pictures, than the way in which masters of fiction lay out their work; but this statistical outline is so well managed, the characters are so truly human beings, that although they do not kindle a burning interest, the novel is not an arid imitation of history, but a very natural and life-like chronicle.

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The more familiar the reader is with Germany, the more entertaining will he find this novel; it has not life enough to force itself upon those who have not a tolerably keen interest in that country; indeed, such will find it almost unreadable; and it demands a respectable knowledge of what has been going on in Germany during the last twenty-five, and especially during the last ten years, to be fully enjoyed. Like Auerbach's other stories, this lacks a great deal with respect to construction, a very pardonable offense, in view of the task the author has prescribed himself in undertaking to tell all the comings and goings of a large and complicated family. Almost all of the characters are well drawn; perhaps the least successful is Martella, the wild peasant girl, remote descendant of Mignon, who, with her apt tongue, bears a strong likeness to the heroines in children's stories who are befriended by fairies of influence. Her first introduction, as the betrothed of Ernst, is very promising, but she soon becomes oracular, and remains as untouched by civilization as she was before knowing anything about it. She is by far the most unnatural character in the book. Ernst is at first the most interesting, but he soon disappears from sight, for political reasons, for a long time (1866-1870), and the impression is marred. Of all the rest there is not much to be said; they take their places in the historical tableaux with equal success, and the rôle of every one is of sufficient importance to let us see a good deal of him. Heinrich Waldfried, whose journal forms the book, is well represented; we have all the calm of an old man who has been through a great deal, and seen a great many changes, but who has still an enthusiastic temperHis account of his wife's death

ament.

and his subsequent grief are very pathetic. Here, as elsewhere, Auerbach shows how keen is his eye, and how deep his sympathy.

This book, although truly a work of fiction, can hardly be called a novel. It is in part an outburst of exultation at the successes of Germany, and hence those who took the part of the French in the last great war are sure to have no pleasure in it. There will be few Germans, we fancy, who will not read it with a certain amount of satisfaction, but this, it is to be remembered, is to be carefully distinguished from the real enjoyment of literature. In fact, however, the book is written so much from the German point of view, patriotism so pervades it, that it is very difficult at present either to praise or to condemn it with regard to its literary merits alone. But aside from its political tendencies, which really have nothing to do in this case with its value as a novel, there is enough to satisfy those readers who are not repelled by their ignorance of what is described or their dislike of the German point of view. There is no complicated study of character, no wonderful turn of the plot to amaze any one whose habit it has been for a few years past to read the daily papers, but there is plenty of good description of German life, and much that is common to life in all quarters of the globe, which give a certain value to the book.

To our thinking Waldfried is the best of the long novels. It is infinitely more natural than either the Villa Eden, or On the Heights, but it can hardly be brought into fair comparison with them. That many should find it intolerably dull is not surprising, for many readers require for their entertainment more than a disconnected assemblage of incidents; others, however, will read it with some pleasure, not with the keen enjoyment one gets from the few masterpieces of fiction, but with the calm satisfaction one has in reading about matters that turn out as one would have them.

In fine, Auerbach may be said to be a man with a sharp eye for observing what is said and done, with a strong

they would seem to go far towards injuring his chances of lasting fame, though that is a matter that will settle itself without the aid of prophecy. Like many other writers he is at his best in his simplest work; the closer the view he gets of what he is describing, the deeper his pathos, the more agreeable his humor; he sometimes confuses himself by mysteries of his own making. If not one of the greatest novelists, he is an amiable and agreeable one. T. S. Perry.

Harriet Prescott Spofford.

"NASCITUR, non fit," is an expression that has been used once or twice already, with regard to poets and other geniuses, but I claim my rights as an inventor in first applying it to saints. Small saints, of course; not the noted ones of the earth. Such a one, for instance, as our Marty, a poor little yellow girl from the South; born of a hard mother, brought up by a stern master, harrowed by a tyrannical mistress, penniless, friendless, hopeless, utterly ignorant, yet turning into gold every trouble that touched her, by her own ineffable sweetness and patience.

Marty was not born ours. She "married on" a half-dozen years before the Proclamation, when she took our Ed for better, one ounce, and worse, one pound. Ed himself was the softest, gentlest, most chicken-hearted darky that ever lolled against the south side of a barn. He was a born musician, like half the boys on the Maryland West Shore, and could sing like a lark, whistle like a throstle, play on the banjo, the violin, and the accordion; he could rattle the bones and thumb the tambourine, could entice tunes out of a hollow reed, and even compel melody from a jew's-harp.

