Mr. O'Brien the sole authority to publish this work, and it is to be hoped that this authority will be respected. (Longmans, G. $1.50.)-N. Y. Times.

HIS NATIVE HEATH,

THE young wanderer, who called the heath his home, gazed about him with delight, and his heart beat with joy. For what he now saw had been dear and familiar to him from childhood. He knew the heath as it stood clothed in red bloom, swarming with bees, vocal with larks; he knew it in gray November days, when like a barren field it lay dark and misty in dreary emptiness, or when the rain beat upon it and the storm raged over it; and also in its dazzling white garments of snow, when through the clear wintry atmosphere the most distant tree loomed up sharp and distinct on the far horizon. This lowland, where nothing was to be seen but sky and heath, melted together in immeasurable silvery gray distances.

Its peculiar charm and magic quietude seemed, however, to be entirely unappreciated by his colder-blooded comrade. But with the native, the peaceful grandeur of the picture had imprinted itself deeply in his soul, so that never and nowhere could he forget it. Even when he gazed at the reflection of the beautiful shores of the Rhine reflected in its broad expanse, he was fain to think of the little pools in the black bog of the Lüneburger Heide, scarcely big enough for a tiny cloudlet or a few golden stars to mirror themselves in. And now at last the brown heath greeted him again, and his foot trod the hummocky ground and the endless little mounds covered with bristly growth as he approached his dear ones who did not look for him, whom he longed to clasp once more in his arms. No wonder that he took long strides, and with delight inhaled the aromatic odors of his native soil which the spring rains had released.

And from the earth arose also a thousand memories rooted among the heather, sowed in happy childhood, as he roamed over the country with his little playmates, followed the wagoners, visited the bee-keeper who moved about on the heath with his beehives, and let the bees feast now here, now there, on the wealth of blossoms; and then, like a mirage, before the mind's eye rose the old, many-towered town, and the highgabled home, with every room, from cellar to garret, and within it, himself, as a child with other children, running here and there or huddled together under the stairs in a dark corner, telling secrets, whispering, fooling-'twas now all like a fairy tale. (T. Y. Crowell & Co.)- From Wolff's "The Salt Master of Lüneburg."

A NOTABLE BIOGRAPHY.

THE initial volume in the new series of Heroes of the Nations combines a very happy selection of subject and writer. There is no hero of the English-speaking race whose life affords, in some respects, better material for the biographer than Lord Nelson, and there is certainly no living Englishman better qualified to describe the career of a great sailor than W. Clark Russell. Singularly enough, very little, comparatively, has been written about Lord Nelson, Southey's condensed life being the only really authoritative work, and the only one which continues to be read. The earlier biographies were full of inaccuracies, and the later ones are either distorted, unbalanced, or otherwise insufficient. Southey's charming life remains the only biography of Nelson about which the public knows or cares. Since that life was written, however, a great deal of material has come to light which makes it possible to tell the story of the great sailor's life with much more fulness, accuracy, and justice. Mr. Russell needed to make no apology for taking this subject in hand. He has written a book for which a place existed, and he has written a book which fills the place. "Horatio Nelson and the Naval Supremacy of England" is in many respects a model of clear, trustworthy, and interesting biography. It presents within reasonable limits all the facts about Nelson's life, and it tells the story with the narrative interest which an accomplished novelist would bring to such a task, and with the color and atmosphere which only one thoroughly familiar with the sea and possessed of an exceptional gift for describing its aspects and life could furnish. Mr. Russell had a subject to his own mind, and he has dealt with it con amore. No romance could possess a deeper interest, and certainly none could reveal a more thorough mastery of material or an imagination more entirely cooperating with the purpose and knowledge of the writer. The story is told with a spirit and an impulse which carry the reader along from page to page without pause or break to the very end. Mr. Russell does not accentuate the one blemish on Nelson's otherwise noble career, nor does he seek to obscure it. He tells the facts frankly, and as much at length as is necessary to complete the story, and then he drops the subject. If this volume is to set the standard for the new series, we shall welcome the Heroes of the Nations as a valuble addition to modern popular biography -a class of books which offer the very best material for the reading of the young. It will be a great gain when such books drive the poorer class of novels from the hands of the older boys and girls, and there is no reason why this result should not be reached if such books as this Life of Nelson are offered in exchange for the worse than commonplace writing with which so many young

people now entertain themselves. The volume itself is a handsome piece of book-making, printed in large type, well supplied with maps and illustrations, and bound in an exceedingly substantial and tasteful fashion. (Putnam. $1.50.)-Christian Union.

THE GOLD fever.

