him. Under this treatment the character of our Lord takes on some aspects of nobility and greatness with which the professional theologians have not always invested it. The environment of his life is well depicted, and the courage and fidelity that was required for such testimonies as he uttered and such deeds as he did, are forcibly suggested.

We do not find Mr. Hughes's exposition in all respects adequate. There are events in the life of our Lord the full meaning of which he does not seem to comprehend. Especially does he fail to perceive the real nature of the agony in the garden. But the portraiture as a whole is clear and worthy, such as could only have come from the hand of a loving and obedient disciple.

The volume closes with an address delivered at Clifton College last October, and that ought to be read by every College boy who ever read "Tom Brown." It is a most manly and affecting appeal

to all that is best in the hearts of young men.

THE unsophisticated and ingenuous reader who takes up "The Lost Truths of Christianity," 1 will find himself in the hands of a straightforward, earnest and devout writer, who has very decided opinions and suffers from no lack of Scripture proofs of them. Such a reader will wonder, now and then, who this writer can be; will ask himself whether these ideas and interpretations are original, and will sometimes feel that the writer is getting into deep water; but he cannot fail to be impressed with the reasonableness of many of the statements, and the aptness of many of the interpretations of Scripture.

To the initiated the book will present no such difficulties. They will see through it before they have read the brief introduction. "Oh," they will exclaim, "that is nothing but -ism." But why should we tell the unsophisticated reader this dreadful name? What does an epithet prove? The real question is not whether the book is -ism or not, but whether it is true or not. And that question can be decided much more judiciously if sectarian names, which have so long been used not as torches, but as bludgeons,

are not once referred to.

We are not satisfied with some of the explanations of the mystery of the Gospel which this writer offers. We believe that these mysteries are deeper than he thinks, and that the rationale of some of them had better not be attempted. But many things that he says are clearly and strongly said; and this book will not only awaken thought in the minds of honest readers, but it will help some even of those who do not follow all its reasonings, to a better understanding of the truths of Christianity.

1 The Lost Truths of Christianity. Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott & Co.

A REVISED edition1 of Mr. Didier's Life of Poe has appeared. The story is told by an admirer of the poet; but it appears to be a veracious narrative and good reasons are given for revising many of the harsh judgments which have been pronounced upon this unfortunate man. His intemperance is not disguised, but aside from this vice he seems to have been honorable and pure in life. He inherited an excitable temperament, and his early training was precisely calculated to develop his weaknesses. Pity, far more than censure, is the emotion that the story of his life awakens. His poetical works are included in this volume, together with his lectures on The Poetic Principle and on The Philosophy of Composition.

MOST of the stories of Mr. Raymond's collection2 are Christmas Stories, and were written, we

guess, to read at the Christmas festival of some

Sunday-school or other. It must be said that the title is a little too felicitous; the stories do go round rather more than is desirable; if they went right at it, and skipped about it less frequently; if there were a little less talking and a little more doing, they would be better stories. This is not denying, however, that they are very good stories, full of excellent sentiments and stimulating suggestions, all put in a bright and entertaining way. We are not complaining; we like Mr. Raymond's method; but it is in him to do better work in this line than any that this book holds.

MR. JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY has given us in some of his spirited poems something of the flavor of life in Australia, but his Moondyne "3 affords him a larger opportunity for the delineation of this rude society. It is a strong story, dealing with convict life in part, showing some of the problems which prison reformers have to answer, and exposing the wrongs to which prisoners are subjected. It is not a pleasant story, but it is the work of a writer with sound instincts and great dramatic power.

A BOOK on the education of the feelings, whose object is to "bring the dispositions, aspirations and passions into harmony with sound intelligence and morality," and whose stand

1 The Life and Poems of Edgar Allan Poe: A New Memoir by Eugene L. Didier, and an Introductory Letter by Sarah Helen Whitman. New York: S. W. Widdleton.

