student of to-day? It must be evident to all that so long as speculation continues the equitable (not equal) distribution of wealth cannot be realized, the equilibrium of society cannot be maintained, the greatest evils of poverty cannot be wholly done away. Here is a centripetal force of the first magnitude ever working towards the centralization of wealth, and running counter to the fundamental principles of social economy. So long as the force continues in operation we may expect the results to continue. If we would remove the results, we must first try to remove the cause which produces them. It is a time therefore when every true economist should declare plainly against speculation. The line should be carefully drawn between speculative and legitimate trade, and the former should be ruled out of respectable business circles.

GEORGE H. HUBBARD.

ARTICLE II.-MISS FRANCES MERLEY.

Miss Frances Merley. A Novel. By JOHN ELLIOT CURRAN. Cupples & Hurd, Boston. 1888.

Ir is, perhaps, futile to expect an agreement among writers of fiction as to the best type of a novel. The self-styled realists are vociferous in asserting their views. Theirs is the highest art, theirs is the ideal method. As an offset to these pretensions we have the sensational writers working on with amazing signs of life, and we see the stories of startling incident eagerly demanded. Then too we find that the weird and mystical story still possesses sufficient power to stir the modern practical imagination.

It is always interesting when a new work of fiction appears to see where the writer stands. What readers will he attract? With what class of work will he throw his influence? Occasionally as one turns the leaves of a new story, a book is found that does not belong to any conventional class. Such a book is "The Midge," by Mr. Bunner, and such a book is "Miss Frances Merley" now before us.

It evidently is not the belief of the author of this latter story that,

"The truest art is to leave nothing out
Likely to prove offensive."-

He does not, after the manner of the realists, feel constrained to choose for illustration only that which is mean and repulsive in human nature. Nor does he seek for sensational incidents or supernatural phenomenon. He undertakes the more difficult task of making a picture true to life, giving both light and shadow. And the natural simplicity of his work is most striking. The uneventful life of a country town is described in a sympathetic manner, and the villagers one meets there are pleasingly human. There is indeed about the book an atmosphere of reality which awakens and finally absorbs the attention of the reader until the end is reached, and, thus, it has

the first qualification of a novel; it is interesting. The most casual reader will admit that he has found genuine entertain

ment.

But there are many reasons why this story will find its way to a deserved success. It is excellent as a literary work. The mind of the reader is kept constantly on the alert, and in a gratified state by the thoughtfulness, the suggestiveness, and the gracefulness of the writing—and this is preeminently true of the first half of the book. The descriptions of simple scenes are extremely pleasing, and the unconventional way in which the author states his background of facts is always attractive. As for example, at the beginning of a chapter describing a day of skating he says:

"In the latitude of Marshton it was not often that skating was to be had on Thanksgiving Day. I know a climate, farther north, where we boys used to be sure of both ice and snow-fall before that first holiday of the cold season; and the only question was whether it was the ice or the snow that was to get the upper hand and give us our out-of-door festivity. But at Marshton Thanksgiving was usually a cheerless day, when the "going" was bad, and people cared little to be out of doors. This year, however, there had been sharp frost for two or three days. At night the ground was covered with the frost gems that mimicked the starlit sky; and in the mornings the mist hung over the valleys, and the herbage was a silver-gray, the fields over. At noon the sun thawed the edges of the stiff mud ridges in the roads; but at sundown they hardened again, and the frost sank deeper day by day in the ground; and what was more to the point, by Thanksgiving morning, there was skating on the mill-pond. All the boys in town knew that before breakfast."

The

The descriptions of nature are graceful and accurate. writer speaks of the woods as they appear to one who frequents and loves them, and of winter scenes as one who revels in them. What could be truer to life than this picture?

