Newspaper Page Text
SATURDAY, MAY 27, 1899.
THE SUNNY SOUTH.
Woman’s Page and Work of the Hou:
waVs an army coining back from the
Wars, epaulettes and pipeclay all gone,
shoeless, ragged, wounded, starved, but
with victory on its brows.
M. H. Spieimann, in The Magazine of
Art for May, tells us “How Mr. Abbey. R.
A.. Painted His ‘Holy Grail' Pictures.
Ry eucn means did Mr. Abbey give ef
fect to his theory already alluded to that
an artist should as far, as may be, satu
rate himself with the spirit of his sub-
joot and surround himself with its atmos
phere. In more concrete fashion he made
such studies as would help him to realize
that twelfth century in which he wisely
determined to place the drama. He
made many sketches in St. Michel, the
ancient church of Le I uy in the Au
vergne from which, tradition asserts, the
Kirst (Tusade set forth. Capitals and
carvings from Avignon, landscapes from
Italy, “bits" gathered here and there
among the ruins, for the legitimate ana
harmonious purpose of the work. Thus,
by the time that he first put charcoal to
canvas his mind was stored with story,
fact and scene, as far as good will and
good sense could avail. And so he chose
the twelfth century for his costumes, ar
chitecture and accessories, because the
period synchronised with the birth of tiie
Romance, and perhaps because lie never
thought of transporting it into any other
more picturesque period. Rut it is doubt
ful win ther lie would not rather have
taken up the tradition of the decorations
of PinturiC'-hio, of the Stanzo of Raph
ael. and of the frescoes in the Cambio of
Perugia. The knowledge, however, of
what later men have done must have ren
dered it impossible for such a man as Mr.
Abbey Rurne-Jones found It possible,
as the artist one day declared: and after
a long while', and with infinite labor, got
people to believe in his no-man's land,
with its Leonardo basaltic rocks and its
Rotticel 1 i seas: and his faraway subjects
w oe the bett'-r for it. It was not in Mr.
Abbey, fortunately, to paint a fifteenth-
century "Grail." That which he beheld
was two hundred years earlier: and. in
truth, unless th" work was In be executed
in mosaic, no particular style or century
was suggested by the legend on other
than historical basis.
Do you owe ns bach dues?
Do you want to renew?
Wliy not send in now and enter
our two $100 contests? It will
pay you to do it.
MAY PLEASURES.
Naunctte Writes of the Beauties of
Sunset on Old Lookout.
And this our life, exempt from public
haunt.
Kinds tongues in trees, books in the run
ning brooks.
Sermons in stones, and good in every
thing.
—SIIAICESPEA R E.
Early May found my longings and in
clinations reaching out their timid wings
and flying to the woods, and flitting from
flower to flower, taking in turn the wild
honeysuckle, violet and sweetshrub. and
drinking myself drunk, as the sweet little
humming birds do. from the delicate rich
ness of their delicious perfume. Imagine
my happiness, then. Mother mine, when
a party of three was organized to go
where rowing was available on a clear
cristal lake, where the trees were beau
tiful and where wild flowers grew in pro-t
fusion. A kodak, too, was to be taken,
and we were to have pictures galore. I
was in the seventh heaven of delight, and
felt as joyous as one of the toilers of
mother earth could well feel. I am, be it
understood, something of a kodak fiend,
so disappointment welled up into my
heart when the kodak was not forthcom
ing, but the other two of our little party
more than made up for this lack, and we
were expecting a charming little outing.
The afternoon was a perfect one. even
prettier than is often seen in this dear
southland. A brisk breeze was blowing
and the gurgling, rippling, flowing sound
of the water was inclined to give one a
feeling of dreaminess. Mingled with this
was the first notes of spring coming to u«
from the distance, trilled from the deli
cate throat of the mocking bird, who sang
as if her very soul were stirretd with the
rapture and grandeur of nature.
"Who ean paint
Like Nature? Can imagination boast.
Amid its gay creation, hues like hers?”