2 The Merry-Go-Round. Stories for Boys and Girls. By R. W. Raymond. New York: Fords, Howard & Hulbert.

3 Moondyne. A Story from the Underworld. By John Boyle O'Reilly. Boston: Roberts Brothers.

4 How to Educate the Feelings or Affections. By Charles Brady. New York: S R. Wells & Co.

point is that of phrenology, seems to us a sort of solecism. "It is not," says this writer, "what we know but what we feel that usually regulates our conduct; and if what we feel depends upon the size of the parts of the brain with which the feelings are connected, it is useless to deceive ourselves by expecting from people more than their organization warrants. If the selfish feelings predominate, it is useless to expect other than a selfish person or a superior kind of animal; the moral feelings, though weak, may restrain the propensities within the limits of law; common courtesy and politeness and a good education may enable an individual to seem to the world all that the world requires; but yet the character at its base is, and will continue, essentially self

planation for all the spiritualistic phenomenatable tipping, mind reading, and all the rest. It all results from "physical impressions on the brain," electric currents flowing from one brain to another; so that "the negative electric agency of the one receives the positive electric agency of the other," and so on. It must be confessed that the Reverend Thomas Mitchell is a very knowing man; but there are quite a number of things in heaven and earth that his philosophy does not include, and as for the subject which he has here undertaken to illuminate, he has not even succeeded in making its darkness visible.

feelings are equally balanced, then education and existing circumstances will determine which shall predominate." It is, therefore, only when this equilibrium exists between the better and the worse elements of character that education has any chance, and the number of such cases must be very small. The attempts to "bring the dispositions, habits and passions into harmony with sound morality" by means of education, when our conduct is regulated by our feelings and our feelings are determined by the size of those parts of the brain with which they are connected, would seem to be somewhat Quixotic. The only effectual method of educating the feelings, which consists with this philosophy, is the application to children's skulls of some sort of orthopedic machinery, by which the bad bumps might be depressed and the good ones elevated.

IF the Rev. Thomas Mitchell of Brooklyn has really got the key that he is talking about, we wish that he would lock the thing up and throw the key into the East River. It would be no real gain to the human race if all the secrets of spiritism were discovered and exposed-quite the contrary indeed. Most of these secrets are of such a character that the less the world knows about them the better for the world. But the fact is that Mr. Mitchell's "key" is a poor tool. He is an "Orthodox" Christian to whom "thought is the result of organization," who insists that "the brain and senses evolve mind," and who belabors spiritism with the cudgels of religious materialism. He has thus a physical ex

1 Key to Ghostism. Science and Art Unlock its Mysteries. By Rev. Thomas Mitchell. New York: S. R. Wells & Co.

the Sandwich Islands is a pleasant book to read. It brings you the breezes of those delightful lands, aud the flavor of their fruits, and the melody of the sweet speech of their people. It tells us about the missionaries and their work, and stands up for them too, bravely,-if its writer is a Unitarian. He does not forget that he is a Christian. "I do not like " he writes, "to argue the cause of foreign missions in a Christian community. The necessity for such an argument would reflect too much upon its Christianity." After a vivid description of the condition of these people be fore the missionaries visited them, and of the redemption that Christianity has wrought out for them, he sums up by saying: "If we could see and know what cruel rites, involving human sacrifice; what deadly worship perpetuating ignorance and hate; what tyrannous inequalities, shielded by the death-line of a piteous tabu; what habitual warfare and shameless vice; what rooted wrongs, persistent injuries, established lies and low customs this rebuking, renewing, reforming religion of Jesus Christ has met and overthrown, we should not spend our strength in needless criticisms upon its earlier evidences, its lesser miracles, local adaptations or passing accompaniments; but, convinced and converted by its abiding purity and power we should go forth to share its blessings with all mankind." Mr. Chaney pays a hearty tribute to the piety, the culture, and the hospitality of the missionaries whom he met, especially to the venerable Dr. Coan in whose pulpit he preached-tell it not in the Congregational House! publish it not in the street called Beacon !

1 Aloha: A Hawaiian Salutation. By George Leonard Chaney. Boston: Roberts Brothers.

ERE he is!" called out one of the group at the drug-shop door. The little druggist, Levick, rushed out, bottle in hand, as a stiff, tall figure passed the window.

"Ah, Judge! Good-day, good-day! What's your hurry? Was that your son who came in the stage last night?"

"Yes, sir. Yes." The Judge paused to be questioned, a nervous smile twitching his lean jaws.

The men came out curiously. "High day for the Judge," whispered Squire Moore, inside of the shop. The Judge was usually, like themselves, untidy in his dress; but this morning he wore his broadcloth suit, his high beaver hat was set nattily on his bald crown, and he handled his rattan as if it had been a scepter.

"Son, ah?" said Levick, meditatively polishing his vial. "Not the artist? No, certainly not. More weight about this gentleman, from the glimpse I-Oldest son? From California, I understand?"

