that the cacoethes scribendi is mair for Scotland than any ither eepidemic in its hail history."

The chairman, after carefully consulting his glossary under the desk, said that the inspiring words of his reverend friend must bring a thrill to every true AngloSaxon bosom, and asked the Honorable Remus C. Harris to respond for the AfroAmerican branch of that grand race.

Mr. Harris came forward diffidently, and said:

“Wunce upon a time Br'er Fox he gin a pahty, and he invite Br'er Eagle and Br'er Lion to pahticipate; and bofe on em dey jess natchilly pahticipate. W'en de dinnah hit wuz ready, Br'er Lion he say, in his modest way, befo' he wuz axed, Ef it all de same to you, Mister Fox, I'll take a slice of de w'ite meat;' and Br'er Eagle remark, quite servigrous like: Dahk meat good enuf for me, if I kin git enny.' But Br'er Fox he make apology and say: Ve'y so'y, gemmens, but the onliest dish on de bill o' fa'r

6

to-day is Oatmeal. He'p youselves, gemmens. I had an American goose fo' my luncheon jess befo' I comed in.'

The eloquent representative from Darkest Georgia was followed by a Canadian gentleman who spoke in the Acadian patois, with which, unhappily, neither the speaker nor his hearers seemed to be acquainted.

To relieve the embarrassment, the chairman, giving a hitch to his newest dialect costume, inquired in his most tarry voice if any lubber aboard would be kind enough to crawl over the cross-trees and lend a hand at splicing the keelson. in plain Anglo-American lingo.

Thereupon arose Mr. J. Townsend Fadden, of Manhattan Island, and, expectorating genteelly over his left shoulder, said:

"Wot t'ell! I move dat we adjourns till dese foreign ducks has time to buy a primary-school primer and larn to read dead-easy words of one dinky little syllable. If any gent don't like de motion, let him come down here and say so. I won't do a ting to him."

But nobody seconding the motion or accepting the courteous invitation, the

chairman read a letter from Mr. George. Merrydeath, during which Mr. Fadden. fell asleep, and Dr. Drumtochty asked in vain for a a translation into Gaelic or any other known modern tongue.

"While not

Mr. Merrydeath wrote: failing in any lack, but rather the contrary, of enthusiasm in a matter which, beyond peradventure, must appeal to every lover, whether or not, or, rather, because thereof, or otherwise, of the lingual links in the chain that binds without fettering, the two great branches of a common, and yet uncommon, race, I feel it only my duty, and a sacred duty, to say so in unmistakable language."

The unanimous verdict of those present is that if any more meetings are to be held, it will be necessary to engage the services of an interpreter. The " common tongue of Shakespeare and of Milton" needs moistening to make it of any use. in an International Authors' Peace Convention; vention; and experience proves that Scotch whiskey and water are not adequate to the purpose. The former must be drunk with a glossary, and the latter is altogether thinner than blood.—James Jeffrey Roche, in N. Y. Life.

RUDYARD KIPLING.-From Photograph.

T

HE author of this volume of poems

are

has been hailed as "The Unchallenged Laureate of Greater Britain." We have also been told that his poetry is of the brass band variety, but if it be true as reported, that his publishers sold of the new book 25,000 copies on the first day, there is evidence that a good many of us fond of brass bands. Flutes and soft recorders are well enough, but there are times when the rattle of drums is what we need; and even sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal have been known to afford relief from the tedium of ballads on books, poems to poets, tea-table triolets and landscape sonnets.

Candidly, I think there is some justice in the brass-band criticism, and a friend has told me that "Kipling cuts to the very heart of things-with a butcher knife." But if he does get there, to the heart of things and of men, and I think he does, are we not bound to confess that this is the main desideratum in all literature, and to crown him accordingly?

After all though, crowning is the work of time; and if we compare him with the

best of his contemporaries, we pay him perhaps the highest compliment in our power. There are smooth verses in the volume before me, and simple ones, but none like the following from William Watson. He is speaking of miners:

"But they-their day and night are one.
What is't to them that rivulets run,
Or what concern of theirs the sun?
It seems as though

Their business with these things was done

Ages ago:

Only, at times, each dulled heart feels

That somewhere, sealed with hopeless seals,
The unmeaning heaven about him reels,
And he lies hurled

Beyond the roar of all the wheels
Of all the world."

Kipling cannot do that; but hear him in the "Song of the Banjo," or rather hear the Banjo, the companion and solace of pioneers and adventurers of every clime, the war-drum of the white man. round the world."

"In desire of many marvels over sea,

Where the new-raised tropic city sweats and roars,

I have sailed with Young Ulysses from the quay

Till the anchor rumbled down on stranger

shores.

"By the bitter road the Younger Son must

tread,

Ere he win to hearth and saddle of his

own,

'Mid the riot of the shearers at the shed,' In the silence of the herder's hut aloneIn the twilight, on a bucket upside down, Hear me babble what the weakest won't confess

I am Memory and Torment-I am Town! I am all that ever went with evening dress!"

