Spanish coasts, was to some degree obstructed by PRINCE FORTUNATUS. "PRINCE FORTUNATUS" is a clever, even brilliant story, in Mr. Black's lighter vein, but it is likely to attract less attention as a novel than as a varied and attractive picture of that debatable land in London society where Bohemia and the world of fashion meet. The Bohemia most discussed and exhibited is that of the stage. Never, probably, since Roscius was an actor have popular players been so liked, so run after, and so courted as in London of the present day; and never before have there been so many professional actors, painters, and musicians in society. No one can doubt that certain very obvious advantages accrue to society by this arrangement, in the way of making it cleverer and more amusing, but the advantage to the artistic side of the partnership is sometimes very doubtful indeed. Side by side with the real "professional," born in the wings, such as Miss Burgoyne, and the young fellow of fairly good birth and breeding who has earned the title by a long apprenticeship to the stage, Mr. Black has taken care to depict the gifted amateur, whose chief ambition nowadays is to be thought professional. Lady Adela Cunyngham, who writes novels; Lady Sibyl, who plays; and Lady Rosamund who paints, are drawn with kindly satire. Indeed, every one is leniently treated except the critics. They appear in no better fashion-the blatant Quirk and the sad Ichabod — than do their brothers in Thackeray, or Smollet, or "Masks and Faces." There are even dark hints of a log-rolling association to which Quirk belongs, and as Mr. Black can have no serious grievances of his own, the conclusion forces itself that English criticism is in a sad way—or at all events that it seems to be to one brilliant ob server. But these reflections have been followed at the risk of letting the reader forget that "Prince Fortunatus" is in itself a charming book. We acknowledge to finding the incidents and surroundings of comic opera less attractive than Miss Gertrude White and her friends and enemies in that ever memorable story, "Macleod of Dare," or even than the pretty sub-interest of drama in The Strange Adventures of a HouseBoat;" but the Fortunate Youth, Mr. Lionel Moore of the New Theatre, is a very nice fellow indeed, and the final bestowal of his heart has an interesting bearing on Miss Burgoyne's statement that "professionals should marry professionals." For the rest, the outdoor rehearsal at dawn is a pretty bit; there is for a few chapters a touch of the pathos which has often shown itself as one of the strongest qualities of Mr. Black's work; and the amount of easy and lively dialogue is limited only by the number-not a small one-of closely printed pages. (Harper. $1.25; paper, 50 c.)— Boston Post. DEAR OLD STORY-TELLERS. From "Dear Old Story-Tellers." (Copyright, 1889, by D. Lothrop Co. chapter is entitled "Homer: Tales and Romances," there is only one little mention of the old Greek in the whole chapter, and the rest of it is devoted to a cursory view of the origin and history of myths and stories in various countries with the exception of Greece. However, we can forgive this in view of the charming chapter on "Mother Goose." How many of us knew that "Mother Goose" was purely an American production? The English children know the various tales and jingles about Jack Spratt, and Miss Muffet, etc. "But," as Mr. Adams says, "it is one thing to learn these delightful histories from books called Nursery Rhymes and quite another to have them directly from the lips of Mother Goose herself as one may say." And delightful and entertaining is his account of the sure-enough Mother Goose (whose true name was originally Vertigoose, then Vergoose) singing these ditties in loud and cheerful tones to her first grandchild, to the utter discomfiture and distraction of Mrs. Vergoose's son-in-law, Thomas Fleet. The said Thomas' method of revenge was what made his mother-in-law's name immortal, for he collected these nonsensical rhymes and published them in Boston under the title of "Songs for the Nursery; or, Mother Goose's Melodies for Children." On the title-page was a rude drawing of a goose with a long neck and wide open mouth, and at the bottom of the page the words: "Printed by T. Fleet at his printing-house, Pudding Lane, 1719. Price, two coppers." It is interesting to learn that even this public ridicule did not stop Mother Goose's unmelodious quacking, although at first it caused her angry surprise. There is much interesting information about lullabies of many lands. The Finland peasant thus hushes her baby : "Sleep, little field-bird; sleep sweetly, pretty red breast. God will wake thee when it is time. Sleep is at the door and says to me: 'Is not there a sweet child here who would fain sleep?a young child wrapped in swaddling-clothes, a fair child resting beneath his woollen coverlet ?"" And the dark-haired Roumanian mother sings to her child this lullaby : "Sleep, my daughter, sleep an hour; Mother rocks thee, standing near, With the exception of putting Homer's name at the head of the first chapter there is no attempt ,, at chronological order in the story-tellers to whom FENCING, BOXING, AND WRESTLING. we are introduced. After "Mother Goose comes Perrault, who has handed down to us the old stories of "Red Riding-Hood Cinderella," 'Puss in Boots," and many others. He was not the inventor of these famous tales, but he gave them permanent and popular form. In the same way the brothers Grimm collected the charming fairy tales as they were told by the wife of a cowherd in Niederzwharn, near Cassel, who delighted in relating them, and who must have had a most remarkable memory. La Fontaine, Esop's successor, is the subject of an interesting chapter, as is another good Frenchman, Edward Laboulaye. The latter was well known in this country during his life on account of his great admiration for America and American institu'tions. This sentiment manifested itself so continually in his lectures before the College de France that he called down on himself a reproof from the Emperor Napoleon III., who desired that he should lecture no more on American politics. His right to be in this volume of storytellers is represented by his delightful fairy-tales, "Les Contes Bleus," and his "Abdallah." The sketch of Hans Christian Andersen is especially charming. La Motte Fouqué, Daniel Defoe, and Bernadin de St. Pierre all have their places among these sketches, and the volume is an agreeable collection. Some of the sketches are full of originality with occasionally a touch of humor. (Lothrop. $1.)-Chicago Tribune. THE latest volume in the excellent Badminton Library is much more workmanlike and thorough than its immediate predecessor, the treatise on driving. The part on fencing is exact and complete, which is no wonder, considering that the chief writer on this branch is Mr. W. H. Pollock, the editor of the Saturday Review, and an instructed enthusiast in fencing. Wrestling is also treated very fully, and the directions for sparring are well put. The history of prize-fighting is briefly and inadequately traced. The palmiest days of the ring were in the first part of this century. Mr. John Gully became champion in 1808, and soon after he was elected to Parliament. Would this be a precedent for sending Sullivan to Congress? Prize-fighting continued to be a miserespectable English sport down to the great international contest between Heenan and Sayers, which took place in 1860. From that time it rapidly and steadily declined until the recent and incomplete revival. Americans and Englishmen will doubtless always give somewhat different accounts of the Heenan-Sayers fight. The English say that the referee called it a draw. This is true, but before making this decision the referee had left the ground, and Sayers had been whipped. But the Badminton writer seems to know nothing of the modern school of pugilists; and yet the old fellows could not have lived with them. modern men are more scientific in attack and deence. (Little, B. $2.50.)-Boston Advertiser. The DEMETER AND OTHER POEMS. FOR years past the publication of any new poem by the greatest poet of the nineteenth century has been followed by a flight of petty arrows of detraction directed against it. Each malicious or ignorant bowman has in almost every case been too busy in declaring what the poem was not to bestow any thought upon what the poem really was. If a drama, it was made a cause of complaint that it was not equal to the Shakespearian drama; if a later idyl of the king, then it could not be compared to the earlier ones; if a lyric, then it was feeble and utterly unworthy of the hand that wrote "Tears, Idle Tears." In short, let the poet write how and what he would, he has never been able to please these critics, whose severity has been in proportion to their great ignorance. If the matter had ended here, it would not have so much mattered, but, alas, this has been but the beginning. That large and dully respectable class of readers who never know what to think on any literary topic till they have been told, after having it so persistently put before them that Tennyson is failing, that he has not been able to write any good poetry for years, have come to believe the fact. They will say to you, "What a pity Tennyson should have so outlived his ability to write!" If you are incredulous they add, "Oh! but just compare his two Locksley Halls and you will see the difference." True, there is a great difference, and the later poem is to the earlier as the forceful ballad "The Revenge" is to one like Everard Gray." It is a fact that not all the ignorant twaddle uttered on the subject for the last decade can alter, that the Laureate is at eighty as strong a poet as he was at fifty. Age cannot wither him any more than it could Landor, nor his great contemporary so lately passed from among men. It is quite time to have done with such senseless fault-finding as has been uttered regarding Tennyson. And that it is senseless any one may see who thoughtfully reads his latest sheaf of verse gathered at fourscore years. Take the cradle song from "Romney's Remorse." Has Tennyson ever written a lyric of the same length that is tenderer or sweeter than this? Beat upon mine, little heart! beat, beat! Sleep, little blossom, my honey, my bliss! Father and mother will watch you grow, The poem which gives its name to the volume, "Demeter and Persephone," is the unmistakable work of the hand that wrote "Enone sixty years ago, the same hand grown firmer, but not yet tremulous with age. "Child, when thou wert gone, I envied