NAPTALI HERZ IMBER
NAPTALI HERZ IMBER
Mr. Imber has largely given up writing Hebrew now, but lately he wrote a Hebrew poem comprising 200 closely printed pages. Hedid it, he said, to spite a man who said the poet had forgotten Hebrew because of his penchant for English.
Not long ago Mr. Imber wrote aLast Confessionin Hebrew. He was very sick in a St. Louis hospital with blood poisoning, and thought he was going to die. They wanted him to confess his sins. So he did it, in Hebrew verse, which he translated to me, evidently on the spur of the moment, thus:
When my day will comeTo wander in distress,Call the priest to my room,My sins to confess.The sins which I have committedWith deliberation,They will by the Lord be omitted,Who promised us salvation.The evils I have done,Not conscious of the action,Have passed away and goneWithout satisfaction.I see near me the green table:The gamblers play aloud,And I am sick and unableTo mix up with the crowd.There are still beautiful roses,With aroma blessed;There are still handsome maidens,Whose lips I have not pressed.This has me affected,I am full of remorse,That of late I have neglectedThe girl and the roses.
When my day will comeTo wander in distress,Call the priest to my room,My sins to confess.
When my day will come
To wander in distress,
Call the priest to my room,
My sins to confess.
The sins which I have committedWith deliberation,They will by the Lord be omitted,Who promised us salvation.
The sins which I have committed
With deliberation,
They will by the Lord be omitted,
Who promised us salvation.
The evils I have done,Not conscious of the action,Have passed away and goneWithout satisfaction.
The evils I have done,
Not conscious of the action,
Have passed away and gone
Without satisfaction.
I see near me the green table:The gamblers play aloud,And I am sick and unableTo mix up with the crowd.
I see near me the green table:
The gamblers play aloud,
And I am sick and unable
To mix up with the crowd.
There are still beautiful roses,With aroma blessed;There are still handsome maidens,Whose lips I have not pressed.
There are still beautiful roses,
With aroma blessed;
There are still handsome maidens,
Whose lips I have not pressed.
This has me affected,I am full of remorse,That of late I have neglectedThe girl and the roses.
This has me affected,
I am full of remorse,
That of late I have neglected
The girl and the roses.
Written on what the poet thought was his deathbed, this satirical poem is almost as heroic asThe Watch on the Jordan.
Mr. Imber has also written many original poems in English, which, however, he fears will not live. Many of them are satirical poems about American life and politics. When in Denver before the Spanish war he wrote some verses beginning:
Our flag will soon be plantedIn a land where we do not want it.
Our flag will soon be planted
In a land where we do not want it.
It was, the poet said, through the simple, clear character of his mystical attainments that he was able to predict the results of the war with Spain.
Mr. Imber looks upon America as the "land of the bluff" and as such admires it. But he disapproves of our reform movements. He thinks the recent attempt to reform the east side was due to the desire of the rich to divert attention from their own vices. He doesn't approve of reform any way.
"We have been trying to reform human nature," he said, "for 2,000 years, and have not done it yet. The only way to make a man goodis to remove his stomach, for so long as he is hungry he will steal, and so long as he has other desires he will commit other wicked actions. Moses and Jesus were smart men and knew that evil could not be rooted out, and so they tolerated it."
Mr. Imber has recently made his last will and testament. It is in Hebrew prose and runs thus in English:
"To the rabbis I leave what I don't know; it will help them to a longer life. To my enemies I leave my rheumatism. Between the Republican and Democratic parties I divide the boodle which they have not yet touched. To the Jewish editors I leave my broken pen, so that they can write slowly and avoid mistakes. My books—those intended for beginners—I leave to the eight professors, so that they can learn to read. As an executor there shall be appointed a man who knows Barnum's philosophy through and through. Written on my deathbed. Witness, Mr. Pluto of the Underground and his Famulus, the doctor. As an afterthought I leave to my publishers the last bill unpaid by me. They can frame it and keep it as an amulet to ward away that class of authors."
"Is it sarcastic?" asked Mr. Imber, chuckling delightedly.
Some time ago Mr. Imber sent the news of his own death to the various Hebrew and Yiddish publications. Many long obituaries—"very fine ones," said the poet—appeared.