We pushed out from the water's edge and
drifted aimlessly along with the rhythmi
cally moving water, slowly, lazily, dream
ily. each too lazy to say one word, but
looking the picture of contentment, and
feeling—of course I speak only for my
self—that we cared little if our lives
drifted along with the boat and would
come to a standstill when she stopped.
Life has so few joys, that when one is
visited by this don’t care spirit, one would
prefer to drift on down the stream of life,
idly and carelessly, rather .han to come
back to the hurly-burly world and take
up the thread of life where it was thrown
down, it was. for all the world, just as
if we leased the lake, our little party of
three being the only pleasure-seekers.
The bright red of the western horizon,
with every hue of the rainbow richly em
blazoned thereon by the gorgeous rays
of the setting sun, spread over every
thing and lent witchery of enchantment
that was a joy in itself: the clearness of
the waving, flowing effervescent water,
gave one a cool, delicious sense; and the
little- breeze, heavy with the perfume of
wild flowers, wafted towards us, seemed
like the breath of heaven. This scene,
with the little party moving idly, almost
imperceptibly along, if transferred to can
vass by a master hand, would awaken the
world to glories hitherto unknown in such
splendor and magnificence, r have seen j
sunsets and sunsets, but none that have i
compared favorably with this unless it be j
one about which I have long wanted to :
tell you, at Sunset Rock, on grand old I
Lookout Mountain.
The red ball of fire had scarcely dropped |
off the western slope—taking the early
rays of dawn to the far off west or east,
as one prefers, for it depends upon the
direction one is going, whether it is east
from Hiroshima, Japan, or west from the
Pacific—before the golden, shimmering
rays of the moon peeped out through the
rich green foliage of tiie oaks and pines.
They spread and spread, and in the dis
tance bright as they were. Ethel and Jack
declared some rural house was burning
into ashes, and suggested that we bo tiie
brave heroines and hero of the day, and
row wildly to the shore and run madly
down the country road and proclaim the
fact. I have not as yet found out wheth
er they were to proclaim the fact of our
heroism, or that a house was in flames.
AVe were still discussing the question and
commenting upon our inability to rouse
ourselves from this lethargy, still look
ing at this lurid brightness, when the
glorious moon burst forth in all of her
full-grown splendor, and red rays shoot
ing out from all sides, making her to look
pale, and I wondered as she rose in the
azure sky how many Rudolph Rassen-
dylls she was serenely gazing upon,
pacing calmly to and fro in her light,
with head thrown back, noble brows
drawn, and hands locked, awaiting the
decision of her majesty on questions of
ram'll moment in their lives—questions in
cluding the making of kings and the
breaking of the hearts of queens. Col
onel Sapt said it was the moon alone who
made and unmade kings, who decided
questions of great import: that she made
the decisions and her love-lorn victims
idly thought her decisions were theirs.
Colonel Sapt may have been right, for at
that time any way. she either made or
unmade a king, but the viliian. Bauer,
prevented us from ever knowing which,
though there can really be little doubt as
to which it was, for Rudolph ever hail
before him the words: "Our king can do
no wrong.”
With such a perfect picture before us,
we knew well whence to look for help,
and yet some people say there is no God.
but that it is merely a question of "mind
over matter.” Poor beings with such
bright ideas! This were enough had I
never been blessed with sight before—this
gorgeous sunset and exquisite splendor
of the rising moon, throwing her mellow
light on the blue of the water and the
azure of the sky. and her bright rays
shining eoquettishly through the thick
foliage of trees, to have thoroughly con
vinced me of the existence of an Eternal
God, even though previously a sceptic of
tiie first water. NANNETTE.
THREE OF A KIND.
BATTLE OF SANTIAGO.
The boy had been asked to write a com
position on the naval battle of Santiago.
This is the painful result:
"Samsun steemed up a waze an then
Cervery come out. He sed ‘T guess I le
make a run for it.’ So he craekt on all
sale an’ came a bustin’ thru the narrer
place whore Hobsun sinkt the Merrimack,
an’ ho.steered dost to shore in hops to git
away. Sly seen him a cornin’ an’ he sig
nified to the other ships an - tha all went
for Cervery like a thousan’ of brick. Sly
swinged the Rruklyn round an’ let ’em
have it with both barls frum the wurd
go. An’ pritty soon ail the Spanush ships
went down plunk like as tho’ they had
holes hord in ’em. Then when Sly an the
rest of the captins was wipin’ thare for-
riils an’ lettin’ tho guns cool off. up
steems Admiral Samsun. ‘Hello:’ sez Sly
plesently. ‘where you bin al this while?’
