sternation on finding her all over blood and wounded in this manner. But the strangest thing of all was, that at the time that she inflicted these injuries upon herself, she made a noise to attract somebody to her cell, and then she asked for the confessor. In confession she gave up to him the instrument with which she had cut herself, in order that nobody might see it (though, as far as we can guess, it was a penknife). It seems that, though mad, she is cunning. And we must conclude that this is some dark judgment upon her from God, who lets her live when according to human judgment she ought to die, her wounds being all dangerous in the surgeon's opinion. In consequence, she has been watched day and night. At present we are all well, thank God, and she is tied down in her bed, but has just the same frenzy as ever, so that we are in constant terror of something dangerous happening.

"Now I have told you of our trouble, I want to tell you another which weighs me down. Some time ago you were so kind as to give the thirty crowns I asked for (I did not venture to tell you my mind freely when you asked me the other day whether I had got the cell). I went with the money in my hand to find the nun to whom the cell belonged. She, being in great distress, would willingly have taken the money, but she loved her cell so dearly that she could not bear to give it up. This being the case, we could not agree; so the matter fell to the ground, as I for my part only wished for the cell in order to have a little place to myself. . . . . I should like to know how you feel now the weather is milder. Having nothing better, I send you a little quince marmalade, made poor man's fashion; that is, mixed with apples. If you do not care for it, perhaps others will. If you have a fancy for any dish made by us nuns, please let us know, for we shall be glad to do something to your liking. I have not forgotten my obligation to Porzia (Galileo's housekeeper), but for the present I can do nothing for her. If you have any more scraps (of cloth), I should be glad of them, as I have been waiting for them to begin working with what I have already.

"While writing the above, I hear that the sick nun has had such a fit that it is thought she cannot live long. If this be the case, I shall have to give the rest of the money for the burial expenses.

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"I have a chaplet of agate which you gave

me long ago, which is quite useless to me; but I think it would do nicely for our sisterin-law. I send it for you to look at, and if you like it, would you take it back, and send me a little money for my present wants? I hope, please God, this will be the last time I shall trouble you for such a large sum; but in truth I have none to turn to for assistance, except your lordship and my most faithful Sister Luisa, who does all she can to assist me; but we are shut up here, and, in short, have not that power to act which ofttimes we want. Blessed be the Lord, who never forgets us ! For his sake I pray your lordship to pardon me if I weary you. I trust that he will not leave unrepaid the many benefits which you have conferred and still confer upon us.'

From these extracts the reader perceives that Sister Maria Celeste is not only a simple and loving daughter (though a little selfish in an ignorant, unworldly way), but a lady of intelligence and some refinement. She sent her father constantly little tokens of her handiwork and her culinary art, and she also assisted him in his literary work, copying manuscripts for him, and the like. Even after his book had been condemned and prohibited, she was eager to get it and read it. Probably no educated person in Italy regarded the action of the Church as a religious action, or as any other than a political one performed for the greater security and honor of the Jesuits and the Papacy. Therein lay its danger for that time, and for ours.

In Spain and a Visit to Portugal. By HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. Author's Edition. New York: Hurd and Hough

ton.

PRETTY nearly what sort of book Herr Andersen would write about Spain any one could tell from a general knowledge of his other books; and no one having this acquaintance need be surprised to find the present volume entertainingly sentimental and quaint, with a current of real or wellaffected simplicity, and touches of delicate poetry—in the prose parts. We wish to be careful in regard to the locality, for Herr Andersen has seen fit to intersperse the account of his travels in the Peninsula with many copies of verses, which we suspect not to have been poetry in the original Danish, and which in the translation are made out very melancholy doggerel.

For example, here is a pretty sketch in prose, and the usual metrical appendage, which will illustrate what we have been saying in praise and blame of the author; but it is to be noted that the verse is rather better than it commonly is. An awkwardness in the versification of these undesirable lyrical bursts, and more than occasionally in the prose expression, forbids us to believe the translator's work quite well done, though we think he renders the author spirit well; and at any rate, we enjoy the characteristic Andersen flavor in the book.