"In that way," said Mr. Imber, "I learned who were my enemies. It had one evil consequence, however. When I afterward asked the editor to publish one of my articles he said:
"'You are officially dead, and as such cannot rush into print.'
"That reply really gave me a grievous moment," said the poet, with a shrewd, Voltairian smile.
Four men sat excitedly talking in the little café on Grand Street where the Socialists and Anarchists of the Russian quarter were wont to meet late at night and stay until the small hours. An American, who might by chance have happened there, would have wondered what important event had occurred to rasp these men's voices, to cause them to gesticulate so wildly, to give their dark, intelligent faces so fateful, so ominous an expression. In reality, however, nothing out of the ordinary had happened. It was the usual course of human affairs which kept these men in a constant glow ofunhappy emotion; an emotion which they deeply preferred to trivial optimism and the content founded on Philistine well-being. They were always excited about life, for life as it is constituted seemed to them very unjust.
It was nearly midnight, and the men in the café, altho they had drunk nothing stronger than Russian tea, talked on, seemingly intoxicated with ideas. One was the editor of a Yiddish newspaper in the quarter and a contributor to the Anarchistic monthly. He was a man of about forty years of age, lighter in complexion than his companions, but yet dark. Like them he was dressed carelessly and poorly. In his melancholy eyes shone a gentle idealism. He spoke in a voice lower and softer than those of his fellows. He was deeply liked by them, for he was capable of sweet and beautiful ideas about the perfect humanity, some of which he had put into a play which had a short life on the Bowery, but lived in the hearts of these warm intellectuals. Non-resistance to evil was the favorite principle of this gentle Anarchist, whose name was Blanofsky.
His companions were younger and more heated and violent in speech, tho their attenuated bodies and thoughtful and sensitive faces did not suggest reliance on physical force. Onthe Bowery the Irish tough fights after a word, but an all day dispute between two Jews on Canal or Hester Street is unaccompanied by the clenching of a fist. A dark, thin young man, whose closely shaven face seemed somehow to fit his spirit, given over entirely to the "movement," sat at Blanofsky's right hand. At almost any hour of the day or night Hermann Samarovitch could be found at the Anarchist headquarters on Essex Street, poring over the books of the propaganda and engaging in talk with other bright spirits of the "movement." Now, as he talked or listened in the café on Grand Street, his pale, smooth face seemed dead to all the ordinary interests of youth. The spirit of life was represented in him only by the passion for the cause, which burned in his black eyes. He had no other function than to worship at the shrine. How he lived, therefore, was a mystery.
Of the other two men, one, Jacob Hessler, a labor leader in the Ghetto, an eloquent speaker, of more commanding presence, but less sensitive and impressive at short range than either Blanofsky or Samarovitch, was silent, for the most part. He talked only to crowds, partly because it was exciting, but mainly because his limited intelligence put him at a disadvantage in intimate talk with men of concentrated intellectualcharacter. The fourth man in the café, Abraham Gudinsky, was a simple admirer of Blanofsky. He was born in Jerusalem, had studied law in Constantinople, had lived in Paris as a bohemian, and, after a few years passed in the commonplace, dissipated gayety of youth, had come to New York, where his sympathetic and idealistic character had come under the influence of the quiet charm of Blanofsky. He had small, live, eyes and a high forehead, and his body perpetually moved nervously.
"I do not believe," said Blanofsky, in Russian, "that anything can be accomplished by force. Our cause is too sacred to tarnish it with blood, and it is too strong in logic and justice not to conquer peaceably in the end; and that, too, without leaving behind it the ill-breeding weeds of a violent course. I have nothing but pity for the misguided wretch who took the life of King Humbert, thinking he was acting for the cause. It is the acts of such madmen as he that make us appear to the public as merely irrational monsters."
"Nevertheless," said Samarovitch, his dark eyes glowing, "it is natural that the crimes of society against the individual should irritate us sometimes into violent acts. I am not sure but that it is good that it should be so. Thosedevoted men, in the great movement in Russia, at the time the Czar was killed, were as clearheaded as they were devoted; and they felt that the governmental evil pressing in Russia could be relieved only by a kind of terrorism. And they were right," he concluded, with gloomy emphasis.