But Samsun was out of sorts. ‘It looks
to me,* lie sez. bitterly, ‘as if you think
you wuz the hole thing.’ But Sly. he only
lafs. ’Oh. I don’t know,’ he sez. an’ winks
at the captins. ‘I guess there’s glorio
enuff to go round.’ But Samsun was offul
bilyus. 'If you'd obayed orders.’ he sez.
’this disgraysfull thing woodn't hav’ hap
pened.' Then Sly didn’t say no more, coz
he saw how bilyus Samsun wuz. An' the
Cervery ships bein’ sunk for good an’ all
tha couldn't try it over again, an' that's
all I know about it up to the present
writin’.”
A SOLOMON STORY.
An Illinois boy was once asked to write
an essay on Masonry, and here is what
he wrote:
“IDLE THOUGHTS OF
AN IDLE FELLOW.”
By Jerome K. Jerome.
I consider these “Thoughts,” on a va
riety of different subjects, one of the
cleverest little works that I have read in
some time.
It may be a compilation of "Idle
Thoughts,” but they are certainly care
fully prepared, weighted with wisdom,
sparkling with humor, toned down and
tempered with pathos and sympathy.
They show a deep insight into human
nature, and hint of a varied experience.
True, they do savor strongly of sar
casm. but I like that, and nearly all writ
ers who thoroughly study human nature
and wish to portray its weaknesses and
insincerities make use of the cynic's dou
ble-edged tools.
I find only one objectionable feature:
The writer digresses too often from his
subject and occasionally weaves his anec
dote out so long we Jose sight of the
point.
Vet, taking them all in all, they are a
fine* collection of thoughts.
Take his first subject, "On Being Hard
We catch a little of the true spirit of
worship, longings for the great future
beyond steal into our souls, regrets for
the "might have beons" of life overpower
us. tears, consecrated tears, well up—and
we wonder why.
We look upon life as a grand tragedy
and are overpowered by its miseries.
But when morning comes the rising of
the sun dispels these feelings as it does
unhealthy vapors, and in the rush and
stir of the day we forget them.
Under the subject. “Being Idle," what
can be racier and hit more exactly our
own sentiments than this?
"It is impossible to thoroughly enjoy
idling unless one has plenty of work to
do.”
Now, isn’t that true?
How utterly miserable we arc when we
have nothing to do: Yet, how delightful
to steal a few moments and sit dream
ing when we have so much work on hand
that we can scarcely complete it.
But such is human nature!
The subject "Being in Love” is fine
also. Tis rich with experience and philo
sophical reasoning,touched up and bright
ened with gentlest pathos.
He says:
ANTHONY HOPE.
Macbeth makes half the
lamp-chimneys ; and half the
dealers won’t sell ’em, be
cause they don’t break.
Get the Index—free.
Write Macbeth Pittsburgh Pa
Up.” What can ho finer? While he
treats it lightly, ludicrously, sarcasti
cally, yet there is a lot of wisdom, real
feeling and personal experience revealed
underneath the light garb of sarcasm.
He says:
"No, there is no fun in poverty—to tiie
poor. It is hell upon earth to the sensi
tive man and many a brave gentleman,
who would have faced the labors of Her
cules, has had his heart broken by its
petty miseries.”
How true: We know, we see it every
day, and, alas! we feel it.
Do we not see every day youths with
towering ambitions and enthusiasm suf
ficient to undertake the twelve labors of
Hercules? Vet. in a few years they are
old men. either drifting aimlessly on the
tide of life or wearily plodding in a never
ending rut.
Having forgotten their noble aspirations
or more often having been forced by
chill poverty’s demands to bury those
lofty dreams from even their own sight.
‘Thill penury repressed their noble rage.
And froze the genial current of their
souls.”
The second subject. “Having the Blues,”
is also finely treated.
