"THE STORY OF AB", A TALE OF THE TIME OF THE CAVE MEN; BY STANLEY WATERLOO, AUTHOR OF "A MAN AND A WOMAN", "AN ODD SITUATION", ETC. THIS Published by Way & Williams, Chicago, 1897. HIS is a noteworthy novel-the first attempt, I believe, to portray in the form of a story the life of our Palaeozoic ancestors. And, by the way, it is surprising what an interesting people they appear as the author places them before us in their habit as they lived. First on the list of historical novels arranged in chronological order must STANLEY WATERLOO. come this story of prehistoric times. No date can be assigned to it. The author has chosen that period which, for one group of men, marks the transition from the Palaeolithic to the Neolithic age. The scene of action is the valley of the Thames, the cradle of that composite which is the most intelligent and masterful in history and which, united, might easily dominate the world. In a story that is interesting throughout and at times exciting, Mr. Waterloo shows how the transition from the Palaeolithic to the Neolithic periods (between which he holds there was no gap), was made naturally, just as we have seen the change from horsepower to steam-power and later to electricity. Let not such terms as Palaeolithic and Neolithic frighten any one. The story is not sacrificed to instruction in archæology or theories of evolution; but this period in the life history of our planet and in the development of the human race is presented more vividly than it could be in a scientific work. The author has made a thorough and careful study of the results of Palaeontological investigations; and his descriptions of the fauna and flora of the region, as well as the geographical setting of the story, may be relied on as being in accordance with the latest knowledge that has been dug out of the rocks and mountains and kitchen-middens. But this is only the mise-en-scene for a rather exciting drama, in which the "collisions," as our philosophical commentators have it, are of the simplest, most elemental character. The modern stage seeks to add interest to its performances by introducing dogs and horses and elephants. Here the four-footed actors play important parts and include such gigantic star performers as the Mammoth, the Palaeolithic Rhinoceros, the Cave Bear, the Sea Serpent and, most frightful of all, the man-devouring Cave Tiger, with a chorus of huge wolves and hyenas and other of the minor monsters of the time. With all these ravening possibilities, it may be supposed the story reeks with blood from one end to the other. But it does not. It is a healthy, breezy, outdoor narrative, with many quiet touches presenting the softer, the domestic, side of human life, which even then had begun to show itself. It will prove readable to persons who take it up with different purposes in view. To the knowledge of those who have read more or less about prehistoric conditions it will give concreteness and definiteness: it will enable them to picture in their imaginations the life of our remote ancestors and to see take place before their mind's eye the first step in the genesis of the social state. Those who read simply for amusement will find in the book an absorbing story, full of action, with occasional blood-curdling adventure-all within the bounds of probability and so told as to leave no doubt of its reality. In short, it has a place in both the scientific and the fiction department of a public library. The blasé novel reader who, like the children, judges the probable interest of a story by the short paragraphs and abundant quotation marks, will, at first glance, throw this book down. But it could not be true to the period if it were full of lively talk. Man of the stone age did not cultivate the art of conversation, and repartee was not his strong point, while of humor he had only a dawning conception. His was a life of constant action and adventure; and in this book it is faithfully and vividly portayed. The author indulges in occasional apposite reflections and tells his story with a measure of that simplicity and Defoelike circumstantiality that constituted the special charm of his last book, "An Odd Situation". In both books he has shown that great contrasts in social conditions are not necessary to the construction of an interesting story; and in both he has chosen theme, situation and episodes that are fresh and original. It remains only to add that "The Story of Ab" appears in a handsome dress. Paper and type and general make-up are a credit to the publishers. The book will prove of special interest to many St. Louis readers who knew Mr. Waterloo during the time he was connected with our local press. F. M. CRUNden. THE POETRY OF GEORGE MEREDITH. Mr. Meredith is not one of the singers who simply say the most heart-easing things, who lead us to their favorite haunts by wood and stream and discourse music to us that we may drink oblivion of care and pass into a many-colored dream of flitting shadows. And if he fall short as a poet, it is that his poetry is too strenuous to be altogether peaceful. Yet this is not the day nor the hour to complain of poetry in which the intellectual element outbalances the sensuous; rather we owe to poetry of which this is true a debt of gratitude. But we should wrong Mr. Meredith by saying that his is always the music from an iron string. That he is master of a manner besides this of rugged force is easily demonstrable. The critic will need to search diligently through English poetry to discover a poem of more blithe and gracious sweetness, more radiant with the dew and sunshine of morning, with the captivating joyance of youth, than "Love in the Valley." The measure—and it may be noted that in metres Mr. Meredith greatly and successfully dares-the measure itself dances to the tripping pulses of the young blood.