A YOUNG MAN AND A YOUNG WOMAN JUST ENTERED THE CAFÉ
A YOUNG MAN AND A YOUNG WOMAN JUST ENTERED THE CAFÉ
Blanofsky shook his head, and was about to speak of Tolstoy, whom he regarded as the great interpreter of genuine anarchy, when he was interrupted by the approach of a young man and a young woman who had just entered the café. Sabina, as she was familiarly known to the faithful, dark and slender, with very large, emotional eyes and a mobile mouth, had just come from her lecture to a crowd of workingmen, to whom she had spoken eloquently of their right to lead a life with greater light and beauty in it. The emotions expressed by her eloquence, and stirred by it, still lay in her deep eyes as she entered the café. Her companion, who had walked with her from the lecture, was a young poet, whose words followed one another with turbulent energy. His head was set uncommonly close to his compact, stout shoulders, seeming to have a firmer rest than usual on the trunk, and thus better to support the strain of his thick-coming fancies. His habitual attitude was to hold hisclosed fist even with his shoulder, and punctuate with it the transitions of his thought. Even in winter the perspiration rolled down his face as he spoke, for thought with him was intense to the point of pain. He was the perfect type of the intellectual debauchee of the Russian-Jewish colony. He drank nothing but tea and coffee, but within him burned his ideas. He made his living by writing an occasional poem or article for a Yiddish paper, and when he had gathered together a few dollars he repaired again to the cafés, seeking companions to whom he could confide his exuberant thoughts, which were always expressed in poetic images. He slept whenever and wherever he was tired, but he slept seldom, and unwillingly. Unrest was his quest and unhappiness his dearest consolation. The type of his mind was as Russian as his name, which was Levitzky. The girl looked and listened to him, fascinated. They sat down at the table with the others, and while the waiter was bringing their tea and lemon, Levitzky continued his discourse:
"No, I do not like America. The people here are satisfied. Things seem frozen here—finished. Great deeds have been done, great things have been created. Wall Street and Broadway fill me with wonder. The outside is great, showingenergy that has been. But at the core, all is dead. The imagination and the heart are extinguished. Content and comfort eat up the nation. New York seems to me an active city of the dead, where there is much movement, but no soul. Russia, which I love, is just the opposite. There nothing is done, nothing finished. One sees nothing, but feels warmth and vitality at the heart. In love it is the same way. The American wants a legal wife and a comfortable home, but the Russian wants a mistress behind a mountain to whom he can not penetrate but towards whom he can strive, for whom he can long and dream. It is better to hope than to attain."
Sabina looked at him, her bosom heaving. His last words seemed to trouble her, but she sat in silence and appeared to listen to the conversation, which turned on a recent strike in the Ghetto. Finally she got up to go home, refusing Levitzky's offer to accompany her. Leaving the Anarchists still engaged in talk, she went into the street, which, altho it was after one o'clock, was still far from deserted.
Instead of going to her poor room in the tenement-house on Hester Street she walked slowly along Grand Street, towards the Bowery, deep in reflection. She was thinking of Levitzkyand of her life. Ten years before, as a child of twelve, she had come to New York from Russia, with her father, a tailor, who had worked for several years in the sweat-shops. He had died two years before, and since then Sabina had worked in the sweat-shops in the day time and in the evening had devoted herself to the cause. At first she had gone to the Socialistic and Anarchistic meetings merely because they were attended by the only society in the east side which at all satisfied her growing intellectual activity. These rough workingmen sometimes seemed to her inspired, and her ardor and youth were soon deeply interested in the cause of Socialism, partly because of the pity inspired by the sordid poverty about her, but mainly because of the strong attraction any earnest movement has for a young and emotionally intellectual person. As was quite inevitable, she went from an unreserved love for the group of ideas called Socialistic to the quite contrary ones of Anarchy. And this change was not founded on intellectual conviction, but was due to the simple fact that the Anarchistic cause was more extreme and gave greater apparent opportunity for self-sacrifice; and for the reason, too, that the most interesting man she had met, Levitzky, was at that time an Anarchist. Thesetwo made, very often, passionate speeches on the same evening to a crowd of attentive laborers, and after the meeting walked the street together or sat over their tea in the café discussing high ideals, not only Anarchy, but all noble subjects that detach the soul from the sordid business of life.