WITH this outlook, and the prospect of change, independence, and all the rich possibilities that to the imagination of youth are included in them, Clarence had found the days dragging. The halt at Salt Lake, the transit of the dreary Alkali desert, even the wild passage of the Sierras, were but a blurred picture in his memory. The sight of eternal snows and the rolling of endless ranks of pines, the first glimpse of a hillside of wild oats, the spectacle of a rushing yellow river that to his fancy seemed tinged with gold, were moBut mentary excitements, quickly forgotten. when, one morning, halting at the outskirts of a struggling settlement, he found the entire party eagerly gathered around a passing stranger, who had taken from his saddle-bags a small buckskin pouch to show them a double handful of shining scales of metal, Clarence felt the first feverish and overmastering thrill of the gold-seekers. Breathlessly he followed the breathless questions and careless replies. The gold had been dug out of a placer only thirty miles away. It might be worth, say, a hundred and fifty dollars; it was only his share of a week's work with two partners. It was not much; "the country was getting played out with fresh arrivals and greenhorns." All this falling carelessly from the unwith shaven lips of a dusty, roughly dressed man, a long-handled shovel and pickaxe strapped on his back, and a frying-pan depending from his saddle. But no panoplied or armed knight ever seemed so heroic or independent a figure to ClarWhat could be finer than the noble scorn conveyed in his critical survey of the train, with its comfortable covered wagons and appliances of 'Ye'll hev to get rid of them ther civilization? fixin's if yer goin' in for placer diggin'!" What a corroboration of Clarence's real thoughts! What a picture of independence was this! The picturesque scout, the all-powerful Judge Peyton, the daring young officer, all crumbled on their clayey pedestals before this hero in a red flannel shirt and high-topped boots. To stroll around in the open air all day, and pick up those shining bits of metal, without study, without method or routine-this was really life; to some day come upon that large nugget "you couldn't lift," that was worth as much as the train and horses-such a one as the stranger said was found the other day at Sawyer's Bar - this was worth giving up everything for. That rough man, with his smile of careless superiority, was

ence.

the living link between Clarence and the Thousand and One Nights; in him were Aladdin and Sinbad incarnate. (Houghton, M. $1.)-From Bret Harte's "Waif of the Plains."

AT THE MASQUERADE.

HE.-Is it all right, when everything is masking,
Since people are not what they seem to-night,
Perhaps to flirt and do so without asking,

Is it all right?

SHE.-Is it all right, when none can see your blushes,
Hearing sweet words you know full well are light,
Yet to forget that doubt which ever crushes,
Is it all right?

HE.-Is it all right, when no one will betray you
(What lips half-seen do more than half invite),
To steal one kiss-just one-confess, I pray you,
Is it all right?

SHE.-Is it all right that after you have kissed her,
To say the least a thing most impolite,

She should unmask and say, "Since I'm your sister, Is it all right?

-From "Yale Humor" (S. A. York, Jr.)

from the photographs given to me by two of his sons, who had inherited his artistic tastes as well as his business. Those two sons have been for me like two dozens of sons. One would come one day, look at the bust, twist his mouth, and say:

"Yes, it is pretty good, but I think that the mouth is a little bit too small.'

'Well, I will make it larger, if you think so.' "Yes, please make it larger; and then, excuse me, I imagine you want me to say just exactly what I think, don't you?'

"Of course, naturally your suggestions will be valuable to me.'

There are three kinds of subjects for a portrait. One is composed of the sedate old gentleman or lady, who is famous either for the invention of some coffee-machine, or for having been the host or the hostess of some great man. The people who belong in this category pose, accepting the situation as a sacrifice for the benefit of future generations, and they generally go to sleep after a few seconds. Another kind is composed of young married people; they always come together into the studio, ending by forgetting altogether that there is any one else there, and gratifying each other with all sorts of loving expressions and fond caresses. If the wife is rich, it is the husband who gives you the commission for the bust, and vice versa. These people pose talking, laughing, smoking. While you are trying to catch a line, a characteristic point of your subject, the other element of this type of connubial happiness asks you point-blank this simple question: Say, Mr. Sculptor, did you ever see such a beautiful nose?' And you must answer, of course, that the nose in question is the most perfect of all the noses, past, present, and future. The model then feels entitled to a good hearty laugh; and if it is a man, blushes; if it is a woman, does not. The third kind is composed of handsome children, whom you must chase all around the house to be able to see what kind of heads they have. So the best subject for a sculptor to work from is the photograph of a dear dead one, you would say; but it is not so, because all the relatives of the dear dead one, and all the friends, too, will come to criticise your bust, and will be good enough to give you hints and suggestions. I made last winter a bust of a very rich baker,

"The same day the other brother comes in. When he is in presence of the bust, he takes a red and yellow handkerchief out of his pocket and wipes his eyes and blows his nose, saying:

"Just like him! poor dear father! It needs only to talk to be just he.' "So you like it?'

"Ever so much. Only I think that his mouth is a little too large. Could you not make it just a little bit smaller?'

"I could, but your respectable brother a little while ago found it too small.'

"Oh! my brother is a donkey, you know.' "So you want me to make it smaller?' "Yes; don't mind what my brother says.' "Next day the donkey, the other brother, comes, and I tell him that his respected brother has found the mouth of the bust too large.

"You must not mind what my brother says. He is a fool, he does not understand anything.' 'In that very moment the fool comes in, and they have together the most fearful row.

"It is small!' "It is large !'

"You are a donkey!'

"You are a fool!'

"Sirs, do not forget that you are gentlemen,' I say, and so they go away to continue their discussion on the street.

"I satisfied both of them, and each of them offered me something extra, in this simple way. I left the bust as it was, telling each of them that I followed his advice. When they went to take the bust, with what a comical, triumphal look the donkey and the fool glanced at each other!' (Lee & Shepard.)-From Serrao's " Brushes and Chisels."