inent place among the classic short story-tellers of America, and produced a deep impression on the public mind. His "Skeleton in a Closet" followed in 1866; and, since that time his prolific pen has sent forth in the form of books and magazine articles, a continuous stream of the most entertaining literature in our language. He has the faculty of De Foe in giving to his stories the appearance of reality, and thus has gained for himself the title of "The Robinson Crusoe of America." Mr. Hale is also an historical writer and a student of great attainment, and has contributed many papers of rare value to the historical and antiquarian societies of both Europe and America. He is, perhaps, the greatest of all living authorities on Spanish-American affairs. He is the editor of "Original Documents from the State Paper Office, London, and the British Museum; illustrating the History of Sir Walter Raleigh's First American Colony at Jamestown," and other historical works. Throughout his life, Mr. Hale has always taken a patriotic interest in public affairs for the general good of the nation. While he dearly loves his native New England hills, his patriotism is bounded by no narrow limits; it is as wide as his country. His voice is always the foremost among those raised in praise or in defence of our national institutions and our liberties. His influence has always been exerted to make men and women better citizens and better Americans. B UT as she ran, the path confused her. | a fool she was ever to leave the knoll! So Inez Could she have passed that flaming sassa- stopped again, shouted again, and listened and fras without so much as noticing it? Any listened, to hear nothing but a swamp-owl. way she should recognize the great mass of bays where she had last noticed the panther's tracks. She had seen them as she ran on, and as she came up. She hurried on; but she certainly had returned much farther than she went, when she came out on a strange log flung up in some freshet, which she knew she had not seen before. And there was no clump of bays. Was this being lost? Was she lost? Why, Inez had to confess to herself that she was lost just a little bit, but nothing to be afraid of; but still lost enough to talk about afterwards she certainly was. If the sky had been clear, she would have had no cause for anxiety. In that case they would have light enough to find her in. She would have had the sunset glow to steer by; and she would have had no difficulty in finding them. But with this horrid gray over everything she dared not turn round, without fearing that she might lose the direction in which the theory of the moment told her she ought to be faring. And these openings which she had called trails-which were probably broken by wild horses and wild oxen as they came down to the bayou to drink-would not go in one direction for ten paces. They bent right and left, this way and that; so that without some sure token of sun or star, it was impossible, as Inez felt, to know which way she was walking. Yet, as she said to herself again and again, she could not be a quarter of a mile, nor half a quarter of a mile from camp. As soon as they missed her and by this time they had missed her they would be out to look for her. How provoking And at last this perplexity increased. She was that she, of all the party, should make so much conscious that the sun must have set, and that the bother to the rest! They would watch her now twilight, never long, was now fairly upon her. All like so many cats all the rest of the way. What the time there was this fearful silence, only broken # Copyright, Roberts Bros. by her own voice and that hateful owl. Was she trouble her! But at least she would make a system wise to keep on in her theories of this way or that of her march. She would walk fifty times this way, way? She had never yet come back, either upon to the stump, and fifty times that way; then she the fallen cottonwood tree, or upon the bunch of bays would stop and cry out and sound her war-whoop; which was her landmark; and it was doubtless her then she would take up her sentry-march again. wisest determination to stay where she was. The And so she did. This way, at least, time would not chances that the larger party would find her were pass without her knowing whether it was midnight much greater than that she alone would find them; or no. but by this time she was sure that, if she kept on in any direction, there was an even chance that she was going farther and farther wrong. But it was too cold for her to sit down, wrap herself never so closely in her shawl. The poor girl tried this. She must keep in motion. Back and forth she walked, fixing her march by signs which she could not mistake even in the gathering darkness. How fast that darkness gathered! The wind seemed to rise, too, as the night came on, and a fine rain, that seemed as cold as snow to her, came to give the last drop to her wretchedness. If she were tempted for a moment to abandon her sentry-beat, and try this wild experiment or that, to the right or left, some odious fallen trunk, wet with moss and decay, lay just where she pressed into the shrubbery, as if placed there to reveal to her her absolute powerlessness. She was dead with cold, and even in all her