How truly he describes that vague, un
easy. tired, melancholy feeling we all
sometimes experience at the close of
day—especially a bright, beautiful day.
when the sun sets behind a bank of
many-hued clouds, seeming, as it were,
to drop back into eternal rest upon a bed
of glory.
No. we can not explain why; we can
not express those feelings. Like some
others that we experience during a life
time, they are too deep for utterance.
"Love is like measles: we all have to go
through it. Also, like the measles, we
take it only once. One need never be
afraid of taking it a second time.
"We like, we cherish, we are very fond
of. but we never love again. A man’s
heart is a firework that once in its time
flashes heavenward.
"Meteor-like, it blazes for a moment
and lights the whole world—then the
Wright of our commonplace lives close
around it.”
The discussions, “On the Weather,”
“Cats and Dogs,” and “On Babies," can
not he excelled.
Mark Twain could not rival them in
representing absurd and ridiculous situ
ations. In those discussions he gives his
humor and sarcasm free rein.
But when he comes to ‘‘On Memory,”
pathos rules again.
He says: "The music of life would be
mute if the chords of memory were cut
asunder.” IDYL WYLDE.
• »
“PRISONER OF ZENDA.
By Anthony Hope.
Anthony Hope Hawkins is described as
a "keen, close-shaven, alert man of the
world.” He abandoned the bar and gave
up politics to devote his time to litera
ture. Finding that the world did not ap
preciate the tame “drawing room humor"
of the “Dolly Dialogues," he attempted
romantic narration and waked to find
himself famous as the author of "The
Prisoner of Zenda.” one of the most pop
ular books of latter day fiction.
The book has been unqualifiedly praised,
fastidiously condemned and severely cen
sured Considered as a love story, it has
been called one of the “sweetest and
King Solomon was a man who lived
so many years in the country that he was
the whole push. He was an awfully wise
man, and one day two women came to
him, each holding to the leg of a baby
and nearly pulling it in two, and each
claiming It. And King Solomon wasn't
feeling right good, and he said ‘Why
couldn't tiie brat have been twins and
stopped all this bother?’ And then he call-
for his machete and was going to Weyler-
ize the poor, innocent little baby and
give each woman a piece of it. when the
real mother of the baby said: ‘Stop. Sol
omon: stay thy hand. Let the other hag
have it. If I can’t have a whole baby. 1
won’t have any.’ Then Solomon told her
to take the baby and go home and wash
Its face, for ho knew it was tiers. He
told the other woman to go chase her
self. King Solomon built Solomon's tem
ple. and was tbe father of Masons. He
had seven hundred wives and three hun
dred lady friends, and that’s why there
are so many Masons in the world. My
papa says King Solomon was a warm
member, and T think he was hot stuff
myself. That is all I know* about King
Solomon. '—The Tyler.
“FATHER. DEAR FATHER.”
"Father, dear father, come home with
me now, for ma has some carpets to
beat; she’s got all the furniture out in the
yard, from the front door clean out to
tiie street. The stove must come down and
he put in I he shed, and the yard must lie
cleaned for some grass, for it’s time to
clean house, and the devil’s to pay—and
the front windows need some new glass.
Father, dear father, come home with me
now and bring some bologna and cheese.
It's most 1? o'clock and there’s nothing to
eat—I’m so hungry I’m weak in the knees.
All the dinner we'll have will be cold
scraps and such, and we’ll have to eat
standing up, too, for the table and all are
in the back yard; oh. I wish that house
cleaning were through! Father, dear fa
ther, come home with me now, for ma
is as mad as a Turk: she says that you’re
only a lazy old thing and that she will
put you to work. There's painting to do
and paper to hang, and the windows and
casing to scrub, for it’s house-cleaning
time, and you've got to come home and
revel in suds and cold grub!!!"—Commit
ted by a friend of the Journal’s in 1ST3.
purest" ever written. The hero, with ills
distinctly English characteristics, has
been lauded as the "noblest, most chival
rous figure that has been added to roman
tic fiction since the last of the immortal
Musketeers took leave of the world.”
