possibilities at the date at which they are supposed to be uttered. An ordinary English woman of 1857, destitute of the advantages to be gained from the study of Ibsen and of Hill-top novelists, would have shrunk from such thoughts, even had they occurred to her, as a deadly sin. It strikes us sometimes sadly enough, on comparing those days with our own, that our present advantages are not all clear gain. Oh, the pity of it, when we have got rid of so many of the old bogeys of conventionality which darkened the lives of women, to raise up another-this brooding horror of the sex-problem-to overshadow them again!

In this matter of tone, by the way, an excellent corrective to Mrs. Steel's book is to be found in H. C. Irwin's (the sex of the author is not indicated on the title-page) "A Man of Honor," which, curiously enough, deals also with the siege of Delhi, although the Mutiny serves only as the climax to a story of Indian frontier life. It is true that some readers might be inclined to call certain of the earlier chapters dull, and that the narrative as a whole is too obviously put together, and does not flow. But a cleaner book, and one more free from the trail of the sex-serpent, in spite of its motif, we scarcely remember to have read; indeed, its chief drawback is that the hero is somewhat too bright and good for human nature's daily food, and that the reason for his great sacrifice appears to coarser minds a little inadequate. But if, as it seems, "A Man of Honor" is a first book, it is full of promise, and displays a knowledge of life at the edge of the empire which ought to be turned to good account in the future. If we might venture to offer a word of advice to the author, we would say this: Be more careful on another occasion to work in your information with your story, instead of presenting the two elements in alternate patches, and do not again endow your hero so richly with all the cardinal virtues as to leave none over for your heroine; but do not lose hold of your idealism, for we need more such idealists as you. We can learn all that we desire of the wickedness of the world from the fiction of the day; be it yours to show us some of the good that is left in it. Better Jim Purefoy dying in the Tarai jungle, happy in the idea that he had effected the capture of the Nana, than Jim Douglas linking his damaged heart-either for pity or for no particular reason, apparently—with the battered affections, such as they were, of Kate Erlton.

From these remarks it will be clear that, pace Mr. Lockwood Kipling and the New Review we feel that the novel of the Mutiny is still to be written. We do not pretend to offer any advice to him who shall write it, but we can warn him of one or two pitfalls to be avoided. There are the stock characters,-the bad young man, officer or civilian, who kicks the native servant and insults him; the good young man, who rebukes his brother officer or civilian, and soothes the feelings of the servant; and the servant himself, who in his abounding gratitude

afterwards saves the good young man's life. An ungrateful servant would be a pleasing novelty. Then there is always the young lady just out from home, to whom everything has to be explained, and the spiteful young lady who has come out a season or two before her, and whom she outshines. We suppose that it is impossible to dispense with the services of the gallant colonel of a native regiment who is confident to the last in the loyalty of his men, and who perishes by the first shot fired by them when they mutiny; but we may suggest that it would be somewhat original for the regiment to remain loyal, since there were in reality some that did so. Then there are one or two stock scenes, the meeting of disloyal natives, for instance, with local color ad libitum in the description of their costumes and conversation. If this scene must be written, for the satisfaction of the author's conscience, would it not be possible to omit it from the English edition of the book, and insert it only in that prepared for the Indian market? Thus both countries would be pleased. And, finally, may we beg most earnestly that the Nana Sahib may not again be introduced mingling in English society previous to the revolt? We are quite prepared by this time to admit that he did mingle in it, and that, while shining equally as host and guest, he exchanged disparaging and revengful remarks under his breath at every opportunity with Azim-Ullah Khan.

All these things will be taken as read in the ideal Mutiny novel, which will turn from trivialities to deal with the great facts of which we can never hear too much. We would not imply that it should be of so satisfying a character that no one who reads it will ever wish to read a book on the subject again; but that it should stand to the epoch of which it treats as "Westward Ho!" does to the age of Elizabeth, ever stimulating, ever refreshing. And to whom (although we have no desire to sow dissension between a noted father and a more noted son) should we look to write it but to the man on whom, more than on any other in this generation, the mantle of Charles Kingsley has fallen? When Mr. Rudyard Kipling's magnum opus appears, may it deal with the Mutiny, and may we be there to read it! He knows his India, he knows his British army, and-perhaps a greater achievement than either he knows his Anglo-Indian in his habit as he lives. Nor is this all, for no sort or condition of men is alien to him, and he can see the good points in good people, a much more difficult matter than seeing those of bad people. He can appreciate John Lawrence as well as John Nicholson, and sympathize-as who that remembers the description of the Highlanders calling upon their God in the watches of the night will deny-with Havelock and his Saints as well as with Hodson of Hodson's horse.

MR. BLAKELEY'S BOOMERANG.

As the good ship "Delaware" plowed through the uneasy waters of the Gulf she carried within her capacious bosom as happy a set of officers and men as could be found in any ship of the squadron. She was not one of the modern floating forts, where everything is given up to guns and machinery, but she was a ship in which solid comfort could be found. Her ample wardroom and berth-deck and the cabins of both the captain and admiral were large, and her state-rooms, for a manof-war, were in proportion to the general surroundings. Her complement in the wardroom was twenty; in the steerage, ten, including the midshipmen, and she carried a crew of about three hundred and fifty

men.