"From Nevada, gentlemen." The old man looked slowly around as from a lofty height, rolling the sonorous syllables delightedly on his tongue. My oldest son, Bromley Yarnall."

"Why, bless my soul, I remember Brom!" said Squire Moore, coming out. "Tow-headed youngster at Peter's school. Why, certainly! But that was twenty years ago. They tell me he's done well out west, Judge? Banker? Railroading? Eh?"

Nevada. Silver," rejoined the Judge. There was the tremendous brevity in his words of cannon shots.

"Tut, tut! Silver, ha? And he was but a slip of a boy! But we 've no idea in this village of how the world moves, gentlemen. These enormous enterprises! Well, I congratulate you, Judge. The burgesses have their annual supper to-night at the Alcock House you know, and I must see that your son is invited. Perhaps he will let us in to a secret or two in stocks," winking knowingly. "That's my joke, of course. I'll go for Sheppard to call on-on the Colonel-Major what is his title?"

"Mr. Yarnall, plain Mr. Yarnall. Bromley remarked last night that he had carefully guarded against any title. Bad southern habit. Your pretender,' he said, 'needs to make broad his phylacteries and to sound his trumpet before him, but the name of a man of real power wants no noisy tooting to announce it. My son will be pleased to see you, Squire. Good morning, gentlemen;" and, with a lofty bow, the Judge stepped as airily as his rheumatic legs would allow down the hilly street. The men looked after the familiar figure with new interest.

"He makes less of it than I expected," said Levick. "Bob Strain heerd in Baltimore that this Brom Yarnall was one of the big bonanza kings.”

There was a chorus of inarticulate grunts.

"Well," said the Squire, lighting his pipe

Yarnalls are a brilliant family. There's never been a family in Lymeburgh that had their quality of brains. You never knew where it would burst out. There was old Doctor Zeb Yarnall, he headed the split in the Presbyterian church in Kentucky. Then there's the Judge—”

"Great lawyer in his day, I reckon?" said Levick, who was a new comer in town. "No lawyer at all. Never had a business of any sort. One or two offices. But he 's been such a politician, his intellect 's been such, that we've always given him a foremost place. If you want a president for a farmers' club, or a chairman at a caucus or a hotel dinner, Yarnall 's simply magnificent. It come natural to call him Judge and Honorable. Then there 's his son, Horace; he's reckoned a big gun in the artist line, I hear; and Lilian-there's not as superior a woman in the county as Lilian Yarnall. If she'd write for the press she'd earn her thousands per annum, no doubt."

"Why don't she do it, then?" said Levick. "How's it come that with their genius James supports them all? He pays the 'bills for the whole capoodle of them."

"Ye-es," the Squire ceded reluctantly. "Well, James Yarnall 's a commonplace fellow, fit for nothing but steady work. Put him in a rut and there he stays. But there's a kind of incapacity in the others for earning their living. It is n't drink, nor cards; it must be genius that ails them. There's something else to be done in the world, after all, than to make money. Some of us rides on donkeys and some of us on winged horses. You've heard of Pegasus, no doubt, Sam?"

66

Yes, I've heard of Pegasus," said Levick, taking up the pestle and grinding vigorously. "I'm glad it has carried one of the Yarnalls into a silver mine. It hain't done much for the rest, as far 's I can see." Nobody replied to the sneer. The conversation suddenly turned upon French merino sheep, and the little druggist was left out of it in a marked way, which made him feel that he was but a stranger and adventurer among the solid durabilities of the town of Lymeburgh. The genius of the Yarnall family, their eccentricities and their

ill-luck, was one of the possessions of Lymeburgh to be talked over year by year, and bragged of just as much as Pitt's imported ewes or the Magnesia spring. Levick deserved a snub, and he got it.

The Judge, meanwhile, tip-toed his way restlessly down the street. He felt that it would lower the family to discuss Bromley farther with the canaille at the drug-shop. All of the world outside the family were, measurably, more or less, canaille. But he could not keep quiet. He was going to Mrs. James to tell her about Bromley and the silver mine. Mrs. James was an ordinary little women and an outsider, but she had come within the sacred Yarnall precinct by marriage and was the most untiring of listeners. The Yarnalls always spoke of her as "a Virginia girl whom James had picked up somewhere."

