separating the masculine book from the feminine; but to the free-minded follower of James the proposition might have some significance. It is conceivable that behind a protective nom de plume there may lurk characteristic tendencies which betray the man or woman. Despite his "delicacy of feeling or her "virile strength," there are loopholes through which essentially masculine or feminine qualities assert themselves, "Lilian Leslie Lamb" to the contrary.

Henry James, whose novels are an entertaining complement to his brother's theories, has a feminine cast to his mind which enables him to portray that intricate creation, the feminine intellect, with admirable exactness. But he betrays his masculine personality by his attitude: it is that of the keen-sighted but flippant observer. He may fully appreciate the qualities of the woman he portrays, but there is a reserve corner in his mind which jeers. Hence his most conscientious manner lacks sympathy. There is the same lurking mockery in Meredith's attitude. Meredith appreciates and respects the duplex character of the feminine mind, as no other masculine writer except Shakespeare has done. Diana of the Crossways is a glorious woman, but she makes ignominious mistakes. Why? Because she is a woman, and is therefore unable to harmonize her self of feeling and intuition with her intellect. Shakespeare transcends the distinctions of sex as he does all other limitations. Rosalind is a perfect example of the woman of strong feeling and intellect kept in stable equilibrium by an equally strong will, and that in the face of her experimental spirit. But Cleopatra overindulges to an infinitesimal degree her delight in torturing her lover. Her experimental instinct sweeps her beyond the limits set by reason. Antony believes in her pretext of treachery, and the splendid game is lost. These three are the elect, who see the possibilities of harmony in feminine nature. To other men who have written of woman she is incomplete, one-sided.

Hardy's woman is an elemental being who acts on impulse in response to the stress of circumstance or environment. Thackeray and his following create women who are either commonplace saints or entertaining fiends. Ethel Newcome is the single notable exception. She has many failings, and she is moreover a good woman and not commonplace. But Thackeray need not have emphasized her silliness. Kipling, latest and most intol

erant of this group, gives a case in point of the entertaining fiend in Mrs. Haukesbee, queen of Simla revelings. She is the direct but more complex descendant of Becky Sharp and Beatrix Castlewood.

Kipling brings us to men who know men. Here again Shakespeare is incommensurable with other creators; for he makes every conceivable type of man who is great enough to be humbled by his recognition of the force of fate, or to meet his destruction nobly when he opposes it. Every other writer must content himself with creating one or two masterpieces. Valjean, Athos, Peter Ibbetson, Sidney Carton, are all men's men, examples of that nature compounded of firmness, tenderness, and honor, which a woman may love and reverence, or play havoc with, but never appreciate.

Jean

Occasionally a woman masters one or the other of the first two characteristics; but she invariably fails when she tampers with the third. Mary Cholmondeley fails accordingly in her characterization of Lord Newhaven. His final letter to his wife is not in keeping with his character. It is the deed of a woman in her most feminine and feline mood. Feminine writers are apt to weave too much complexity into masculine action. Themselves versed in the tortuous path of conflicting motives. and double meanings, they miss the splendid simplicity and directness of masculine thought. Consequently their creations. lack force, or that quality best expressed in the slang term "sand." The men of Mrs. Humphrey Ward and George Eliot owe their weakness to this source. In contrast to the subtle man, is the hero of Jane Austen and Charlotte Bronté. Rochester and Darcy are splendid brutes, a type more successful in its dealings with woman than either of the preceding types. They appeal to the primitive feminine instinct, and ride roughshod to the consummation of their desire where the finer nature would have hesitated and lost his throw.

The question of differentiation of novels on a sex basis resolves itself ultimately into the standpoint of honor taken by the novelist. The hero of "The Market Place" does many things which should trouble the soul of a high-minded woman. On the other hand, the actions of Maggie Tulliver are inconsequent and senseless. The two types present extremes which can not be viewed from the same standpoint. They have no common denominator; for they are intrinsically different, and

one is either foolish or preternaturally wicked in the presence of the other. It is by the application of this principle of difference that the masculine or feminine tone may be most often detected.

TIRZAH SNELL SMITH.

OMAR KHAYYAM

A gay and easy cynic penned these lines,
And lightly, with a certain daring charm,
Names as God's highest gift the ruddy vines.
His graceful insolence does not seem harm;
Instead, a banquet where one gladly dines.

On deaf ears falls the underlying strain,

Which sounds like distant echoes of a bell
That near some feast rings quivering notes of pain,
And tolls amid the music a soul's knell.
Unknown, untold his tragedy has lain.