I doubt of Kipling has time to read his fellow poets of the magazines, but Watson has, for we find him fond of such words as "immelodious," and he becomes "literary" when Kipling would be archaic or slangy. Kipling has more dash than Watson, knows more of men and infinitely more of the detail and circumstance of rough life over the globe. He knows machinery too, and parades his knowledge through the mouth of McAndrews, the ship engineer, whose "pur

are more concrete and

rin' dynamos perhaps as good as "all the wheels of all the world." There are doubtless more points of contrast than resemblance between the two writers. I shall not say which I regard as superior to the other; but I think we can safely couple them together as the two foremost English poets of the day, counting Swinburne out and apologizing to the present Laureate.

Crossing the seas to America, we think at once of Bret Harte. The resemblance between him and Kipling may not extend further than to the coincidence that each portrays rough, immoral characters, each indulges in dialect more or less, and each is occasionally coarse. In comparing them I confess to a long standing partiality for Bret Harte. In burlesque humor he is Kipling's superior, and he can be dainty and pathetic in a way that the latter has not time to emulate. He lacks Kipling's broad view and his copiousness. I do not use the last word in a bad sense. Byron was copious, and Scott and Shakespeare. Tennyson was not, though he worked long and accomplished much. Browning was.

Kipling is not a realist, but he is strictly modern, his strictness leading him to neglect one strong human trait, a reverence for things past. He describes things as he sees them, and declares they are romantic-which they are. He likes local color, but he does not confine himself to a single parish, and he rather avoids pious, humdrum people. He is going to describe the whole earth, for it will all be England's some time, and each. colony is to have fair play. He is a citizen of the world, the English world. Born of British parents in the city of Bombay, familiar with army life and jungle adventure, familiar with ships, a wanderer over seas, a sojourner in London, husband of an American woman and a resident of Vermont, he has seen much that he describes. He is proud of his native city:

"So thank I God my birth

Fell not in isles aside,-
Waste headlands of the earth

Or warring tribes untried."

He is prouder of the imperial destiny of England, perhaps we might say of the English speaking races, for though he does not include us in terms he does so in spirit. He has his flings at us, to be sure; the American is blatant, vain, illogical, disreputable, unkempt; humorous, of course, though often out of season. He has his good points-is hospitable, childlike in momentary joy; he "scoffs at sword and crown," he "greets the embarrassed Gods," and, while vexed at misinterpretation, "turns a keen, untroubled face home, to the instant need of things." We are, in short, men in

a world of men," and belong, in a sense, to the company of stalwart sons, the nations of English speech, whom England, the "Gray Mother," is made thus to address:

"Truly ye come of The Blood; slower to bless than to ban;

Little used to lie down at the bidding of any

That ye may talk together, your Barons and Councillors

That ye may talk together, brother to brother's face,

Thus for the good of your peoples-thus for the Pride of the Race.

Also we will make promise, so long as The Blood endures,

I shall know that your good is mine; ye shall feel that my strength is yours;

In the day of Armageddon, at the last great fight of all,

That Our House stand together and the pillars do not fall."

We may not desire an offensive alliance with Great Britain, we may not approve her foreign policy, we need not criticise our Senators for carefully revising an indefinite and defective treaty; but few of us can fail to admire the wonderful upbuilding of that empire whose foothold is on every continent, whose flag is on every sea, whose sons have peopled the waste places of the earth, and whose domination anywhere means law and trade and

civilization, and eventually the freedom and happiness of man. May we not hope in the name of this freedom that The House may stand and the pillars endure?

Meanwhile let us not forget that the world is alive, that now is the time of great achievements, that now is the day of romance; let us shake hands with McAndrews, jolly the "young recruit," even peep in at the Sergeant's wedding; let us sail the Seven Seas and feel a little

of what the song expresses:

"For to admire and for to see

For to be old this world so wide-
It never done no good to me,
But I can't drop it if I tried."

EDWARD BATES.

RED TAPE IN FOREIGN

LIBRARIES.

HE Pratt Institute monthly gives an amusing account of an American woman traveling in England, who was much surprised to find how hedged. round with difficulties was the privilege of using the Reading-room of the British Museum. An English gentleman, and a well-known author, told her how great were the annoyances she would encounter in getting access to the books without influential letters of introduction. "Why, I am a member of the Authors' club," he said, "and well-known to the attendants in the entrance hall and the men at the door of the Reading-room; I have lived in London all my life; and yet, only a short time ago, when I happened to forget my ticket of admission to the Reading-room, I was not allowed to enter. There is no use in your going down to the Reading room this morning and hoping to get in you must make application by letter, stating clearly that you are over twenty-one years of age, and why you apply for the use of the Library. You must mail this to the Principal Librarian, together with a carefully-written letter of recommendation from a well-known

householder (who gives his name and address), stating that upon his personal knowledge, he is sure you are a fit person to be admitted to the use of the Library. Perhaps within a week you will get a printed note asking you to call at the office of the Principal Librarian for a personal interview. If this interview be satisfactory, you will get a permit (good for six months) to use the Reading-room. There is no other way."

I drew a long breath when all this red tape was unrolled, humbly thanked the author for his valuable advice, and with an American woman's natural perversity resolved to go straight down to the British Museum that afternoon and try my luck without a letter of introduction.

It is very gratifying to our national amour propre to learn that before the word American all barriers melted away, and in half an hour our compatriot was seated within the sacred precincts.