Of course, Sabina loved Levitzky. His robust intellect and exuberant, poetical nature, a nature constant to passion, but inconstant to persons, made her beloved ideas seem real, gave a concrete seal to the creations of her imagination.
Neither Levitzky nor Sabina were conscious of the strong feeling that he was arousing in the girl's soul. He poured his mind out to her. His rich nature unfolded in her sympathetic presence. She loved him for the mental crises he had passed; and he loved merely the mental images his words aroused in him when she was present.
It was not until the evening of the scene in the café that she had fully understood that she was eternally in love with Levitzky. On the walk from the lecture to the Grand Street café they had for the first time spoken of love between man and woman, and Levitzky had launched forth into an eloquent tirade against satisfied desire, a speech which was concluded in thecafé, with the remark about how a Russian loves an inaccessible mistress, a beautiful creature separated from her lover by a mountain, while the despised American wants a legal wife whom he can enjoy and be sure of.
The sentiment fitted in beautifully with Sabina's habitually enthusiastic habit of mind. But to-night she was ashamed of herself because his words filled her with fear and pain. Irrational emotion drove her theories from her head, and struck her dumb with grief for what she looked upon as a betrayed ideal. She, who had devoted herself to the "movement"; she, who had chosen an intellectual career, a life devoted to the cause of humanity; she, who had been proud of her independence and had confidently looked forward to a life of celibacy; this superior person was in love, and loved as passionately and as personally as any commonplace woman. She devoutly believed in the worth of Levitzky's ideas against human love between the sexes, and the fact that her nerves and imagination went against her head overwhelmed her with remorse. She was unfaithful not only to her own ideals, but to the ideals of the man she loved. She knew that Levitzky felt no love for her. If he had, she would not have loved him. She longed to tear this feeling, which she felt to be unworthy of herand in the nature of an insult to him, from her heart; but she knew she could not.
After leaving Levitzky and the Anarchists in the café, Sabina walked slowly towards the Bowery, suffering with love and humiliation, thinking of Levitzky and of the past, the devoted past which now seemed deeply wronged. Her despair can perhaps be understood by the fanatical nun whose years of devotion to her vows are rendered vain by a sudden impulse of the heart which is yielded to; or by the ambitious man of affairs who betrays a governmental trust because of the repeated frenzy of an emotion which wears out his resistance and leads him to the woman who has charmed and deceived him.
As Sabina passed through the street her attention was mechanically caught by the notice in a shop window, which was still dimly lighted, of an important labor meeting, to take place in a couple of days, at which a famous German Anarchist was to speak—a man who was coming from Europe to join the "Movement" in New York, whose books she had read and loved. Such notices always arrested her eager attention, and even now habit led her to stop by the window and dully read the entire poster. The thought of the coming event, which would once have been of palpitating interest to her, increased her remorseand despair. Of such great activity as this she had rendered herself incapable. To go to any such meeting now would be hypocrisy, she felt. The cause she wanted to love and serve and still did love she could yet never again be wholehearted about. She bore with her a burden. She seemed to herself to be a sinful creature, and the devoted life she had led seemed poisoned by this terrible passion which controlled her. She felt she never again could look Levitzky in the face; for a terrible impulse in her was about to drag her from the pedestal where he had helped to place her; and to drag with her the man she loved from the impersonal height at which he stood.
Her passionate nature rebelled at the thought of any compromise with the ideal. She could not endure life otherwise than as her imagination dictated—and here was a passion which threatened the existence of all she approved. What in a colder nature would have been a mere intellectual phase was with her an unbearably emotional upheaval; and on the spot she made a resolution conceived in despair but carried out with logical coolness. As the rebellious thought surged over her and filled her being with hot emotion she became aware that the shop was that of an apothecary on East Broadway,whither she had unconsciously wandered. With set lips she entered, aroused the sleeping clerk, a Socialist whom she knew, and bought that which soon allayed her problem without solving it. Early the next morning the clerk found her lying near the doorway, with an expression of impulsive energy on her dark face.
