Ewing's Canada Home, gathered and illustrated by Elizabeth T. Tucker, together with facsimiles of eight water-color drawings by Mrs. Ewing's own hand. There is much of reminiscence in this volume which will appeal to Canadians in general, and to those who knew Mrs. Ewing in particular, but there is much, too, which appeals. to the ordinary reader. One feels that the life herein related finds its counterpart in many lives. There are, too, descriptions here and there for instance, that of Fredericton-which in a few clever strokes give us little pictures of value.

An Eclipse Party in Africa, by Mr. Eben J. Loomis, the Senior Assistant United States Nautical Almanac Officer (Roberts Brothers, Boston), is a capital book. Although it is an account of an expedition which took place so long ago as 1889-90, yet the descriptions of the Azores, the Cape de Verde Islands, Sierra Leone, the Gold Coast, St. Paul de Loanda, and. South Africa, are quite as vivid as if the expedition had taken place yesterday, while the volume is not so burdened with statistics as to make it at all out of date. The illustrations are many and good, and much aid the text.

Mr. William Morris's last book, The Well at the World's End (Longmans, Green & Co., New York), has been exquisitely published in two volumes. Any other publication than an exquisite one would not do for the man who has accomplished so much in the art of book-making, both in text and in dress. There is hardly a thing which one can find to criticise in this delightful paper and print. It is a pity that we have not more such books. As to Mr. Morris's story, it is also a pity that it was not half as long. While we enjoy getting back to the old days which he so lovingly and delightfully pictures for us in his poems and romances, yet there is at all events in this last work too much of a good thing. It becomes almost a sing-song. Morris-lovers may find fault with this criticism, but we fear that our end of the century is too impatient to welcome so portentous an appearance as two volumes on 66 The Well at the World's End." The story smacks too much of the methodical, and Morris never believed in waiting for inspiration. He always gave just so much time to designing, so much to socialism, so much to exercise; he never wrote poetry on week-days, and so on. His reputation was well earned, but it will neither gain nor lose anything by his last achievement.

Two large and attractive collections of drawings appear at this holiday-time. The first is Pictures of People, by the well-known illustrator for "Life," Mr. Charles Dana Gibson, the creator of the "Gibson girl" and other lesser characters. While we are not among those who unreservedly applaud what might be called Mr. Gibson's French woman, there is no denying the virile force which characterizes these and other drawings in the handsome volume which Messrs. R. H. Russell & Son, New York, have published. No text is necessary as a comment on the life here satirized, nor is any required for the drawings of Mr. A. B. Wenzell, another well-known "Life" illustrator, whose drawings are also published by the same house under the title of In Vanity Fair. More than in Mr. Gibson's pictures, Mr. Wenzell's (however artistic) deal with the trivial, effervescent side of living-existing, one might say. While all these illustrations are clever and only occasionally vulgar, yet they are like the after-taste of sweet champagne. An admixture of soberer sentiment, of honester life, would not hurt either artist.

Mr. Albert Lee has published through Messrs. Harper & Brothers, New York, Tommy Toddles, a children's book, and one of the most delightful of children's books. sists of two parts-" Out of the Ark" and "In the Ark." Tommy sits by the window in the big play-room at the top of a house one afternoon, falls to soliloquizing, then to

With guns and fights and lots of noise, should be allowed to read Mr. Lee's charming story.

Two pleasant holiday books are Anna Fuller's A Literary Courtship and A Venetian June (G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York). The first is full of the invigoration of Pike's Peak and Colorado cañons; the second of the dolce far niente of Venice. The small size of these volumes, their attractive binding, clear print, and charming illustrations, match well the descriptions, which are both clear and charming, and are of more account than the "story part." A very artistically illustrated holiday publication is A Book of English Ballads (The Macmillan Company, New York). Mr. George Wharton Edwards gives us "an accompaniment of decorative drawings" which are as good as any of his other work, and in some cases better. The only artist who really rivals him in illustration of old English life and myth is Mr. Walter Crane, but the latter seems often lacking in a certain American chic which distinguishes our own artist. Nor is this quality out of place when transferred to the delineation of another period and another country. Mr. Hamilton Wright Mabie contributes a preface to the volume. He emphasizes the fact that the motives of our popular ballads were drawn directly from nature. He calls attention to a fact which we may be in some danger of forgetting-that the old ballads were objective, whereas our contemporary poetry is largely