"Here you come out again upon the Alameda, and if you continue straight up the river Guadalmedina you find yourself in that part of Malaga where the life of the lower classes is the most stirring; and that is not on the Plaza above but down below, nearly in the river's bed. The river has been almost for a year entirely without water, and now, in its dried-up state it had been converted into a market-place. Horses and asses stood in it bound in pairs; viands were being cooked in pots and pans over blazing fires; tables and plates were laid, it would have made a good sketch!... Collin and I drove for at least a mile in the empty bed of the river. One of the rich merchants of Malaga, M. Delius, to whom I had brought an introduction, had invited us to make this excursion. He wished to take us to his villa and his beautiful garden. An impenetrable hedge of gigantic cacti crowding the sides of the hill fenced it in. The garden, laid out in the form of terraces, was rich in trees of every variety; there was a grateful shade under the orange-trees and the bananas. Tall pepper-trees, with their reddish-colored berries, like strings of beads, were drooping as willows do their boughs over the clear greenish water in the basins. Here stood lofty palm-trees and rarer pines. Here also were citro-trees and high-blossoming geraniums; passion-flowers hung in masses like the honeysuckle on our village hedges. Here flourished in the sunshine extraordinary lily-shaped flowers, I thought I recognized them from the arabesque designs of gold and silver I had seen in the old story-books. The most expensive plant here, I was told, was the green grass. A couple of large fields looked so fresh and were kept in such beautiful order that it seemed as if each blade were trimmed and washed. The air was cool, almost too cool, for us, who had come from the deep, hot valley beneath, and had now ascended

on foot to the highest terrace in the garden. Malaga lay below us; the immense cathedral looked like an ark upon a petrified foam-white sea. We visited another villa on our way home. It had been forsaken by its owner; he had ruined himself by speculating in water, that is to say, he had spent his whole fortune in constructing in his garden enormous stone basins in which to collect the rain-water from the hills, intending to distribute it widely for consumption. The garden was now overgrown with weeds, the water stood stagnant and green in the deep cisterns, as if it knew its importance, and yet it was not fit to drink. Reptiles were in abundance, but not a bird was heard to sing. The sunbeams were scorching here, but they were still more scorching as we drove through the dry, stony river-bed; we were devoured by thirst. It was very refreshing to get a cactus-fruit, —chumbos it was called. I vowed, in gratitude for its cooling drink, that I should put it into song, - it whose flowers and fruit bear the colors of Spain.

Yes, yellow and red are the colors of Spain :
In banners and flags they are waving on high;
And the cactus-flower has adopted them too.
In the warm sunshine, to dazzle the eye,
Thou symbol of Spain, thou flower of the sun,
When the Moors of old were driven away,
Thou didst not with them abandon thy home,
But stayed with thy fruit and thy blossoms gay.
The thousand daggers that hide in thy leaves
Cannot rescue thee from the love of gain;
Too often it is thy fate to be sold,
Thou sunny fruit with the colors of Spain."

Our poet (for such he is when he writes prose) travels partly by railway through Spain, yet he finds it full of romance and quite the Spain of most people's castles. In fact, it would probably be hard to destroy the world of fantasy in which he lives by any excess of modern conveniences; and in Spain the railway has really adapted itself to the national humor, and trains ar rive and depart with Castilian gravity and deliberation. Nobody, we dare say, will expect much information, strictly speaking, from such a traveller as Herr Andersen, but abundance of bright and happy pictures of the outside of life, done in the spirit of that we have given, he will expect and will get. Here is one from the chapter on Granada : :The following morning the scene of the fray appeared in its usual beauty and tranquillity. The sunbeams played through the branches of the trees; the fountains splashed; the clear water in the ditches streamed onward, bearing with it freshly

plucked roses. Castanets sounded; a handsome young lad, clad in velvet, with wellcombed hair, danced in the middle of the dusty road, with a little girl, scarcely twelve years of age, poorly but neatly dressed; she wore a corn-flower blue frock, a rose-red apron, and a yellow dahlia drooped in her black hair. The dance was graceful, and as it proceeded full of passion. . . . . There passed, too, a band of gypsies in holiday attire, probably a whole family, the women equipped in violent colors, and with fiery red flowers in their shining black hair. Even the tiny children, who were being carried, had each stuck a blossom into its hair."

This family the author later saw figuring in a part of the Alhambra which was being photographed.

"They stood and lay in groups round the court; some of the smallest children were perfectly naked; two young girls with dahlias in their hair stood in a dancing position holding castanets; an old, fearfully ugly gypsy, with long gray hair, was leaning against a slender marble column, as he played the sambomba, a sort of kettle-drum ; a stout but extremely pretty woman, in a tucked-up embroidered dress, struck the tambourine."