When he was about fifteen, cousin Mary Singleton's grandfather, the old General, chanced to come down on a visit, and took such a fancy to the boy that he persuaded father to let him carry him back to Annapolis as his own servant; and there Ed stayed for five years or more. According to an arrangement previously made for our people, Ed was to be free when he came of age; and when that time arrived he drifted back to the old home, though Annapolis held his heart and soul. His proximity to the Naval Academy had been a most beatific circumstance to Ed; the drill and parade fired his soul with a lofty ambition to go and do likewise, and for years after his return he was indefati

gable in putting the other boys through marvelous evolutions, and training them to the most rigid military salutes. The music of the band lifted him up into the seventh heaven; but pulling off the General's boots brought him down again, for the General was of a gouty habit, and immediate of speech.

In Annapolis, Ed formed a most devoted attachment to cousin Mary and her brother Clayton, who spent much of their time with their grandfather, especially to Mary. She was a conscientious little girl, and gave up her Sunday afternoons to teaching the servants. Several of them became fair readers and somewhat cloudy writers, Ed among the others, and he never forgot her kind

ness.

Here, too, Ed became acquainted with Marty; her sickly, irritable mistress had come up from the Old North State to be under the care of a certain physician, and finding herself improving, made her home there for several years. She died at last, however, and with somewhat tardy gratitude, on her dying bed she set Marty free. Affairs never made a prompter connection. For Ed, having gradually become the possessor of a gun, an ax, a scoop-net, a couple of eel-spears, and an insatiable thirst for liquor, as a comfortable provision for old age, patched up a small shed on the banks of Eel Creek, and brought Marty home.

Marty was a meek, patient, God-fearing little woman, full of tender care for others, and oblivious of herself. She was neat and industrious; so was Ed, when sober. She was cheerful as a sunbeam; so was Ed, both sober and drunk. She had a heavenly temper, and so had he. At least, as far as it was tested. How it would have been, had he tarried at home, borne the children, and kept the house, all in the very potsherds of poverty, while Marty genially engulfed the wages that should

have furnished food and clothing, can only be conjectured.

As it was, when he took his week's wages and rowed over to the store for molasses and bacon and a quarter of a pound of tea, and came back six hours later, delightfully loquacious, without any bacon, the jug half full of rum, and a spoonful of tea loose in his pocket, Marty only listened silently to his tipsy orations, helped him to bed when he could no longer stand, and then went down on her knees, and offered her humble prayer for help, while he slept the senseless sleep of the swine. Whatever Ed left in the jug was poured out on the grass, and the last drop carefully washed away, lest the mere breath of the tempter might set him crazy again. Her mild remonstrance the next day was always met by a penitent confession of sin. Ed was drunk at least one week out of three, from the day Marty married him, straight on for six years, and was regularly remorseful after each fall from grace. He always said it was a mortal shame; that Marty was the best girl a man ever had, and Sammy the cutest young one; that he was going to quit drinking and join the church, as true as he lived and breathed and hoped to die the next minute; and Marty implicitly believed him with the matchless faith of a child. She forgave him until seventy times seven, and then went on forgiving as before. In Ed's mind, the rotation of crops was rapid; one week he sowed his wild oats and reaped them; the next, he brought forth good fruits; the third, the land lay fallow, and the fourth, was in prime condition for the wild oats again.

When Marty was clever enough to get his wages as soon as he was paid, she spent them in her own frugal way, and kept everything comfortable. But as time went on and the fearful bonds closed in tighter and stronger about the poor creature, he would steal away to the store on pay-night without going home; and then, through shame or through reluctance to witness Marty's silent woe, hide somewhere for days till his supplies were exhausted, and

come slinking home dim-eyed, shaken, sorrowful, and sure he should never drink again.

Marty came tapping at the mistress's door one April morning, that wearied mistress, whose ear was always open to the cry of her people, even when her hands were full and her heart was heavy.

"Come in, Marty," was the ready response to the gentle knock.

The door opened and Marty's smiling face shone in.

"Mornin', mistes; reckon mistes can see through the walls."

"Not quite, Marty, but I know your knock."

"Yas 'm. Mis' Calvert 's markin' things, an't she? Oh me, how bitiful they be, spread out here in the sunshine! Make me think of the robes of glory, they 's so blindin' bright!”

And Marty went down on her knees among the piles of snowy linen, and touched them here and there caressingly.