subjective, and illustrates this by comparing "The Hunting of the Cheviot" with Maeterlinck's "Princess Maleine.' These old ballads indeed take us out of doors and out of the individual consciousness. There is in them not only a childlike curiosity about the things that befall men, but a childlike indifference to moral inference and justification. Mr. Mabie reminds us, too, that, in the wide range of human expression, the ballad follows the epic as a kind of aftermath; a second and scattered harvest springing without regularity or nurture out of rich and unexhausted soil. As to the origin of popular song, we have the testimony of Herder, Bürger, and others showing community-authorship. The old ballads have passed away with the conditions that produced them. In our time, it is true, there have been ballads of much power written, but they are as different from the old as the wild from the garden flower. In the old days there was, as Mr. Mabie says, a general experience, a common memory, a universal feeling. There was no poet, because all were poets.

Mr. William Winter's Gray Days and Gold in England and Scotland (The Macmillan Company, New York) has been published in an illustrated edition, and makes a charming holiday book. To this edition Mr. Winter contributes a new preface. The illustrations do not so much emphasize either the gray days or an American wanderer in Great Britain as the gold of fancy and of thought which he has found there. The main charm of Mr. Winter's essays on English subjects is found in the reverent attitude with which he approaches scenes which have been made sacred to him and to us all by their association with great names. Hence Mr. Winter's treatment is always sympathetic. More than this, the author does much to realize his aim of showing that the need of the age in America is a conviction that progress does not consist in material prosperity, but in spiritual advancement. Mr. Winter declares that utility has long been exclusively worshiped, and that the welfare of the future lies in the worship of beauty.

Mr. H. W. Phillips's Fables for the Times are simply Æsop inverted, with an "Immoral" attached to each fable. They are clever and ingenious, and Mr. Sullivant's drawings are rich in fun. The whole is printed in a thin, flat, large volume. (R. H. Russell & Son, New York.)

as Mr. Ralph can see in an hour more than most of us can in a week, it may be guessed that he came back with plenty of material. Under a charming veil of slight romance he talks about Chinese manners and character earnestly, striving to make his reader familiar with what is best and most typical in China. We are constantly finding in these pages things new, things interesting, and things curious. Mr. Ralph is wont to speak of himself as essentially a reporter, and certainly he is a prince of reporters; that he is also a man of refined literary taste and true imagination his recent work has abundantly shown. (Harper & Brothers, New York.)

Several books have been called out by the poster craze. The latest is Posters in Miniature. It consists solely of the reproduction of posters of famous American, French, English, and German artists, without a word of criticism or even an index. Introduction and "fore-word," by Edward Penfield and Percival Pollard respectively, fill only three pages, and give little information. The pictures themselves are generally, but not always, well printed. Several portraits of artists are included. Every style of the grotesque is here represented. Some are artistic, some are merely funny, and some are indecent-for we see no reason why poster art should not be subject to the ordinary rules of criticism, and not a few of these reproductions are purposely and intentionally suggestive. (R. H. Russell & Co., New York.)

Mr. Julian Ralph's Alone in China has been given all the attractive qualities coming from choice illustration, novel cover design, and fine paper. These story sketches are an outcome of Mr. Ralph's visit to China at the time of the recent war with Japan. He took a two months' trip in a house-boat on China's wonderful rivers and canals, and

Confessio Amantis

pore,

When do I love you most, sweet books of mine?
In strenuous morns when o'er your leaves
Austerely bent to win austerest lore,
Forgetting how the dewy meadows shine;
Or afternoons when honeysuckles twine
About the seat, and to some dreamy shore
Of old romance, where lovers evermore
Keep blissful hours, I follow at your sign?

Yea! ye are precious then, but most to me
Ere lamplight dawneth, when low croons the fire
To whispering twilight in my little room;
And eyes read not, but, sitting silently,

I feel your great hearts throbbing deep in quire,
And hear your breathing round me in the gloom.
-Richard Le Gallienne.

A

LTHOUGH we enjoyed keenly the great English cathedrals, hardly one of them gave us more pleasure than a sight we met quite unexpectedly one afternoon as we were strolling down the hawthornhedged streets of the little old village of Kirkwood. The first glimpse was of a bit of velvety lawn, its deep green streaked by the golden sunshine that came in between the noble trees that bordered it. It was some three or four feet higher than the street, and separated from it by a low stone wall that supported the embankment, but was so overgrown with vines that the stonework was hardly visible.