About three days later Blanofsky and his three friends were sitting in the café on Grand Street, drinking their eternal Russian tea and talking about Levitzky.
"I never saw a man so broken," said Blanofsky in his soft voice, "as Levitzky was by the death of that girl. For a week I feared for his life, he was so desperate. It seems he met Lefeitkin's clerk, who told him. He disappeared from the quarter for several days, and no one knew where he went. Four days ago he came to my room looking like a madman. His hair was full of mud and his clothes torn and filthy. His eyes burned in his pale face, and his speech, more voluminous than ever, was broken and incoherent. He stayed all day, refused to eat, but talked all the time of Sabina, of her mind, of her rare personality, of her devotion to the cause. He was interrupted by fits of sobbing. I did not know that this man of intellect was capable of so great personal feeling."
"Levitzky is weak," said Herman Samarovitch, "and inconstant. He has vivid ideas, and imagination, but he never really cared for the cause. He was a Socialist before he was an Anarchist. Before that he was an atheist, which followed a period of religious mysticism. At one time he was a conventional capitalist in principle, with the English government as his model. He is easily moved by an idea or an emotion, but he easily passes to another. He will soon forget this girl's death, to which he should have been superior. He has no steadfastness, and is not one of us."
At this point, Levitzky entered the café. With him was the new arrival, the German Anarchist. To him Levitzky was talking with great animation. His words rolled over one another with enthusiasm.
"Do you know," he said eagerly, his face beaming, to Blanofsky and his companions, "that our distinguished friend here has consented to debate to-morrow night with our Socialist friend, Jacob Matz, that mistaken but able man, on the nature of individual right as interpreted by the Anarchist on one side and the Socialist on the other. I have written a poem on liberty which I intend to read at the meeting. Do you wish to hear it?"
He drew a manuscript from his pocket and read enthusiastically a poem in which a turbulent love for man and nature, for social equality and foaming cataracts was expressed in rich imagery. His face glowed and he seemed transported. He had forgotten Sabina.
New York
Charles Dana Gibson says: "It is like a trip to Paris."THE REAL LATIN QUARTER OF PARISBy F. Berkeley SmithRacy sketches of the innermost life and characters of the famous Bohemia of Paris—its grisettes, students, models, balls, studios, cafes, etc.John W. Alexander: "It is the real thing."Frederick Remington: "You have left nothing undone."Ernest Thompson Seton: "A true picture of the Latin Quarter as I knew it."Frederick Dielman, President National Academy of Design: "Makes the Latin Quarter very real and still invests it with interest and charm."Evening Telegraph, Philadelphia: "A captivating book."Boston Times: "A genuine treat."The Argonaut, San Francisco: "A charming volume. Mr. Smith does not fail to get at the intimate secrets, the subtle charm of the real Latin Quarter made famous by Henry Murger and Du Maurier."The Mail and Express, New York: "When you have read this book you know the 'Real Latin Quarter' as well as you will ever come to know it without living there yourself."Boston Herald: "It pictures the Latin Quarter in its true light."Water-Color Frontispiece by F. Hopkinson Smith. About 100 original drawings and camera snap shots by the Author, and two caricatures in color by the celebrated French caricaturist Sancha. Ornamental Covers. 12mo, Cloth, Price, $1.20, net. Postage, 13 Cents.FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY,Publishers,New York & London
Charles Dana Gibson says: "It is like a trip to Paris."
THE REAL LATIN QUARTER OF PARIS
By F. Berkeley Smith
Racy sketches of the innermost life and characters of the famous Bohemia of Paris—its grisettes, students, models, balls, studios, cafes, etc.
John W. Alexander: "It is the real thing."
Frederick Remington: "You have left nothing undone."
Ernest Thompson Seton: "A true picture of the Latin Quarter as I knew it."
Frederick Dielman, President National Academy of Design: "Makes the Latin Quarter very real and still invests it with interest and charm."
Evening Telegraph, Philadelphia: "A captivating book."
Boston Times: "A genuine treat."