Princess Flavia has been praised as an
“i loi. prized for its rarity”—a perfect wo
man to be worshiped for her more than
human goodness.
The half cynical tone Rudolph Rassen-
dyll assumes in the introduction is bewtl-
deringly fascinating and gains our cu
rios attention at once. The rapid succes
sion of incidents sweeps the reader along
with breathless interest. The plots, in
trigues and strategems are of such an in
genious nature as never to weary the
reader's com prehension.
Each of the characters possess fire, dig
nity and grace, and an individuality that
is endearing or repellant, as the case may
be. One is almost vexed that it is not
real history, so graphically is the story
told, with that charm of simplicity, ease
and naturalness that win our approval,
that dazzles us and ror the moment
makes us oblivious to the faults of the
book. For no on/', after serious eonsid-
.. -b-n:’bq - ! t i= pi o.q.e-i,,,. ■
hie book from the mere fact tha* the he
ro speaks so irreverently of taking human
life, as if killing a man, who happens to
be in the way, were no more than de
stroying an annoying insect. The hero
himself coolly and calmly commits the
crimes of murder, apparently without the
slightest compunction—rather lauds him
self upon his success and throws a glam
or over the sin of homicide. In Dickens’
novels murder is invariably followed by
sure and swift vengeance; it is written of
as a sin—a sin that receives inevitable
punishment: hut in Hope's book the
moral view of the question is nonchal
antly omitted, people are killed as a mere
incident of adventure, killed because a
"man's biood is up,” and fighting is in
teresting. Duelling has given place to
prize fighting in this enlightened age. and
the “problem novel” has been superseded
by the “murder novel.”
Air. J. M. Robertson, in a recently pub
lished article, classes “The Prisoner of
Zenda” in the “sanguinary school of fic
tion," and he says that the "murder nov
el" has found its master in Mr. Anthony
Hope. Men are looked upon as mere
chattels, to he moved or removed at will,
and their destruction is extolled, brutality
is praised.
A decade since and war was waged re
lentlessly against such literature—con
fined to the “yellow paper back”—it was
relegated to the untutored and illiterate,
who devoured the lurid contents with
avidity, in spite of protestations and ad
vice from pious parents and anxious
teachers. But today the same sanguin
ary material Is converted by Hope’s pen
into the most fascinating story, that
“sends Its reverberating echoes around
the literary world.”
The hero even says of himself. "[ took
my life in my hand and carried it care-
lessly, as a man dangles an old glove”
This reckless disregard, of personal dan
ger is called bravery: his willful murders,
heroism. We forget that Rudolph is the
same man when he is again beside Prin
cess Flavia, who loves him well enough
to give him up—for duty’s sake; and
whom he loved well enough to leave—for
right and honor. She was a perfect wo
man, and we love perfect women. When
with her he was a perfect man, or at
least a perfect lover, who can "thank God
that there was nothing in his love that
made her fall short in her high duty;” in
whose heart was ever the cry of a wo
man's despairing love—"Rudolph! Ru
dolph!”—and though there are moments
when he dares not think of it, there are
otners when the yearning to see her again
overcomes him, and resolving to live as
becomes the man she loves, he prays for
strength “this side the grave, and for the
other side dreamless sleep.”
FINETA.
THE BOW OF ORANGE RIBBON.
Mrs. Barr's story, ‘‘Bow of Orange Rib
bon." is incomplete, and much is left to
the imagination of the reader.
“In the beginning" one expects to be
treated to rare scenes of Dutch home
life, and can almost hear the tinkle of
the cowbells as they come uo the Rhine,
alias Hudson, a reflection of Holland in
America. But as the plot—what little
there is—thickens, there is a sense of dis
appointment, our visions fade away and
though there is an occasional touch of
quaintness throughout the book, it does
not suffice to restore our mental serenity.
There Is but one character in the "Bow
of Orange Ribbon” that I especially ad
mire. and that is Joris Van Heemskirk.
A man something iike was created, per
haps, when God said: “I will make man
in my own image." Strong, sturdy and
fearless, yet peaceable, dignified and de
cided. he towers giant-like above all
other characters in the book. While the
others have many good traits, they also
have weak ones.