human wives, and nested birds, Yea, the cubbed lioness; went in search of thee I thridded the black heart of all the woods, I peer'd thro' tomb and cave, and in the storms And far on, and, following out A league of labyrinthine darkness, came On three gray heads beneath a gleaming rift, 'Where?' and I heard one voice from all the three, 'We know not, for we spin the lives of men, And not of gods, and know not why we spin! There is a Fate beyond us.' Nothing knew.” But it is the final poem of this volume that will be oftenest read in years to come, a poem full of a noble serenity befitting the eighty years which crown the head of the greatest poet of our time: CROSSING THE BAR. Sunset and evening star, And one clear call for me! But such a tide as moving seems asleep, When that which drew from out the boundless deep Twilight and evening bell, And after that the dark! And may there be no sadness of farewell, When I embark; For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place The flood may bear me far, I hope to see my Pilot face to face (Macmillan. $1.25.)-Boston Advertiser. PHONOGRAM OF BROWNING'S VOICE.-A unique and precious memorial of Browning is a phonogram of his voice. Mr. Browning once spoke into a phonograph for Colonel Gouraud, of London, who has carefully treasured the speech. Science has certainly few greater marvels than this.-The American. BOOKS FOR CHILDREN. THE ALBATROSS AND POSTAGE STAMP. From "Sylvie and Bruno." (Macmillan.) realize the truth of David's rapturous cry, "Oh, how sweet are thy words unto my throat; yea, sweeter than honey unto my mouth!" I have said "passages" rather than single texts, because we find no means of recalling single texts, Memory needs links, and here are none; one may have a hundred texts stored in the memory, and not be able to recall, at will, more than half-adozen, and those by mere chance; whereas, once get hold of any portion of a chapter that has been committed to memory, and the whole can be recovered; all hangs together. IF I have not already exhausted the patience of my readers, I would like to seize this opportunity -perhaps the last I shall have of addressing so many friends at once-of putting on record some ideas that have occurred to me, as to books desirable to be written-which I should much like to attempt, but may not ever have the time or power to carry through-in the hope that, if I should fail (and the years are gliding away very fast) to finish the task I have set myself, other hands may take it up. Thirdly, a collection of passages, both prose and verse, from books other than the Bible. There is not perhaps much, in what is called "uninspired " literature (a misnomer, I hold; if Shakespeare was not inspired, one may well doubt if any man ever was), that will bear the process of being pondered over a hundred times; still there are such passages, enough, I think, to make a goodly store for the memory. These two books-of sacred and secular passages for memory-will serve other good purposes besides merely occupying vacant hours: they will help to keep at bay many anxious thoughts, worrying thoughts, uncharitable thoughts, unholy thoughts. Let me say this, in better words than my own, by copying a passage from that most interesting book, Robertson's "Lectures on the Epistles to the Corinthians," Lecture XLIX. "If a man finds himself haunted by evil desires and unholy images, which will generally be at periodical hours, let him commit to memory passages of Scripture, or passages from the best writers in verse or prose. Let him store his mind with these, as safeguards to repeat when he lies awake in some restless night, or when despairing imaginations or gloomy, suicidal thoughts beset him. Let these be to him the sword, turning everywhere to keep the way of the Garden of Life from the intrusion of profaner footsteps." First, a Child's Bible. The only real essentials of this would be carefully selected passages, suitable for a child's reading, and pictures. One principle of selection which I would adopt would be that religion should be put before a child as a revelation of love-no need to pain and puzzle the young mind with the history of crime and punishment. (On such a principle I should, for example, omit the history of the Flood.) The supplying of the pictures would involve no great difficulty; no new ones would be needed; hundreds of excellent pictures already exist, the copyright of which has long ago expired, and which simply need photo-zincography, or some similar process for their successful reproduction. The book should be handy in size, with a pretty, attractive-looking cover, in a clear legible type, and, above all, with abundance of pictures, pictures, pictures! Secondly, a book of pieces selected from the Bible, not single texts, but passages of from ten to twenty verses, each to be committed to memory. Such passages would be found useful to repeat to one's self and to ponder over, on many occasions when reading is difficult, if not impossible; for instance, when lying awake at nighton a railway journey-when taking a solitary walk-in old age, when eye-sight is failing or wholly lost-and, best of all, when illness, incapacitating us for reading or any other occupation, condemns us to lie awake through many weary and silent hours at such a time how keenly one may |