--From the Church Quarterly. STANZAS FROM "LOVE IN THE VALLEY." Shy as the squirrel and wayward as the swallow, Hard, but the glory of the winning were she won! Often she thinks were this wild thing wedded, More love should I have and much less care. I should miss but one for the many boys and girls Heartless she is as the shadow in the meadows Flying to the hills on a blue and breezy noon. Earth to her is young as the slip of the new moon Even as in a dance; and her smile can heal no less: Stepping down the hill with her fair companions, Whispered the world was; morning light is she. Happy, happy time, when the white star hovers Low over dim fields fresh with bloomy dew, Glowing, and with crimson, ong cloud swells. Strange her eyes; her cheeks are cold as cold sea-shells. I am old and blind ON HIS OWN BLINDNESS. Men point at me as smitten by God's frown, Afflicted and deserted of my kind, Yet I am not cast down. "Nothing would have induced me to face this meeting had the cause been less dear to me, and had I had less love and admiration for Robert Louis Stevenson, who was loved far more than any other writer of his time. You have read in novels that when a man is really in love he hates to have his lady make an idol and worship it; he wants her to know him as he really is; he tells her all there is to be told against himself, what his failings are, and says to her that now she cannot love him so much Then he turns upon her in a passion whe admits that she does not. That is how v gard Louis Stevenson. We know he had his imperfections, but we are all willing to turn re Shapes of resplendent beauty round me throng; From angel lips I seem to hear the flow Öf soft and holy song. It is nothing now, Give me now my lyre; I feel the stirrings of a gift divine: -JOHN MILTON. ourselves into Alan Brecks and become braw fighters' [for his sake]. Stevenson's appeal was to young men, and by young men I think he will be best known and longest remembered. There is a body of young men who take Stevenson as their model, who look up to him as their example. I mean the younger writers of to-day of all classes, not merely the Romanticists, the Realists, the Idealists, the Pessimists as they are called. These all see with different eyes, but they are all agreed that Stevenson beyond all other writers of his time is the man who showed them how to put their houses in order before they began to write, and in what spirit they should write, and with what aim and with what clean tools, with what necessity of toil. They knew from him that however poor their books might be they were not disgraced if they had done their best, and however popular they might be, if they were not written with some of his aims they were only cumberers of the ground. Stevenson is dead, but he still carries our flag, and because of him the most unworthy among us are a little more worthy, and the meanest of us are a little less mean."Bookman. THE Public Library Magazine. PUBLISHED MONTHLY. 10c per number. $1.00 per annum, in advance. FRED'K M. CRUNDEN, Librarian, Editor. HELEN TUTT, Associate Editor. A. B. BENESCH, Business Manager. Vol. IV. NOVEMBER, 1897. No. 8. A Library implies an act of faith The announcement of the death of Justin Winsor will be a surprise and a shock to his fellow-travelers, who so recently listened to the ponderous voice that reached the remotest corners of the largest halls and, taken with his apparently rugged physique, seemed to promise many more years of vigor and usefulness. Mr. Winsor was born in Boston, Jan. 2d, 1831. To him American librarianship owes a great debt; and American scholarship also must acknowledge its indebtedness to his historical research. He combined, in a rare degree, scholarship and executive ability; and for both these qualities he found ample field during his administration as Superintendent of the Boston Public Library from 1868 to 1877. He was then the recognized head of the library profession in the United States and filled the office of President of the American Library Association from its organization in 1876 to 1886. He became Librarian of Harvard University in 1877, and during the last twenty years he has led the life of a scholar, devoting himself to the study of American history. His chief works are, "A narrative and critical history of America," "The Mississippi Basin; the struggles in America between England and France, 16971763," "Christopher Columbus" and "The memorial history of Boston." While we are thankful that we were not still occupying the Polytechnic building, which was recently destroyed by fire, with a great loss to the Wabash Railroad, whose offices were in the stories completely demolished, still this realization of a danger often threatened while the Library was in the Chestnut street building, makes us see afresh at what a risk a valuable collection of books is stored in the upper floors of a building devoted to other purposes and not under the control of the Library administration. A fire to us would mean not only the loss of our records, as in the case of the Wabash Railroad, but also of our stock and principal. Many of the books could never be replaced, and it would require many years' appropriations of taxes to fill the places of those to be obtained in the market. When shall we have a building suited to our needs, adapted to our use and safe for our books? |