The Argonaut, San Francisco: "A charming volume. Mr. Smith does not fail to get at the intimate secrets, the subtle charm of the real Latin Quarter made famous by Henry Murger and Du Maurier."
The Mail and Express, New York: "When you have read this book you know the 'Real Latin Quarter' as well as you will ever come to know it without living there yourself."
Boston Herald: "It pictures the Latin Quarter in its true light."
Water-Color Frontispiece by F. Hopkinson Smith. About 100 original drawings and camera snap shots by the Author, and two caricatures in color by the celebrated French caricaturist Sancha. Ornamental Covers. 12mo, Cloth, Price, $1.20, net. Postage, 13 Cents.
FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY,Publishers,New York & London
LOVE AND THE SOUL HUNTERSBy John Oliver HobbesAuthor of "The Gods, Some Morals, and Lord Wickenham," "The Herb Moon," "Schools for Saints," "Robert Grange," etc., etc.In this new novel Mrs. Craigie (John Oliver Hobbes) has made, according to her own statement, the great effort of her life. It is the most brilliant creation of an author whose talent and versatility have surprised readers and critics in both Europe and America for several years. It treats of unique examples of human nature as they are, and not merely as they ought to be. Swayed by complex motives, they are always attractive, but often do what is least expected of them. The story is graphically told, and is full of action. Each personage is distinctively drawn to the life."There is much that is worth remembering in her writings."—Mail and Express, New York."More than any other woman who is now writing, Mrs. Craigie is, in the true manly sense, a woman of letters. She is not a woman with a few personal emotions to express: she is what a woman so rarely is—an artist."—The Star, London."Few English writers have so lapidarian a style of writing as Mrs. Craigie, and few such a capacity for writing epigrams."—The Toronto Globe.12mo, Cloth.$1.50FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY, PublishersNEW YORK & LONDON
LOVE AND THE SOUL HUNTERS
By John Oliver Hobbes
Author of "The Gods, Some Morals, and Lord Wickenham," "The Herb Moon," "Schools for Saints," "Robert Grange," etc., etc.
In this new novel Mrs. Craigie (John Oliver Hobbes) has made, according to her own statement, the great effort of her life. It is the most brilliant creation of an author whose talent and versatility have surprised readers and critics in both Europe and America for several years. It treats of unique examples of human nature as they are, and not merely as they ought to be. Swayed by complex motives, they are always attractive, but often do what is least expected of them. The story is graphically told, and is full of action. Each personage is distinctively drawn to the life.
"There is much that is worth remembering in her writings."—Mail and Express, New York.
"More than any other woman who is now writing, Mrs. Craigie is, in the true manly sense, a woman of letters. She is not a woman with a few personal emotions to express: she is what a woman so rarely is—an artist."—The Star, London.
"Few English writers have so lapidarian a style of writing as Mrs. Craigie, and few such a capacity for writing epigrams."—The Toronto Globe.
12mo, Cloth.$1.50
FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY, PublishersNEW YORK & LONDON
A ROMANCE OF A STRANGE COUNTRYTHE INSANE ROOTBy Mrs. Campbell PraedAuthor of "Nadine"; "The Scourge Stick"; "As a Watch in the Night," etc.This story has the samemotifas Stevenson's Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and a weird treatment resembling that of Bulwer's "Strange Story." It will compare favorably in strength and literary quality with either of these great productions. Isadas Pacha, Ambassador at the Court of St. James's from Abdullulah Zobeir, Emperor of Abaria, dying at last after a long life of mixed good and evil, leaves to his physician, Dr. Marillier, "the insane root," a mandragora root, enclosed in a small box. Marillier, a suitor of Rachel, the beautiful ward of the Pacha, envies Ruel Bey, his favored rival. Learning from the papers left by the Pacha that the mandrake root has marvelous powers, Marillier succeeds in assuming the body of Ruel who has been accidentally killed. On this change of identities the fascinating story turns. After marrying Rachel the problem of consummating the marriage can not be solved by Marillier, the wraith of the real Ruel preventing. A bolt of lightning solves the problem. There is a mystery about Rachel, who turns out to be the Emperor's own daughter. The scenery is partly that of the Algerian mountains, very graphically and beautifully described. The supernatural elements are handled in a way to make them seem actually credible. The storm climax reminds the reader of Hawthorne's best work in the Marble Fawn.12mo, Cloth.380 Pages.$1.50FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY, PublishersNEW YORK & LONDON
A ROMANCE OF A STRANGE COUNTRY
THE INSANE ROOT
By Mrs. Campbell Praed
Author of "Nadine"; "The Scourge Stick"; "As a Watch in the Night," etc.