One noticeable feature of "Bow of
Orange Ribbon" is the contrast between
Miriam’s course and Katherine’s. From
the moment Katherine's father forbade
WOMAN'S
DEVOTION
TO HOME
H OME duties to many women seem more important than
health.
No matter how ill they feel, they drag themselves
through the daily tasks and pile up trouble.
This is heroic but a penalty has to be
paid.
A woman in New Matamoras, Ohio,
Mrs. Isabell Bradfield, tells in the
following letter how she fought with
disease of the feminine organs until
finally forced to take to her bed. She
says:
•• Dear Mrs. Pinkham—I feel it my duty to write to you to
tell you that I have taken Lydia E. Pinkham’s Vegetable Com
pound and think there is no medicine in the world like it. I
suffered for nine years, and sometimes for twelve weeks at a
time I could not stand on my feet. I had female troubles of
all kinds; backache, and headache all the time.
Seven different doctors treated me. Some said
I would have to go to the hospital and
have an operation performed. But oh!
how thankful I am that I did not, that
I tried your Vegetable Com
pound instead. I cannot say
too much in its praise, nor
thank you enough for what it
has done for me. I want you
to publish this in all the papers
for the good of other
sufferers.’’
The wives and
mothers of America
are given to over
work. Let them be
wise in time and at
the first indication
of female trouble
write to Mrs. Pink-
ham at Lynn, Mass.,
forheradvice. This
advice is promptly given without charge.
The present Mrs. Pinkham's experience in treating female
ills is unparalleled; for years she worked side by side with
Mrs. Lydia E. Pinkham, and for sometime past has had sole
charge of the correspondence department of her great busi
ness, advising and helping by letter as many as a hundred
thousand ailing women during a single year.
her visiting at Semple house she began
to form plans for meeting her lover, and
despite her inheritance of the Dutch
characteristic, truth, did not hesitate long
between father and lover, and with Mrs.
Gordon to connive for her. it was com
paratively easy to accomplish her wishes.
But Miriam, who had been reared in
strict obedience to the Jewish laws, did
not for a moment question her grand
father’s right to command her acts, but
believed in obeying him she was also
obeying her Makei. saying with Job:
"Though He slay me. yet will I trust
Him.” Her risk for happiness was scarce
ly greater than Kate's in marrying a dis
sipated English officer and going with
him to an unknown country, among
strange people.
There is generally a “Mrs. Gordon"
connected with all clandestine marriages,
which, unfortunately, do not always turn
u'jl as happily as did KStherine s.
I am reminded of two circumstances in
history, which, however, are not rele
vant to the "Bow of Orange Ribbon.”
One is the sad story of Madame Bona
parte, the other that of a young Jewess
residing at Newport who was in love
with an English officer. He deserted
her. and, like Shakespeare's maiden, she
suffered in silence until death came to
her relief. Both are sad. but “ower
true” tales are always sad. or said to be.
The “Bow of Orange Ribbon” is moral,
hut Mrs. Barr seems to justify Katherine
in her disobedience to her parents, which
is rather dangerous doctrine, it seems to
nte. to place before young people whose
minds are unformed.
The book is called a romance by the
publishers and such I think it is.
YY. A. I.
“RUPERT OF HENTZAU.”
By Anthony Hope.
We know there is no kingdom of Ruri-
tania, no cities of Strelsau, and Zenda,
yet when Mr. Rassendyll bids Fritz Von
Tarlenheim goodby and goes a second
time to Ruritania. we go with him in
thought and sympathy. Old Sapt has very
truly said. “The devil has a hand in
most things.” and we feel sure that the
arch fiend inspired Flavia, a loved and
honored queen, a trusted wife of a man
who had passed through severe trials and
afflictions for her country, to write a love
letter to another man. "A love letter is
a poor thing for which to risk the peace
of a palace" is another of Sapt's remarks
with which we entirely agree.