Admiral Hadley was a typical old-time sailor, making his last cruise before retirement, and doing what he could to leave pleasant memories of himself in the minds of his officers. Captain Barry was also a sea-dog whose greatest ambition seemed to be to have the smartest crew in the squadron in the matter of sending down top-gallant-yards at sundown; and when he was not ciphering out some scheme by which the time consumed in this operation could be reduced by two seconds, he contemplated the admiral taking his constitutional on the after part of the quarter-deck, and wondered how long a time would be left to him to wear the broad stripes and live in the after cabin, as the commander of a squadron.

Mr. Telver, the first lieutenant, had no time to think of anything but the ship, the watch, the quarter bills, and holystoning decks.

Admiral Hadley was a widower, with one son and one daughter. The son was secretary to his father and lived with him in the after cabin, where there were ample accommodations for three persons, if necessary. Dick Hadley was a general favorite with the officers, and spent the most of his time in the wardroom, where, of course, he was always welcome, not only on his own account, but from the fact that he was the son of the admiral.

The "Delaware" was the flag-ship on the West India station, and had just returned to her cruising ground from a trip to the north, where she had undergone refitting and repairs to her machinery. When the admiral was in Washington, pending refitting, his daughter had

begged him to take her with him on his return to the ship. The young lady, having no mother, had been living in Washington with her aunt. The admiral was very fond of her, but, without the permission of the Department, he was not at liberty to take her with him on the ship for an extended stay. Miss Maggie, however, had made up her mind that she was going, and to her father's request she added the influence of other persons whose wishes it was well to consider. The result was, of course, that the desired permission was granted, and when the admiral again joined the ship, prior to her departure for southern waters, he brought with him Miss Maggie, equipped for a ten months' cruise. The young lady was about nineteen years old and very pretty, and in a week she had all the officers very fairly under control. She had soft blue eyes which matched perfectly her light-brown hair, and she knew how to use those eyes. Her figure was somewhat above the ordinary height and well proportioned, and she stepped like a racer. We soon discovered that what Miss Maggie said was law, in the after cabin, and so, of course, we all cultivated the law-maker.

The two handsomest fellows in the mess were lieutenants Blakeley and Harold. Blakeley was the senior and was generally liked by his messmates, though he was of a somewhat retiring disposition and spent the most of his spare time with his books. He was tall and always neat and clean in his dress, spoke three languages, and spoke well in all of them. Harold was his opposite in disposition and was sunshine always. He was the first to prepare the dancing lists; to arrange the boat-races and pull the stroke-oar himself, and he never looked at a book if he could help it, though he was a good sailor and a good officer. He was a favorite with both officers and men, and believed in making the most of every opportunity for a good time, but in an innocent way. As he was only twenty-four years old, and this was his first cruise as a lieutenant, he may be excused.

Now, given the proposition,-two handsome young men and one pretty girl, thrown constantly in each other's society, by night and by day, what is the result? There is but one answer, and there has been but one answer since the beginning of time,-Trouble.

In the mess, for three months after we sailed, we could not definitely make up our minds which was the favored one, Blakeley or Harold. Indeed, at one time we almost reached the conclusion that when the crisis came, as come it must, both of them would go by the board. We used to make bets quietly among ourselves as to the number of smiles each would get on the following day, but as this character of bet gradually assumed the proportions of plunging, we came to confine our bets to the question as to which of the two (Blakeley or Harold) would get the greatest number, during any given twentyfour hours. Part of the duty of the officer of the deck for the time being was to note, during his watch, the smiles bestowed and keep

tally of them, so that the bets as laid could be properly decided. We never intimated to either Blakeley or Harold what we were doing, though they must have known that something was going on. In their respective mental conditions, however, it made no difference to them, and they made no inquiries.

In the inception of the affair the relations between the two men had not been seriously disturbed, but as time went on and the matter assumed such shape as to unquestionably show that the field was open to these two only, and that one or the other must go down, the men began to draw apart, and when it was pretty well settled that Harold was the favored one, they spoke to each other only when their official duties compelled them to do so. In the mess we all regretted this state of affairs, but there was no help for it.

On the evening of December 10, 187-, the " Delaware" was bowling along under easy sail off the southern coast of Jamaica, and Blakeley and Dr. Burney, the fleet surgeon, were sitting forward on the gundeck smoking their after-dinner pipes. "Doctor," said Blakeley, "do you believe in mesmerism?"

"What do you mean by believing in it?" said the doctor.

"I mean do you really think it possible that one man can so influence another as to make him do as he is directed, either without being conscious of his actions or against his will ?"

"Well," replied the doctor, "I have heard of such cases, and some of them were pretty well authenticated. I have had but little personal experience, and I would not like, therefore, to give a positive opinion. There is, however, no doubt in my mind that some persons are very susceptible to the influence of others, but whether that susceptibility is what is called mesmerism or hypnotism, or is attributable to some other cause, I do not pretend to say. Indeed, the only illustration I ever saw was in the case of a young fellow who was a student at college with me. He was particularly susceptible, and one of the professors could put him to sleep merely by waving his handkerchief in front of his face. I never knew him to be able to make the subject do anything in particular, nor do I know that he ever tried. It is possible, however, that if the experiment had been carried further, it might have resulted as you suggest."

"Was this young man of whom you speak aware, at the time the professor commenced operations, of what his purpose was?"

"Oh, yes," answered the doctor. "The first experiment was tried with the full acquiescence of the subject; but, in the end, his volition had nothing to do with it, as the professor could do the trick without consulting him at all, and, indeed, once succeeded in putting him to sleep against his will."

"Well, doctor, did the subject know, when he regained consciousness, after the experiment, that he had been under the influence ?"