four months, the weather was warmer and a moral reaction might reasonably be expected. To say it was a great one would be wrong. But unfortunately, just after his article appeared, the Press announced an atrocious murder, a bad case of food-adulteration, an impending trial for divorce in the world of rank, the discovery of a huge commercial fraud, and an ecclesiastical prosecution. War, also, broke out with a powerful native tribe in Central Africa.

Nervous, sensitive, and highly-strung, the young editor braced himself for the inevitable ironies. A practical, common-sense world would not spare him. Nor did it; but his club was consolatory.

"A noble effort on your part, Bristowe," said his friend Vansittart, the critic, in the smoking-room; "and if futile all the more worthy of an idealist."

The editor smiled, but shook his head. He spoke little, and rarely defended himself or his theories.

"But I doubt if it is really futile," said Sir Manton Trott, the benevolent traveller, just off for the Upper Nile. "I should be only too glad to stay and watch its development."

"Almost as good an idea as the Salvation Army," said little Peddlington. "Wish I'd started it myself."

"As a psychological experiment I have followed it with interest," remarked Hexton, who called himself a natural philosopher. "Admirably synchronized, too; no time in the world like the new year for a movement of the kind. I applaud your judgment." "The social organism," resumed his friend, the critic, "is an inscrutable puzzle. At one time a pin-prick will make it shiver like a jelly, at another Macmillan's Magazine.

a bludgeon leaves it unmoved. I have tried both in my capacity of critic, but never with certain results. Yet you have undoubtedly succeeded in popularizing a religious idea with the masses; and I believe your Guild of Hourly Invocation will do the same with what is supposed to be the upper class."

"The Guild is not mine," said Bristowe, flushing slightly. This was true. The new society, bearing some faint resemblance to the famous household of Little Gidding, was the outcome of Evelyn Hope's enthusiasm, fanned no doubt by his own. But now there were more personal reasons why he did not wish to mention her name in his club, high as its tone towards women undoubtedly was.

Vansittart looked at him closely, and saw light. "I have always fancied that idea of the carillon," he said with a change of manner, "in spite of my friendly gibes. There is something solemn and mysterious in horology; and I myself never hear chimes (except the more discordant) without a subtle suggestion of things beyond our ordinary consciousness. A new religious society, moreover, is full of potential influence. It marks a return to the simplicities of childhood, to the sublimities of a faith once thought dead. Confuting common-sense and scorning science, it gives the lie to experience, and affronts while it charms our understanding. To-day it is an anachronism, a survival; yet it may wield more power than ever before in history; it may outlast empires and republics, and realize itself in forms of permanent beauty. Therefore I wish it success; and if it should need an alternative title, call it [he smiled significantly] call it the Guild of Hope."

A. G. Hyde.

The vicissitudes of second-hand books are a fascinating study. It has often been written upon, but new instances of the ups and downs of old volumes are continually turning up.

There are many stories of old and rare volumes, and Mr. Salkeld of Clapham Road tells some which will bear repeating.

When looking over an old book-stall at Newcastle he espied a dumpy small quarto volume. He asked the price. "Half-a-crown," was the answer. He paid the money, and tucking it under his arm he went across to one of the best second-hand booksellers in the town. Showing him the book he asked him what he thought of it. He looked at it and said he did not think much. Mr. Salkeld turned to a pamphlet contained in it: Daybreak among the Indians. "What do you think of that?" Then he turned to another, The Trial of the Witches, printed in Boston. "And of that?" And then over to a third early American pamphlet.

"Where did you pick that up?" asked the bookseller, seeing he had got a prize.

"Of our old friend in the market." "I don't believe it, for I have looked at his books every day," said the old Jew, for such he was.

"Well, let us go over to him," said Mr. Salkeld. They went over. "Do you know that?" he asked, showing him the volume.

"Yes, I have taken it in and out for two years, and no one ever asked me the price before."

The first-named pamphlet was sold for £4 4s., the second for £10, and the remainder of the volume for about

£6.

Such a find is the ambition of those who daily frequent the old book-stalls,

but such a case does not happen every day.

Some years ago this bookseller was commissioned by an Austrian library to purchase a book bearing upon the family history of the Emperor of Austria, which was to be sold by auction. They put a limit of £50 which they subsequently raised to £100, and just before the sale they bade him buy it at any price. The day of the sale came, the lot was put up, Mr. Salkeld made a bid of one shilling, and for a shilling it was knocked down to him! "How was this?" I asked. There had been a dispute about the lot before, two bidders both claimed to have bought it; and it was while almost all the tongues were wagging over this little episode that this valuable book was sold by public auction for twelve pence.

He

"You did not get much commission out of that," I said tentatively. smiled and intimated that the purchasers made it well worth his while.

The world is his who waits. This is true for the bookseller as for others. Two or three copies of the account of the Jubilee of George III. fell into Mr. Salkeld's hands. They were put into a catalogue at 2s. 6d. each, but they did not go. Time slipped along, the Jubilee of Queen Victoria was at hand. He put them in again, this time at a guinea apiece, and at that price they went.

Books and pamphlets of the seventeenth century were the rage at one time, and Mr. Salkeld bought up these books largely. The rage suddenly subsided and he found his shelves loaded with these books, but curiously enough the fashion for them revived, especially among Americans, and he sold off many pounds' worth to meet the demand.

The risks that books run may be seen by the following examples. Α valuable volume-first edition of Sir J. Elliott's The Governor-a small octavo book, had been brought out for a customer to inspect. Though containing the autograph of Lord Cecil of Elizabethan fame it was not sold. Some days afterwards Mr. Salkeld was looking over the boxes of old books outside his shop, when lo! in a sixpenny box he spied the precious volume. For some days it had been picked up and put down again, and all the while the handlers of the same unwittingly missed the opportunity of getting for twenty-four farthings what afterwards went for £4. It had probably been carelessly laid on a sixpenny heap, and so was taken out with the lot.

Another valuable book did not fare so well. It was Chapman's translation of Homer's Iliad. It was taken up from a pile by a customer, and £5 was its price, but it was not sold. A day or so after Mr. Salkeld thought he would have a look at it, but it was not to be found. Since it had been brought The Leisure Hour.

out a lot of rubbish had been sent off to the mill to be destroyed. The cover and title being discovered, it was evident that it had gone off with the waste. A messenger was sent off at once to the office of the millowners, and obtained an order to search the sacks which had been sent. On his arrival he was told that some of the books had been turned into pulp, but he might look at the rest. With heavy heart and anxious eyes he began the search. One and another book was turned over. At last-could it be? Yes, there was the wandering Chapman, in a sad plight, but whole in its text. It was brought home and had to be sold for £4, though eventually it fetched a good deal more when done up.

The gentleman who had inspected the book had laid it down on the heap of rubbish which was immediately carted away, and but for the happy desire to have a look at the volume and the prompt search for it, in an hour or two it would have been reduced to pulp, worth few pence a pound.

J. P. Hobson.

The inclusion of Fanny Burney in the Macmillan series of English Men of Letters, seems likely to stimulate reprints of her books. Already new editions of "Evelina" and "Cecilia", both illustrated and both edited by Mr. Brimley Johnson, have been published.

Anna Alice Chapin, author of the "Wonderful Tales from Wagner" and several other books of a similar class published by the Harpers, was a

school girl of 17 when she wrote her first book of "wonderful tales." Despite her youth, the little volume had a substantial success, and all her books are reported by the publishers as having a steady sale.

Last year's literary output in England was considerably in excess of that of the preceding year, the figures being 7,381 and 6,044. There was a slight increase in theology and a considerable increase in fiction. There