Beyond the lawn and through a vista of trees was the shadow of a great broad porch, its depth relieved by an open doorway which framed in a pretty interior view of traceried window and oaken pews, all in bright but delicate contrast with the deep, quiet shade of the porch.

We had to pass still further down the street to reach the entrance, which was emphasized by a simple, massive lichgate.

From this point for a little distance the road lay through prettily wooded grounds that quite concealed the church from sight, but after a turn one suddenly emerged into a large open space with a scene of rarest beauty. At the right was the charming lawn, that had so captivated us in the first glimpse of the place, while at the left was the "village churchyard," with its neatly kept paths, its rude and often grotesque headstones, and an occasional vine-covered seat for rest or meditation. The central and impressive feature of the scene, however, was the church itself, as it stood in its simple dignity, crowning and giving solemn meaning to the whole; for if the sunlit lawn and the quaint churchyard spoke of life and death, the church suggested the hallowed services and teachings that gave wisdom and strength for life, and hope in death.

1 For previous articles see The Outlook for September 26 and October 31.

Everything about the grounds was in exquisite order and revealed the most watchful care, a care that one instinctively felt was not of a purely mercenary character, but had its spring in affection or a high sense of duty. The same was true within. Time and wear had deepened and mellowed the tones of the old building, but had apparently wrought no ill; its condition was perfect, and doubtless the passing years had each added to its beauty.

More and more one felt the presence of loving care within and without, and this itself was not without its charm it was a place that some one loved and reverenced, and that in turn called forth our admiration and respect.

We had not been long in the building before we met the sexton, an old man whose time and toil had been given here for many years. As he spoke of the place with great pride, he frequently referred to an absent one who seemed to direct his work and those who from time to time assisted him, whose judgment and taste he profoundly respected, and whose approval was his greatest satisfaction. This stimulated our inquiries, and we learned from him that the guardian spirit of the place for many years had been a lady of the neighborhood-a woman of rare cultivation and intelligence, who, finding herself free from family cares, had made the church and its surroundings her great interest. Her time, thought, and generous purse paid constant tribute to the place, and its officials, impressed by her spirit and enthusiasm, gladly gave a free field for its exercise.

In matters of serious moment, the sexton told us, a competent authority upon gardening or architecture was called in; but these occasions seldom occurred. The constant care for small details, the instant and thorough repair of anything becoming defective, the tidiness and order maintained, forestalled troubles of a more serious character, and really was an economical as well as a very attractive policy. We left the place thinking not only of its rare beauty,

weather-stain-all presented a sorrowful appearance. How were the mighty fallen! Within, matters were no better. The missing slate had, of course, caused great leaks in the roof, which in turn badly discolored the wall and rotted the plaster, great pieces of which had fallen down. Dust was everywhere, and in many places the busy spider was setting traps for the unwary. To one who remembered this delight ful building in its earlier days the sight was distressing, not only because it told of the passing away of a beautiful place, wrought by intelligent skill and self-denying devotion, but more especially because it bespoke an utter indifference to the house of God, a lack of any love for the place consecrated to his service and abiding. Such scenes, unfortunately, are not altogether rare, although in the example given it was the ruin of very unusual beauty.

Churches are often built with the best intention as to site and proper character, and then, when novelty has passed, are left to themselves, until the home of God's flock, replete with interest and beauty in days gone by, is manifestly "a neglected home" to which no loving hand or careful thought does service.

Sometimes in the Eastern States one has, perchance, come upon an "abandoned farm," and has been almost depressed by the melancholy sight. Such a scene of desolation where once life, hope, and happiness reigned! But the reflection will arise that life is full of vicissitudes, that families change with each passing year, and that maturity, removal, and death accentuate these changes sharply, and readily account for the occasional abandoned home.

The house of God, however, should be a more enduring home. As one generation passes away another equally needs its comfort, services, and beloved associations; and for this reason it is one of the saddest of sights to behold its neglect and decadence.

What must be the influence upon a community of such a lack of love and care for a place so hallowed by the Divine Presence, by the lives of worthy men and women who have labored and sacrificed for its interests in the. past; by sacred influences which have developed that which was best, restrained evil, and been a constant force for good? Must it not be to render the community indifferent also to the best in life and morals--to steadily lower the public tone?