When the Judge reached the house where "the Jameses" lived, he paced slowly down the boarded walk outside, surveying it with many a sad "Tut! tut!" and melancholy wag of the head. He did not know what Bromley would say when he heard the history of this house. The old Judge quailed before this son, from whom he had not heard for years, and who suddenly appeared, a bonanza king, as a delinquent school boy might before his master. Bromley, being so successful a business man, would no doubt hold them all sharply to account for their financial doings in these fifteen years. What would he think of their selling the homestead to James?

Now the history of the sale was this. The house was a dilapidated old cottage when the family (with James' earnings as river clerk) bought it for a trifle from Spong, the saddler, and dubbed it the homestead. When James was made teller in the bank, Lilian showed to him conclusively that his salary would justify them in boarding at the Alcock house. When James brought home his wife, however, Lilian was ready with another plan.

"You will not wish to board with us, Dorothea?" she said. "I do not approve of this amalgamation of families, especially in a race as nervous and sensitive as the Yarnalls. Besides, you would prefer to go

to housekeeping, no doubt. Virginia women are such devotees to the arts of the cuisine! I always think of them as compounding pie crust or gumbo soup."

"Yes, I should prefer it. I never have lived in a hotel," said the little Virginian, quietly.

"James tells me you have a trifle of money. Now the best use you can make of it is to buy the homestead from my father. Of course," her pale blue eyes swimming with tears, "we could not part with it to any one but a Yarnall. Every board in it is hallowed by association. But I, for one, should be willing that you and James should build your nest in it. You would do well to buy it, Dorothea."

"I?" said Dorry, smiling. "You must talk to James about it. Whatever money I had is in his hands, of course."

The end was that James bought the place at a price which would have paid for it if the boards had been coated with silver instead of associations. But James was not likely to raise a question of money between himself and his family; never was there a fonder son and brother; he had besides his full share of pride in the Yarnall blood and all pertaining to it.

"As for Mrs. James," Lilian said, "she had neither wish nor opinion about it, There seems to be no subject upon which Mrs. James has either wishes or opin. ions."

Dorothea had not a word to say about the rain pouring in at the roof, nor the stagnant pond at the back door. But, as years went by, the roof was mended, the pond was drained, the vegetables and flowers in the garden became the boast of Lymeburgh; the dilapidated, gray, cramped house was made thoroughly comfortable.

But it was cramped. Little Nelly was seven years old; it was time that she had a chamber of her own; Tom's and Bob's legs and roaring voices shook the whole wooden tenement from garret to roof; one room would no longer serve for parlor, diningroom and nursery. Mrs. James produced her savings of eight years (milk and butter money and the like), and asked James to build an addition of two rooms and a snug

pantry and kitchen for old Tamsie, who had followed her from Virginia.

The addition was finished just a week ago; the last workman, with his splatched trowsers and pot of paint, had gone out of the gate; the last chip had been picked up from the grass. Mrs. James and Tamsie, with Nelly and the boys skirmishing between, had put down the carpets and arranged the furniture; and when each room was finished Mrs. Dorry and the children took hands and sang and danced wildly round to bring good luck into it. To tell the truth, this was their occupation when the Judge came up; he could hear their screams of laughter inside.

"It's a very nice house," he said, scanning it critically through his eyeglasses, "a very valuable property. I am afraid Bromley will strongly disapprove of our parting with it." At that moment he caught sight of Bromley and Lilian coming across the meadows towards the house, and waited for them.

It was the little parlor which the children and their mother were dedicating by a dance to all kinds of fun in future.

That will do, Tom," cried Mrs. Dorry, red and breathless; while Tamsie in her purple gown and yellow turban, lean and prim as a Quaker, watched them with all the dignity which her mistress lacked. "Pull papa's chair closer to the corner, Bob, so that he can reach his meerschaum on the bracket. The curtains suit the dark paper exactly, aunty."

"Dey do, Miss Dorry. Dey'm mighty rich. I mind de fust day I see yo aunt, Miss Loo, a wearin' dat brocade. 'Pears as ef "-peering carefully around-"deh was a look in dis room like de ole pahloh at home."

"Oh, you see it? I wanted that!” cried Mrs. Dorry, clapping her hands. "I tried for that! I thought it would please you, Tamsie. And you will be so comfortable at last in that kitchen-so nice and big."

"Comf'ble enough. Deal o' scrubbin'," grunted Tamsie, going out.

"It's all wasted, Mamma," said Tom.

"No, it's not wasted. That's her way. I do want her to be comfortable for the rest