Wherever he goes, in Africa, in Portugal, in Castile, as well as in Andalusia, he finds the picturesque and the sentimental, and his volume is really a series of sketches of the surface of life in those parts. Generally, a photograph goes as deep as these; the study of the people, when there is any, is entirely subjective, and whatever is below the surface is Andersenish rather than Spanish. Yet it is an agreeable book, not certainly to be read unbrokenly, but to be resorted to again and again, as the impression of each successive picture and sentimentalization fades away. Of course the verses are not to be read at all, under any circumstances.

to the Anglo-Saxon critic, - Mrs. Wister has done wisely in making her "Selections" with a kind of lyric purpose even as to the prose. However startling it might

sound in Gallic ears, very little is hazarded in the remark that the present translator has done her readers greater service, and the poet too, by giving them Mimi Pinson and "The White Black Bird" than she would have done by serving up to them the whole of La Confession d'un Enfant du Siècle. That unequal performance of his younger years may seem De Musset's masterpiece to those who can understand all of his more sober poetry, but the English reader, we venture to say, will see more to admire and to be thankful for in the portrayal of Mimi Pinson's exquisite French human nature than in all the raptures of Octave and Madame Brigitte, or the calmer sentimentalities of the "honnête Smith." It is to be feared that Mrs. Bridget would be as prosaically unromantic as her name, if translated into our literature, and that the triumphant Smith would be only a plain Mr. Smith in English garments.

Of the two other pieces of prose with which Mrs. Wister has favored us, the little two act comedy of "Fantasio" perhaps reads the better. Her rendering of On ne badine pas avec l'Amour (“No trifling with Love") does not fall short so much from any lack in her; it is as well done as the former; but the fault may be said to lie in the charming little comedy itself. Those who have seen it played as only French actors can play such pieces will understand why any reading of it in English or French must seem unsatisfactory. Published twenty-seven years before it was thought worth while to represent it, scarcely ever was there a play that shows so much better on the stage than it does in print. Indeed, after an evening of On ne badine pas avec l'Amour at the Théâtre Français, in Paris, De Musset's original language reads like a translation.

If Mrs. Wister's success in the rendering of the nine poems which conclude her volume is not quite equal, it is certainly striking in some instances. All things considered, the poem in which the translator has best caught and conveyed the spirit of the original is perhaps that entitled "Advice to a Gay Lady" (Conseils à une Parisienne). Here Mrs. Wister has, in our opinion, wisely made up for what she may have lost in the movement of the French verse, by changing the succession of the rhymes :—

"Yes, were I a woman, charming and pretty, I think I should do, Fair Julia, as you;

Without fear or favor, distinction or pity,

Smile and make eyes

At all 'neath the skies."

"Oui, si j'étais femme, aimable et jolie, Je voudrais, Julie,

Faire comme vous;

Sans peur ni pitié, sans choix ni mystère, A toute la terre

Faire les yeux doux."

This, we think, is very happily turned. It is, indeed, more within the possibilities of translation than the more heroic or the most vivacious of French poetry. The following from Mimi Pinson's song is less successful, though it is so perhaps because perfect success there would have been almost impossible. It is very doubtful whether Mimi's elfin gayety could be got into English words. Her exquisite vivacity is at least taken off here with her solitary dress : —

"Mimi Pinson is a blonde of renown;
But one gown and cap has she;
The Grand Turk has surely more!
Heaven gave her small store,
Meaning her discreet to be.

None can pawn Mimi Pinson's only gown."

"Mimi Pinson est une blonde,

Une blonde que l'on connaît,

Elle n'a qu'une robe au monde,
Landerirette!

Et qu'un bonnet.

Le Grand Turc en a davantage.
Dieu voulut de cette façon

La rendre sage.

On ne peut pas la mettre en gage,
La robe de Mimi Pinson."

The next morning after the student banquet at which Mimi Pinson had sung her song she proved that it was not true, and in a way which illustrates the winning, contradictory nature of the lively grisette. The passage in which this is related gives a fair sample of the manner of Mrs. Wister's translation from De Musset's prose : —

"Mademoiselle has gone to church,' said the woman who answered the door, to the two students, when they reached Mademoiselle Pinson's lodgings.

"To church!' repeated Eugene with surprise.

"To church!' echoed Marcel. 'That is impossible; she is not out. Let us in, we are old friends.'

"I assure you, sir,' said the woman, 'that she went to church about three quar ters of an hour ago.'

"To what church did she go?'

"To St. Sulpice, as usual; she never misses a morning.'

"Yes, yes, I know that she says her prayers, but it seems odd that she should be out to-day.'

"There she comes, sir; she is turning the corner; you can see her for yourself.'

She

"It really was Mademoiselle Pinson coming home from church. Marcel no sooner caught sight of her than he rushed toward her, impatient to examine her toilet. had on, in lieu of a gown, a petticoat of dark calico, half hidden by a green serge curtain, of which she had contrived to make herself a sort of shawl. From this singular costume, which, however, owing to its dark tone, did not attract attention, peeped her graceful head in its white cap, and her little feet in gaiter-boots. She had wrapped herself in her curtain with so much art and care that it really looked like an old shawl, and the border could hardly be seen. In short, she contrived to be charming even in this toggery, and to prove, for the thousandth time, that a pretty woman is always pretty.