"On either side of the field itself only the top rails of the fences and the heads of the posts showed above the snow; and here and there a drift had surmounted the whole structure and buried it from sight. In other spots the drifted snow, curving and curling about the fences, had been cut by the wind and hollowed into the graceful form of a ploughshare. Beyond the house the highway was so much depressed as to be invisible from where they stood; but off to the left there clustered the village, with an occasional moving figure or team to be seen, black against the white street. Beyond the highway and beyond the village

the fenced fields rose again and retreated, and still retreated,-ever narrowing up the distant slope, with their spots of farmhouses and outbuildings and haystacks,-up to still higher ground where the woods began and where the tree-tops formed at last the minutely serrated horizon. All this opposite hillside seemed to be asleep for the winter, except for the little wisps of smoke that floated off from a chimney or two and lazily hung in the air,-interposing patches of bluish film against the landscape. Scarcely a sound was heard. Just at hand there was deep stillness; only from the village could be faintly heard the occasional shout of a boy at play, or the momentary jingle of a sleigh-bell."

There are indoor scenes no less pleasing. Frances and her uncle, of whom we shall hear further, are seated in his library, where they have come for a serious talk, and we read:

"They both sat in silence for some time. Finally, as a couple of logs broke with a crash, and a shower of sparks shot up, and a fresh blaze brightened the room and outshone the lamp, so that the shadows of the furniture went a-jigging on the wall, the mantel-piece danced crazily on the ceiling, the brasses of the fender sparkled, and even the gilt of the book-bindings in the bookcases became bright,-then Luther turned to his niece."

These are but haphazard instances of what any reader will constantly come upon. And the expectation that they are before him adds much zest to the reading.

Now and then, too, we meet some humorous description which is so simple and natural that it touches a responsive chord in the reader's experience. Witness this vision of the silence at Mrs. Wormsley's table:

“Mrs. Wormsley herself was not a conversationalist. She, a somewhat shrivelled and unprepossessing woman, presided at her table with a watchful eye, which, secure behind her spectacles (through which it was impossible to trace the movement of her optics without a very rude and long-continued gaze), only observed from day to day, with precision, how much it took to satisfy her boarders' appetites; being enabled thus to calculate her daily marketing to a nicety. There was money in that; and that was what Mrs. Wormsley kept boarders for;-at least, it was a sin to waste money. Everybody at her table speedily became impressed with that fact; and the seriousness of it, and the consciousness that they were ever being gauged as to their appetites seemed to keep them sombre and dull, as if they were in a treadmill and under a hard surveillance."

And this picture of Newcomb :

"Then there was Newcomb, who was the agent at the railroad station. What Newcomb did not know about the coming and going of the people of Marshton-where they went, why they went, and when they were coming back-was not worth knowing. He acquired some insight into their affairs, also, by the careful consideration of such telegrams as he received and sent for them. But Newcomb was not talkative. He kept his mouth shut, and followed the ways of the Marshton folk with his eyes and ears only. Fortunately, he had no wife to wring these secrets from his bosom and start them in circulation through the town; else the whole population might have been set by the ears. Only on infrequent occasions, when, being in company, he heard assertions which were so far wide of the truth as to seem to him an affront to his special knowledge, would this reticent man suddenly explode and indignantly deny the statement, abuse the astonished gossip for uttering such stuff, and then proceed to state the matter as he knew it, -briefly, authoritatively and finally; so that, whether he was doubted or not, he was never directly contradicted."

While a captious critic may discover here and there slight faults in the language and style of Miss Frances Merley; and may contend that, throughout, there is not the same evenness of writing, we believe it is not too much to say that the grace of the writing will secure for the book an individual place among works of real literary merit. This style can only be appreciated by a reading of the story, for it eludes analysis. Its individuality is largely in the phraseology, in the absence of bluntness, and in the pleasing fancifulness with which unimportant events of ordinary life are described.

But the strength of the book does not consist in its gracefulness of style. The author has keen insight into character. The skill with which he discloses the real affection underlying manly undemonstrativeness is remarkable. His love scenes are tender and true, and are praiseworthy for their freedom from sentimentalism and worse faults. And the scenes calling for pathos and power are outlined with much dignity. There is one scene in particular which is admirable. Frances' husband, Archie Hiller, is lying dead. Their "little world of wedded life, with all its pleasures and hopes and all its gradually discovered defects, was past." Her uncle had bitterly opposed her marriage, and since its occurrence had been estranged from her. Archie whom he had disliked had been unsuccessful.