Of Poor Folk, which was his first tale, written at the age of twenty-three, and first put into English by Miss Lena Milman in 1894, with an introduction by George Moore who says that it challenges comparison with Turgenieff - the Vicomte de Vogüé says: "Into this tender production Dostoyevsky has poured his own nature, all his sensibility, his longing for sympathy and devotion, his bitter conception of life, his savage, pitiable pride;" and speaking of the enthusiasm. with which the manuscript was first read by the author's friends, the Chicago Dial says that " it was fairly justified by the work." When Bienski, the first and most feared of Russian critics, had read the manuscript of Poor Folk, he said to the author: "Do you understand, young man, the truth of what you have written?" And the young man" said afterward that that was the happiest moment of his life.

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POOR FOLK.

One evening we were together when Gregorowitsch said to me: Give me your manuscript,"— which, by the way, he had never read,—" Nekrassow thinks of publishing an annual I will show it to him." I took it to Nekrassow myself, but I was so agitated and confused that after shaking hands and exchanging a few words, I hurried back. The same evening I went to see a friend and we sat for hours talking over Gogol's Dead Souls, and reading our favorite passages for, I suppose, the hundredth time. It was four o'clock when I reached home; a clear frosty night as light as day, a real St. Petersburg night. Suddenly I heard the bell pulled. On my opening the door Nekrassow and Gregorowitsch rushed at me, both in an indescribable state of excitement. It appeared that early in the evening they had begun reading my tale. "Read ten pages," Nekrassow said; "that will be enough." But when they had finished them they decided to read just ten more; and so they passed

the whole night, one relieving the other when he was tired, like sentinels at a post. When they came to the scene of the student's death, Nekrassow more than once broke down and, suddenly striking the table, exclaimed: "This is genius." At last the reading came to an end, and they agreed at once to go to my rooms. What does it matter if he is asleep," cried Nekrassow, "this is better than any sleep."

MÁKAR'S LODGING.

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Into what a dirty hole I have fallen, Varvara Alexeievna; but still I have a roof over my head. My former lodging was like a little nest, as you know, so quiet that I could hear the beat of a fly's wing as it passed me by. Here, on the contrary, there are noises of shouting, of quarrelling. You have no idea what it is like. Imagine, then, a long passage, dark and dirty. On the right hand, a blank wall; on the left, nothing but doors, doors, like the rooms to which they belong, all in a row. Every room is let to one, two, or three tenants. You cannot expect order; it is a very Noah's ark. But there are some quite nice people, there are even a few learned ones; one gentleman (he is a professor of literature) is very cultured, and speaks of Homer and Brambeus, and other authors; they say he is a very clever man. Then there are two officers, who play cards all day; a sailor, who has been first mate, and an English tutor. Wait a little while, and in my next I will amuse you by describing them humorously in full detail. Our landlady is a dirty little old woman, who keeps her dressing-gown and slippers on all day, and is always scolding Theresa. live in the kitchen, or rather (to be quite exact) in a little room just off the kitchen. I must say our kitchen is a nice one, cheerful and clean. Mine is a humble little room enough, but let me explain myself more fully: the kitchen is large, with three windows a partition which runs across it encloses a sumptuous apartment for me; my arrangements are, of course, very simple, but they are also convenient. I have a window, and, as I said before, everything is comfortable. Such is my abode.

And are you not thinking to yourself that there is something very odd about this, about my living so near the kitchen, why should I? But indeed I live quite to myself behind the partition, I keep away from every one, and get on very well in a quiet way. I have a bed, a table, a chest of drawers, a couple of chairs, and some sort of curtains. Of course there are better lodgings, perhaps much better ones, and yet I have chosen this to suit my own convenience: do you think there is no other reason? I will tell you another: your window is just opposite mine. I see you pass, and then all things seem brighter for poor me, and cheaper. In this house the rent of the cheapest room with board is thirty-five roubles. I could not afford so much. My lodging costs me seven roubles, and my board five silver roubles, twenty-four and a half roubles altogether, and hitherto I have paid thirty, although I denied myself many little luxuries. I did not always have tea, and now I can afford myself both tea and sugar. One is ashamed of not drinking tea, somehow; here most of the lodgers are well-to-do, so one is ashamed of not doing the same as they. One drinks it for the sake of the opinion of others, for appearance sake, for position's sake, as it were; but I care very little for such things. I have few fancies. So you see there is not much left for pocket-money, of which every one needs a little for boots and clothes. I spend all my salary; but I do not murmur, and am quite content. I have had sufficient for some years now, and my earnings remain the

same.

YOUGLAS, AMANDA MINNIE, an American juvenile writer and novelist; born at New York, July 14, 1837. She removed to Newark, N. J., in 1853, where she took up a course of English literature and history with Rev. O. S. Stearns, an eminent Massachusetts scholar and divine. Born with a

gift for story-telling she had exercised it upon playmates, continuing stories evening after evening and later on entertaining friends in the same fashion, writing verses, and now and then a short story, while assisting in household duties. Her ambition was to enter Cooper Institute and study designing and engraving, but being disappointed for two successive years by serious illness in the family, by the advice of several literary friends, she turned her attention to literature, and, in the enforced quiet of the sick room, wrote out some of the stories that had taken vivid coloring in her mind and made pictures of themselves. Discussing them with a newspaper friend, In Trust was selected and published by Lee & Shepard in 1866. Its success decided her. Stephen Dane, a widely different story, followed in 1867. Claudia, curiously artistic and musical, in 1868. Sydnie Adriance, the first continued effort of girlhood, used as a serial, followed. Since then she has published a novel nearly every year, besides story and sketch writing.

A removal to one of the pretty suburbs gave her a flower and fruit garden, and an interest that has been followed at intervals since. Many of these experiences have been embodied in A Modern Adam and Eve in a Garden. Her novels comprehend a considerable range, though largely family stories. Stephen Dane; A Woman's Inheritance; Hope Mills; and Out of the Wreck, take up some of the larger problems of life, and have a business aspect. Hope Mills is a transcript of the hard times from 1873 to 1878. Among the juveniles are: The Kathie Books; Santa Claus Land; The Sherburne House Series; and A Little Girl in Old Newark. Larry, a story of a New York waif sent West by the Children's Aid Society, took the first

prize offered by the Youth's Companion in 1892 over one thousand competitors. Her later books include A Question of Silence (1901); Helen Grant's Friends (1903); and Honor Sherburne (1904). Miss Douglas has been known to write rapidly for weeks without intermission, yet keeping up an interest in the daily round, and disproving the old objection to literary women, that they can do nothing else. Few women excel her in housekeeping, fancy work, and those charming social qualities which are so essentially feminine and are often found wanting in the "new woman."

RECOVERING FROM THE ACCIDENT.

The nurse met Lawrence Rivington with more than usual interest. His sweet, trusty face, shaped into graver lines than six months before, attracted the physicians as well. He haunted the hospital for any stray word; and they had come to hope for his sake, though their lives were made up of hopes and uncertainties, and they occasionally found the sorrows of others heavy burdens to bear.

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One morning she said in her well-trained tone of cheerfulness- She has spoken coherently, and talked on new subjects. We are all waiting to see the effect of your interview. Talk to her in the most ordinary manner. Answer her questions as if all this had occurred only yesterday. Lead her mind back to the moment of the accident."

Larry entered the ward, a private one it was; but it seemed as if his limbs would fail him before he reached the side of the bed. An awful instant it appeared to him, and his whole soul went up in a great wordless cry that only God could hear. He noted the lines that left their impression on the clear face, and some silver threads which had lately appeared in her wavy brown hair. The roundness had gone a little out of her chin,