"How do I look?' said she to the young men, opening her curtain a little and giving them a glimpse of her slender waist.

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My dress? Where did you find it?' "Where you left it, most likely.' "And have you rescued it from cap. tivity?'

"Yes, by Jove, I paid its ransom. Do you resent the liberty?'

"No indeed! provided you will let me do as much for you some day. I'm glad enough to see my dress again, for, to tell the truth, we have lived together for a long while, and I have insensibly become attached to it.'

"As she spoke, Mademoiselle Pinson ran briskly up the five flights of stairs which led to her little room, which the two friends entered with her.

"I have a wager,' continued Marcel. And you must tell us honestly why you pawned your gown.'"

Then it comes out that Mimi has pawned her only dress to save from starvation another grisette, with whom she had feasted sumptuously a week before, and with whom two days afterward she was feasting more sumptuously and expensively than ever, on probably the last franc sent to their relief by sympathizing friends.

In the poem "On Three Steps of Rosecolored Marble," which as a whole is very well rendered, we notice that the name of the Greek painter Praxiteles is used with the penult improperly long; and in the very next poem, and on the next page but one, the same word is given with its proper quantity, the antepenult long. Here and there, too, is a word or phrase which does not exactly convey De Musset's meaning, but there are many more in which it is hit off in an idiomatic way truly admirable. Indeed, it is hardly fair to dwell on the few minor blemishes which, after all, it is much easier to pick out than to have avoided in a work so difficult.

If, as Sainte-Beuve has said, Alfred de Musset entered the lyric sanctuary through the window, "Spécialité d'absinthe" must have been inscribed on the back door through which he went out. George Sand by her scandalous portrayal, and his brother Paul equally by his scathing denial, have made the failings of the unfortunate poet only too well known to the world; and no small measure of gratitude, we take it, is due to the American lady who has so well contributed her share toward doing what Madame Sand and his brother would both better have done, namely, let Alfred de Musset speak for himself.

The Lady of the Ice. A Novel. By JAMES DE MILLE, with Illustrations by C. G. BUSH. New York: D. Appleton & Co. MR. DE MILLE has already made a great many people laugh with good reason by his "Dodge Club in Italy," and we think he has as neat a turn for story-telling as any American, if we may claim him for our nationality. Not trying to go very deep into our poor human nature, which has perhaps already been sufficiently probed, he is free to pay greater attention to the surface, and he usually presents a lively and artistic picture of that; and many intense

and profound young writers might profita. bly leave off touching our hearts and analyz ing our emotions, and take a lesson from him in the pleasant study of manners and characteristics. We are not going to say that Mr. De Mille's plots involve any great degree of probability, or that he has any special fineness of touch, but we confess that we like this "Lady of the Ice,” and other things of his, quite as well as more probable and more subtle matters. The scene is in Quebec, and principally in what may be called garrison society, the two most prominent persons being young officers, handsome, good-humored, and not too intellectual, who are both very much and very intricately in love. They are managed so as to make an impression of reality, in spite of the improbabilities, and one likes them, as, in fact, one does all the people of the cheerful little novel. Of course, there are the ladies with whom these admirable warriors are in love, and an amusing old Irish gentleman, father to one of the half-dozen heroines. We do not know but Jack Randolph's extrication from his three engagements by the wise action of the highly consolable betrothed, who one after another throw him over, on hearing of his compli cated relations, is as interesting as Macrorie's rescue of the lady of the ice, and subsequent wooing of her. She alone of the young ladies appears a little shadowy and intangible; all the rest are like the delightful young ladies of actual life, allowing for a difference between Canadian and American girls. This difference we imagine Mr. De Mille to have noted very nicely, for his people seem a middle type between the American and the English; yet we are not sure of this, and may, in ignorance of provincial character, be doing him more than justice.

No one can help thinking well of Mr. O'Halloran, the Irish gentleman, who perfectly forgives Macrorie's mistake in making love to his wife, and yet obliges him to fight a duel out of respect to the code, and then takes it as a mark of the greatest kindness when Macrorie consents to fire first. The whole transaction is deliciously Irish; and the novel has only the best-tempered and charming catastrophes in every respect. We must say for Mr. Bush, that he has illustrated it with the most lovely young ladies and handsome young fellows, and has come as near the ideal of light and agreeable art in one way as Mr. De Mille has in another.