VIRGINIA ELIZABETH MOORE.

LOVE

For me at last the solemn depths of mystery are stirred,
The waiting silence of my life is broken with a word.
The floods that in the æons past have gathered, passion-strong,
Sweep down the fragile barriers and bear my soul along.
Above a hushed but breathing calm, dream-voices call to me.
The spirit-love that Sappho sang beside the Grecian sea,
The pang of Dante's ecstasy and Petrarch's grief divine
Are risen from their buried hearts to fill the cup of mine.
O loves of vanished centuries, who come all rapture-white
To bend the shadows of your eyes above me in the night,
Our souls are one,-and from your lips I drink my glorious fate :
"To Love's high heritage of woe thee, too, we consecrate!"
EDITH DE BLOIS LASKEY.

IN THE TIME OF OTTO THE SECOND

It was in the autumn of 850. A hot, breathless quiet lay upon the Rhine valley in the province of Lower Lorraine. Not a weed stirred, not an insect buzzed. Great black and white. clouds were sweeping up the valley, threatening the cowed earth with their rain and lightening.

Two horsemen rode along the trail that wound in and out the western bank of the river. The chug, chug of the steps of the horses, their labored breathing, the slash of an urging whip, were the only sounds that broke the stillness. The men were of good presence and rode their horses with ease. The foremost rider was the leader of the small party. He was a middle-sized man, lithe, courtly, a little bent. His head was small but finely sculptured. His straight nose joined a pair of strong black eyebrows; mouth and eyes were surrounded by delicate markings. The face was framed with curly auburn hair and based on a thick beard, cut square and most carefully arranged. It was a noble face, perhaps made more refined by its pallor and the lines of suffering deepening in it with each passing moment. His dress also showed great care. His tunic and doublet were of brown velvet slashed with silk; his only weapon, a short sword, hung in a scabbard most beautifully chased. It certainly was not the dress for a man riding with but one companion along the Rhine. Nor was the man fit for such a journey. He swayed in his saddle with weariness.

Yet his eyes twinkled with merriment whenever he looked at his companion, a youth of about twenty years, whose broad, honest face expressed the utmost dismay. The afternoon was beginning to wane and not a hut or a living being was in sight; a storm was at hand. The boy glanced at his clothes, orange and peacock-blue, then at his weapons; they were Roman, more showy than useful. After a loud sigh from the youth, the lord turned in his saddle and regarded the boy's clothes with his head on one side.

"What color do you think they will be after the rain gets at them?" he asked, in an interested voice.

"I don't know. That was just what I was trying to think," was the doleful answer.

"I think we shall find shelter soon," said the elder man.

Just at the turn of the road they saw on a steep hill overlooking the river a rude castle and its outlying huts.

"May all the saints be praised!" cried the boy; "we shall just have time to reach shelter before the storm comes."

"Slowly, slowly, Hildebold. Let us find out first whose castle it is. A very dear enemy may live there, you know." Hildebold's face fell.

"Well, at least we can find out soon, for there is the gooseboy."

He rode briskly forward to question him. But if he hoped to hurry the lad he was disappointed. The boy turned an expressionless face toward him. Long, dirty white hair dropped over his dull, round eyes, and his mouth hung open as though his organ of hearing were situated in his throat. Even the dirty skins in which he was clothed seemed dropping from him. He received Hildebold's questions and the sword taps with which they were punctuated, without even blinking. Finally his eyes closed, his mouth half shut, and from somewhere within him a husky voice said: "Hardberd the Redhead."

"Why didn't you speak a little sooner?" impatiently asked Hildebold; and thrusting his sword in its sheath, he turned to his master with a questioning look. The wind was now blowing furiously.

"Hardberd, Hardberd the Redhead. He left court very suddenly. No, I have done nothing to him,-nor to his relatives, either," with a laugh. "I think we may go there safely."

So they turned their horses toward the castle, and gained the shelter of its courtyard just as the rain began to fall. There was no doubt that the name Rikulf of Münster was welcome to the castle's master. Hardberd was so pleased with the honor of Rikulf's visit that he himself came out to help the guest from his horse and lead him into the house. Rikulf was in sore need of help. He was so weak that Hildebold carried him to the couch that was prepared for him. A kindly, bustling old Frau held to his lips a cup of warm wine, which immediately put him to sleep.

In the meantime, in the hall into which Rikulf's bedroom opened, the supper table was being prepared. The house serv