"Marsa well, Mis' Calvert?" "Very well, Marty; how's the baby?'

me

"Yas 'm," continued Marty, "that's it. Got gwine ag'in. Promised Friday he 'd never touch another drop, and airly Sunday he was off."

"I wonder that you can bear it as you do, Marty; Ed is drunk half the time."

"Yas 'm. Reckon 't is about that. Kind o' tryin' in the long run. Sort o' s'cumvents a critter. Jes' think 're you gwine to spar' a dollar or two fer an ap'on or a pair o' shoes, and it's all

gone. But Ed's a dretful pleasant boy, Mis' Calvert knows," she went on soothingly, as if to soften mother's disapproval. "I'count Ed as one o' my chiefest marcies; an't a speck like me, with my dretful, masterful temper; he's mortal pleasant, Ed is. But I came up to take a little counsel with Mis' Calvert. I ben a-plottin' and a-plannin' these three days and nights. I must contrive to airn a little somethin' myself, or I dunno what we will come to."

"It is a perfect shame," said mother; "have you ever talked to him as decidedly as you ought to about this?"

"Dunno," said Marty; "I an't much of a hand to jaw, but ef Mis' Calvert says so, I'll do it. Think I ought to try to jaw him a little?"

The question was asked with such tremulous eagerness for a negative that mother laughed and said, "No, I fancy words are useless. So tell me your plans, Marty."

"I'm contrivin' and cunjurin' fust off, to get some shingles. Our roof's like a sieve; rain drops through right lively. And then I want some shoes for the chillen agin winter. I an't fer mutterin', with all my marcies; I could n't be so onthankful. Summer 's comin' now, and we 'll do fust rate. But it 'pears like I must git somethin' ahead before frost comes. Reckoned mebbe Mis' Calvert would let me wash and iron, this summer, or help Aunt Dolly in the kitchen. Some folks says I'm a fust fambly cooker, and I ben trained to wash and iron."

"What could you do with the baby?" "If Mis' Calvert did n't mind, Ed would shoulder the cradle up in the mornin' - Ed's sech a pleasant boyand fetch it home ag'in at night, and Sammy 'd rock it. It's sech a marcy I got Sammy! Allers did reckon him a gret marcy! If Mis' Calvert did n't want the cradle in the back kitchen, it could stand in the shed."

"You may come, then, on Monday, and I'll find something for you to do." "Yas 'm. Thank ye, marm, thousand times. I 'spected 't would be jes' Mis' Calvert 's allers so clever to

So.

us. It's a dretful marcy to have sech a kind mistes. But I had another plan, too. I was gwine to buy a shote, and fat it, and kill it in the fall for pork. Buy a shote now for two dollars, and ye can sell him bumbye fer twelve, if he 's right fat. But I got to airn the money to buy him, and I was gwine to airn it by havin' a party. Mis' Calvert ever heerd of these new kind of parties they have over to Squaw Neck? Pay-parties, they call 'em."

No, Marty, I never have."

"Reel smart notion. Jed's Maria, she gin a pay-party and made enough to shingle her roof; and Ruth Jake, after Jake died, she fetched her'n up to five dollars over what it cost her to bury Jake. Folks pay twenty-five cents to come in, and gits their supper and dancin' fer that. Then one o' the fambly keeps a table in the corner with goodies on it, candy and store-nuts and root-beer, and them that wants 'em comes and buys. Mis' Calvert don't see no harm in it, eh, Mis' Calvert?"

"None at all," said mother, smiling in spite of herself at this novel combination of pleasure and profit.

“Yas 'm; glad of that, 'cause I reckoned it a reel marcy that somebody thought onto 'em. Reckon we'll have it in a couple of weeks, when the weather's warmer, and before the shotes git sca'ce. If Ed 'll keep good and stiddy till then, we 'll have bitiful one." And Marty rose to go.

"What a trial he is to you, Marty!

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No, marm, not so much as ye think. He's a dretful pleasant boy. I want to tell Mis' Calvert somethin'." And Marty came a little nearer and spoke very gently. "My old mistes warn't soft like Mis' Calvert; but then she was ailin'. But then Mis' Calvert's ailin' most of the time, too. But my old mistes had n't got religion, and Mis' Calvert has. My old mitty warn't pious a mite, and I was dead sot on gwine to meetin'. I s'pose I bothered her, fer she turned round on me right sudden one day, and says she, Go to meetin' to-night, ye hussy, and then hold yer tongue about it; if ye ask me ag'in fer a