Page:The Dial vol. 15 (July 1 - December 16, 1893).djvu/240

228 much in few words. "He seemed to see before him the spokesman of a community where prosperity had drugged patriotism into unconsciousness, and where the bare scaffoldings of materialism felt themselves quite independent of the graces and draperies of culture." "To the Chicagoan, the name of the town, in its formal, ceremonial use, has a power that no other word in the language quite possesses. It is a shibboleth, as regards its pronunciation; it is a trumpet-call, as regards its effect." We quote almost at random these two bits of criticism; there are many others equally searching. Mr. Fuller appears to be one of the few people who can judge with objective fairness of the community in which their lives have been spent. His book seems to us to have no less value as a document than interest as a story.

"The Tutor's Secret" is one of those sane and temperate works of fiction that come from time to time, in refutation of the popular prejudice that French novelists are all repulsive realists or morbid sensualists. M. Cherbuliez has taken a simple and familiar theme—that of the family tutor in love with the young woman whom he is charged to instruct; but his treatment is so fresh, so brilliant, and so sympathetic, that he makes of his theme a new story. The outcome of the situation is neither violence nor despair—one of which would surely have been given us by a writer with leanings towards sensationalism,—but a chastened and philosophical acceptance of the inevitable. The characters are drawn with perfect fidelity to life; they speak and act in perfectly natural ways, and stand out in distinct relief. They are not types, but individuals, and their human interest is very manifest. Situations which would be a trifle risqué in the hands of most writers receive a sober treatment devoid of the least offence, and the story, although nowhere obtrusively didactic, has very evident bearings upon the conduct of life. We notice one curious inadvertence. Among the books read by the fair pupil-heroine, is one entitled "The Destiny of Man, Read by the Light of His Origin." It should be "viewed in," not "read by," but that is not the point. It is a little curious to find the author thus characterized: "He is a theologian, and the trail of the serpent is plain." Possibly Mr. Fiske is not altogether undeserving of this treatment, but it is likely to surprise him.

The idiosyncrasy of the collector is one, although the mania may pursue many objects. In the story of "The Faience Violin" the object is pottery, probably as potent to harden the heart as old books, or tulips, or postage stamps. This humorous study in moral pathology is the work of the late Jules Fleury (Champfleury), who had the knowledge of an expert in keramics and the wit of a Frenchman of letters. It is a very charming bit of work, and Mr. Bishop, who has turned it into the most flexible and idiomatic of English, was well advised in offering it to the public of another than its original speech.

One of the three stories in Mr. James's new volume—"Lord Beaupré"—follows the lines of normal human activity; the two others are whimsical in the extreme, if not actually morbid. "The Visits," slighter than the others, is a tragic study of an unbalanced temperament, and is even more inconclusive than most of the author's stories. The charm of "The Private Life," although hopelessly elusive, is not without a certain power of fascination. It must be taken, if at all seriously, as a sort of allegorical study of the problem of personality. One type of character—represented in this story by Lord Mellifont—exists only for the public, lives and moves and has its being in the appreciation or applause of its fellows. The author whimsically suggests that such a character has no "private life" at all, that it is but a sort of plausible simulacrum, vanishing when the audience dissolves, reëmerging from its limbo with the appearance of some one (may we say some one else?) upon the scene. Its very existence is not a reality, but a mere reaction. Contrasted with this type is the other embodied in Claude Vawdrey, with whom the "private life" is the real one, whose personality as displayed to the world is only a faint projection from the real inner self—perhaps what the theosophists would call an astral body. The delineation of these two types is very ingenious, and the author contrives, by many subtle touches, to invest his fanciful thesis with something of verisimilitude. But the allegory lurks beneath, and his readers can never quite forget that.

Mr. Hibbard's new volume of short stories emphasizes that writer's claims to a high rank among those who practice the art of fiction in this special field. His work approaches the best French models in its appreciation of the limitations imposed by his chosen form, in its sense of the episode, and in its constructive skill. "Nowadays," the titular story, is a minor masterpiece, marred only by a slight affectation in the use of its title as a catch-word. "There's Nothing Half so Sweet in Life" and "A Mad World, My Masters" are also admirable. These stories are based upon the "psychological moment," selected with rare discrimination, and dwelt upon just long enough to keep interest at its height. "Guilty Sir Guy" is a ghost-story of the Stocktonian type, amusing but not impressive. The two remaining stories are a trifle less successful. Author:William Morton Payne.

 In a former issue of (April 1, 1893) we had occasion to praise a collection of letters of James Smetham and to give some account of their author. To the "Letters" is now added a companion volume, "The Literary Works of James Smetham" (Macmillan), containing four essays and a number 