wretchedness knew that she was hungry. How stupid to be hungry when she had so much else to! a gun! and there They have come So she shouted Hark! God be praised, there is is another! and there is another! on the right track, and I am safe!" again, and sounded her war-whoop again, and listened, and then again, and listened again. One more gun! but then no more! Poor Inez! Certainly they were all on one side of her. If only it was not so piteously dark! If she could only walk half the distance in that direction which her fifty sentry-beats made put together! But when she struggled that way through the tangle, and over one wet log and another, it was only to find her poor wet feet sinking down into mud and water! She did not dare keep on. All that was left for her was to find her tramping-ground again, and this she did. "Good God, take care of me! My, poor dear father-what would he say if he knew his child was dying close to her friends? Dear mamma, keep watch over your little girl !”— HE West has contributed many notable men to our nation within the last half of the present century. There seems to be something in the spirit of that developing section to stimulate the aspirations and ambitions of those who grow up in its atmosphere. Progress, Enterprise, "Excelsior" are the three words written upon its banner as the motto for the sons of the middle West. It is there we go for many of our leading statesmen. Thence we draw our presidents more largely than from any other section, and the world of modern literature is also seeking and finding its chiefest leaders among the sons and daughters of that region. True they are generally transplanted to the Eastern centres of publication and commercial life, but they were born and grew up in the West. Notably among the examples which might be cited, we mention William Dean Howells, one of the greatest of modern American novelists, who was born at Martin's Ferry, Ohio, March 1st, 1837. Mr. Howells did not enjoy the advantage of a collegiate education. At twelve years of age he began to set type in his father's printing office, which he followed until he reached manhood, employing his odd time in writing articles and verses for the newspapers, and while quite young did editorial work for a leading daily in Cincinnati. At the age of twenty-one, in 1858, he became the editor of the "Ohio State Journal" at Columbus. Two years later he published in connection with John James Piatt a small volume of verse entitled "Poems of two Friends." These youthful effusions were marked by that crystal like clearness of thought, grace and artistic elegance of expression which characterize his later writings. Mr. Howells came prominently before the public in 1860 by publishing a carefully written and most excellent "Life of Abraham Lincoln" which was extensively sold and read during that most exciting presidential campaign, and no doubt contributed much to the success of the candidate. Mr. Lincoln, in furnishing data for this work, became well acquainted with the young author of twenty-three and was so impressed with his ability in grasping and discussing state affairs, and good sense generally, that he appointed him as cousul to Venice. During four years' residence in that city Mr. Howells, in addition to his official duties, learned the Italian language and studied its literature. He also here gathered the material for two books, "Venitian Life" and "Italian Journeys.' He arranged for the publication of the former in London as he passed through that city in 1865 on his way home. The latter was brought out in America on his return, appearing in 1867. Neither of these works are novels. "Venetian Life" is a delightful description of the manners and customs of real life in Venice. "Italian Journeys" is a charming portrayal-almost a kinetoscopic view-of his journey from Venice to Rome by the roundabout way of Genoa and Naples, with a visit to Pompeii and Herculaneum, including artistic etchings of notable scenes. The first attempt of Mr. Howells at story-telling, "Their Wedding Journey," appeared in 1871. This, while ranking as a novel, was really a description of an actual bridal tour across New York. "A Chance Acquaintance" (1873) was a more complete novel, but evidently it was a venture of the imagination upon ground that had proven fruitful in real life. It was modeled after "The Wedding Journey," but described a holiday season spent in journeying up the St. Lawrence River, stopping at Quebec and Saguenay. Since 1874 Mr. Howells has published one or more novels annually, among which are the following: "A Foregone Conclusion" (1874), "A Counterfeit Presentment" (1877), "The Lady of the Aroostook" (1878), "The Undiscovered Country" (1880), "A Fearful Responsibility" (1882), “A Modern Instance" and "Dr. Breen's Practice" (1883), "A Woman's Reason" (1884), "Tuscan Cities" and "The Rise of Silas Lapham" (1885), "The Minister's Charge" and "Indian Summer" (1886), "April Hopes" (1887), “Annie Kilburn" (1888), "Hazard of New Fortune" (1889). Since 1890 Mr. Howells has continued his literary activity with increased, rather than abating, energy. Among his noted later novels are "A Traveler from Altruria and "The Landlord at Lion's Head" (the latter issued in 1897). Other notable books of his are "Stops at Various Quills," "My Literary Passion," "Library of Universal Adventure," "Modern Italian Poets," "Christmas Every Day" and "A Boy's Town," the two last mentioned being for juvenile readers, with illustrations. Mr. Howells' accurate attention to details gives to his stories a most realistic flavor, making his books seem rather photographic than artistic. He shuns imposing characters and thrilling incidents, and makes much of interesting people and ordinary events in our social life. A broad grasp of our national characteristics and an intimate acquaintance with our institutions gives him a facility in producing minute studies of certain aspects of society and types of character, which no other writer in America has approached. For instance, his "Undiscovered Country" was an exhaustive study and presentation of spiritualism, as it is witnessed and taught in New England. And those who admire Mr. Howells' writings will find in "The Landlord at Lion's Head" a clear-cut statement of the important sociological problem yet to be solved, upon the other; which problem is also characteristic of other of his books. Thoughtful readers of Mr. Howells' novels gain much information on vital questions of society and government, which broaden the mind and cannot fail to be of permanent benefit. From 1872 to 1881 Mr. Howells was editor of the "Atlantic Monthly," and since 1886 he has conducted the department known as the "Editor's Study" in "Harper's Magazine," contributing much to other periodicals at the same time. He is also well known as a poet, but has so overshadowed this side of himself by his greater power as a novelist, that he is placed with that class of writers. In 1873 a collection of his poems was published. While in Venice he wrote "No Love Lost; a Romance of Travel," which was published in 1869, and stamped him as a poet of ability. HE cotton whitens over two-thirds of Pom-alike: the entrance-room next the door; the parlor peii yet interred: happy the generation or drawing room next that; then the impluvium, or that lives to learn the wondrous secrets of unroofed space in the middle of the house, where the that sepulchre! For, when you have once been at rains were caught and drained into the cistern, and Pompeii, this phantasm of the past takes deeper hold where the household used to come to wash itself, on your imagination than any living city, and becomes primitively, as at a pump; the little garden, with its and is the metropolis of your dream-land forever. painted columns, behind the impluvium, and, at last, O marvellous city! who shall reveal the cunning of the dining-room. your spell? Something not death, something not life, something that is the one when you turn to determine its essence as the other! What is it comes to me at this distance of that which I saw in Pompeii? The narrow and curving, but not crooked streets, with the blazing sun of that Neapolitan November falling into them, or clouding their wheelworn lava with the black, black shadows of the ** * After referring to the frescos on the walls that have remained for nearly two thousand years and the wonder of the art by which they were produced, Mr. Howells thus continues: Of course the houses of the rich were adorned by men of talent; but it is surprising to see the com munity of thought and feeling in all this work, whether it be from cunninger or clumsier hands. The many-tinted walls; the houses, and the gay columns of white, yellow, and red; the delicate pavements of mosaic; the skeletons of dusty cisterns and dead subjects are nearly always chosen from the fables of fountains; inanimate garden-spaces with pygmy Homer and the rest. the gods, and they are in illustration of the poets, To suit that soft, luxurious statues suited to their littleness; suites of fairy bed-life which people led in Pompeii, the themes are chambers, painted with exquisite frescos; dining commonly amorous, and sometimes not too chaste: halls with joyous scenes of hunt and banquet on there is much of Bacchus and Ariadne, much of their walls; the ruinous sites of temples; the melancholy emptiness of booths and shops and jolly drink ing-houses; the lonesome tragic theatre, with a mod- ¡ ern Pompeian drawing water from a well there; the baths with their roofs perfect yet, and the stucco bass-reliefs all but unharmed; around the whole, the city wall crowned with slender poplars; outside the gates, the long avenue of tombs, and the Appian Way stretching on to Stabiæ; and, in the distance, Vesuvius, brown and bare, with his fiery breath scarce visible against the cloudless heaven; these are the things that float before my fancy as I turn back to look at myself walking those enchanted streets, and to wonder if I could ever have been so blest. For there is nothing on the earth, or under it, like Pompeii. . . . THE HOUSES OF POMPEII AND THEIR PAINTED WALLS. From Italian Journeys." Venus and Adonis, and Diana bathes a good deal tations of the toilet of that beautiful monster which "Idalian Aphrodite beautiful,' as she should be, but with a warm and piquant spice of girlish resentment in her attitude, that Paris should pause for an instant, which is altogether delicious. “And I beheld great Here's angry eyes." The plans of nearly all the houses in the city are |