Perhaps there has been fault in not training the young to be of service in and about the house of God-to take a personal interest in its welfare. There is very much that young people and even children, under proper direction, can do in beautifying and preserving it; in rendering it. and its grounds always tidy; in zealously caring for its welfare. In doing these things they will acquire habits of great value to themselves and the church. As, of old, young hands ministered in the temple to the glory of God, there are in these days abundant opportunities for such services; and, as then, it is most likely that they who minister in youth will serve to old age. This service often devolves upon a sexton or committee, who are busy with other affairs, and allow these interests to fall into neglect. If teachers and officers having special relations with the young would stimulate them and guide their efforts in this direction, they would not only find the immediate results gratifying, but also that they have in some measure solved that very practical and trying question in many rural churches, the "finding something for the young people to do."

But, whether by old or young, the care of the sanctuary should be dear to all God's people, and its condition such as never to suggest a neglected home," but "the very house of God, the gate of heaven."

CHAPTER XXIII.

-MARGET HOWE'S CONFESSIONAL

When the General and Kate were loitering over break fast the morning after the ovation, they heard the sound of a horse's feet on the gravel, and Donald came in with more than his usual importance.

"It iss a messenger from Muirtown Castle, and he iss waiting to know whether there will be any answer." And Donald put one letter before the father and another before the daughter, both showing the Hay crest. Kate's face whitened as she recognized the handwriting on her envelope, and she went over to the window-seat of a turret in the corner of the room, while the General opened his letter standing on a tiger-skin, with his back to the fireplace in the great hall. This is what he read:

My dear Carnegie: When men have fought together in the trenches before Sebastopol, as their ancestors have ridden side by side with Prince Charlie, I hope you will agree with me they need not stand on ceremony. If I seem guilty of any indiscretion in what I am going to say, then you will pardon me for "Auld Lang Syne."

You have one daughter and I have one son, and so I do not need to tell you that he is very dear to me, and that I have often thought of his marriage, on which not only his own happiness so much depends, but also the future of our house and name. Very likely you have had some such thoughts about Kate, with this difference, that you would rather keep so winsome a girl with you, while I want even so good a son as Hay to be married whenever he can meet with one whom he loves, and who is worthy of him.

Hay never gave me an hour's anxiety, and has no entanglements of any kind, but on the subject of marriage I could make no impression. "Time enough," he would say, or, "The other person has not turned up," and I was getting uneasy, for you and I are not so young as once we were. You may fancy my

1 Copyright, 1896, by John Watson.

satisfaction, therefore, when George came down from Drumtochty last August and told me he had found the other person, and that she was my old friend Jack Carnegie's daughter. Of course I urged him to make sure of himself, but now he has had ample opportunities during your two visits, and he is quite determined that his wife is to be Kate or nobody.

It goes without saying that the Countess and I heartily approve Hay's choice and are charmed with Kate, who is as bonnie as she is high-spirited. She sustains the old traditions of her family, who were ever strong and true, and she has a clever tongue, which neither you nor I have, Jack, nor Hay either, good fellow though he be, and that is not a bad thing for a woman nowadays. They would make a handsome pair, as they ought, with such good-looking fathers, eh?

Well, I am coming to my point, for in these circumstances I want your help. What Miss Carnegie thinks of Hay we don't know, and unless I'm much mistaken she will decide for herself; but is it too much to ask you-if you can-to say a word for Hay? You are quite right to think that no man is worthy of Kate, but she is bound to marry some day I can't conceive how you have kept her so long-and I am certain Hay will make a good husband, and he is simply devoted to her. If she refuses him, I am afraid he will not marry, and then-well, grant I'm selfish, but it would be a calamity to us.

Don't you think that it looks like an arrangement of Providence to unite two families that have shared common dangers and common faith in the past, and to establish a Carnegie once more as lady of Drumtochty? Now that is all, and it's a long screed, but the matter lies near my heart, and we shall wait the answers from you both with anxiety. Yours faithfully,

KILSPINDIE.

Kate's letter was much shorter, and was written in big school-boy hand with great care.

Dear Miss Carnegie: They say that a woman always knows when a man loves her, and if so you will not be astonished at this letter. From that day I saw you in Drumtochty Kirk I