Flavia bade her lover goodby. and she
married the king and gratified her world
ly ambitions by becoming queen of Ruri
tania. Why couldn't she prove herself
worthy of her subjects' loyalty and love,
her husband's trust by being a trite wo
man? No. she did what no true, womanly
woman would have done under similar
circumstances. She wrote a love letter to
Mr. Rassendyll and sent it by her faithful
Fritz Von Tarlenheim. and he fell a vic
tim to the well-laid scheme of Rupert
of Hentzau and met Mr. Rassendyll with
the news that Rupert had the queen's
letter, and both knew that he would car
ry it to the king. Of course, we are not
surprised when Mr. Rassendyll decides to
go at once to Ruritania. personate the
king and receive the letter, but Rupert,
the bold, cunning, unscrupulous rascal, is
not so easily trapped. He sends a copy
of the letter and tells his messenger to
make an appointment with the king for
him to meet him and give to him tiie
original. Of course the copy is given to
Mr. Rassendyll and all seems working
smoothly, when fate plays them a curi
ous trick and contrives that the king shall
meet Rupert at the hunting lodge. Well,
the tragedy of the lodge is one unparal
leled in modern fiction, and the conversa
tion at the lodge table between Sapt and
James is the very finest thing in our
nineteenth century literature.
Mr. Rassendyll goes to Strelsau. is ac
cidentally seen and hailed as king. Queen
Flavia goes to Strelsau. is seen with Mr.
Rassendyll, and the people cheer and
greet them as king and queen (and the
hunting lodge keeps its secret).
Fritz recovers from his wounds and re
turns to Ruritania in time to participate
in the closing scenes of the drama, a
drama of life and love, where hearts were
trumps and—well—great schemes make the
actors in them eareless of humanity: the
life of a man goes for nothing against a
point in the game. And Anthony Hope
plays this game, using the parts of speech
in a way to thrill and fascinate the 'read
er from the first chapter to the last. Mr.
Rassendyll told us the tale of “The Pris
oner of Zenda. ’ and it was so well told,
every sentence so subtly manipulated, ev
ery phrase so perfectly prepared, that,
try as we may. we can find nothing that
smacks of egotism. Fritz Von Tarlenheim
tells of the plots, plans and schemes of
Rupert of Hentzau.
Handsome, polished, tender, true, loving
Fritz! Brave, magnetic, powerful, grand
old Sapt! Cunning, invincible, diplomatic,
incomparable James! Loyal, impulsive,
patriotic, obedient Bernstein! All plan
ning. plotting. scheming. risking
th'-ir lives for a woman. ivho,
I am sorry to admit, is so
weak, so unwomanly as to be unworthy
their loyalty and love. But while we
condemn her. we can but admire the ten
derness, the magnetism. the thrilling
sweetness of her love for Rudolph—a love
that knows no barriers, recognizes no ob
stacles, a. love so strong, so uncontrolable,
so invincible, that she is swayed by its
dictates, and is powerless to resist its
yearnings, its pleadings. Mr. Rassendyll—
but I told you my opinion of him in my
critique of "Prisoner of Zenda.” and that
opinion continues, save that my admira
tion of him is enhanced because of his
absolute fearlessness, his strength of will
to be true to Flavia and to himself (and
I I doubt if he loved her at the last as he
I did at the first, and 1 feel sure that even
unto death he was true to the right and
to his God. A loyal, noble, brave, true
English gentleman. 1-re loved Flavia, and
she loved him. but—ah! I thank the good
Father that in this dear land of liberty
all men and all women can obey the dic
tates of their hearts in their choice of
a helpmate through life; can marry, not
to please power and principalities, but to
please themselves. For in that last great
day all ranks will be leveled. King and
subject, prince and peasant will stand
shoulder to shoulder and be asked the
question, not what have you sacrificed
for your country? not what have you done
for your people? but what have you done
for your God?
As Ian MacLaren said of Rudyard Kip
ling. I say of Hope. "He is England's
greatest man of letters, yes. the greatest.
His work has enthusiasm, dignity, humor
and pathos. It is sincere, national and
human. Have I exhausted all the epi
thets of praise?”
SYLVAN GLENN.
ALL SERENE.
Belle—"But don’t you think she was a
little indiscreet in allowing him to kiss
her?"
Dolly—“Oh. no; she had looked up his
financial standing that afternoon."
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