This story has the samemotifas Stevenson's Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and a weird treatment resembling that of Bulwer's "Strange Story." It will compare favorably in strength and literary quality with either of these great productions. Isadas Pacha, Ambassador at the Court of St. James's from Abdullulah Zobeir, Emperor of Abaria, dying at last after a long life of mixed good and evil, leaves to his physician, Dr. Marillier, "the insane root," a mandragora root, enclosed in a small box. Marillier, a suitor of Rachel, the beautiful ward of the Pacha, envies Ruel Bey, his favored rival. Learning from the papers left by the Pacha that the mandrake root has marvelous powers, Marillier succeeds in assuming the body of Ruel who has been accidentally killed. On this change of identities the fascinating story turns. After marrying Rachel the problem of consummating the marriage can not be solved by Marillier, the wraith of the real Ruel preventing. A bolt of lightning solves the problem. There is a mystery about Rachel, who turns out to be the Emperor's own daughter. The scenery is partly that of the Algerian mountains, very graphically and beautifully described. The supernatural elements are handled in a way to make them seem actually credible. The storm climax reminds the reader of Hawthorne's best work in the Marble Fawn.
12mo, Cloth.380 Pages.$1.50
FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY, PublishersNEW YORK & LONDON
THE NEEDLE'S EYEBy Florence Morse KingsleyAuthor of "The Transfiguration of Miss Philura," "Titus," "Prisoners of the Sea," "Stephen," etc."The Needle's Eye" is a remarkable story of modern American life,—not of one phase, but of many phases, widely different and in startling contrast. The scenes alternate between country and city. The pure, free air of the hills, and the foul, stifling atmosphere of the slums; the sweet breath of the clover fields, and the stench of crowded tenements are equally familiar to the hero in this novel. The other characters are found in vine-covered cottages, in humble farmhouses, in city palaces, and in the poorest tenements of the slums. Immanuel, the hero, begins life as a foundling, and the chapters telling of his unhappy infancy and happy boyhood are written with a tenderness, a pathos, and an intimacy of knowledge and description that touch the deepest sympathies of the reader. Later, Immanuel finds himself the heir of a vast fortune. His struggle to use the wealth in relieving the miseries of the slums demonstrates the truth of the declaration of Jesus: "It is easier for a camel to go through a needle's eye than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God."Many of the situations in the novel are exceedingly dramatic. Others sparkle with genuine humor. This is a story to make people laugh, and cry, and think.Illustrations by F. E. Mears.12mo, Cloth.$1.50FUNK A WAGNALLS COMPANY, PublishersNEW YORK & LONDON
THE NEEDLE'S EYE
By Florence Morse Kingsley
Author of "The Transfiguration of Miss Philura," "Titus," "Prisoners of the Sea," "Stephen," etc.
"The Needle's Eye" is a remarkable story of modern American life,—not of one phase, but of many phases, widely different and in startling contrast. The scenes alternate between country and city. The pure, free air of the hills, and the foul, stifling atmosphere of the slums; the sweet breath of the clover fields, and the stench of crowded tenements are equally familiar to the hero in this novel. The other characters are found in vine-covered cottages, in humble farmhouses, in city palaces, and in the poorest tenements of the slums. Immanuel, the hero, begins life as a foundling, and the chapters telling of his unhappy infancy and happy boyhood are written with a tenderness, a pathos, and an intimacy of knowledge and description that touch the deepest sympathies of the reader. Later, Immanuel finds himself the heir of a vast fortune. His struggle to use the wealth in relieving the miseries of the slums demonstrates the truth of the declaration of Jesus: "It is easier for a camel to go through a needle's eye than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God."
Many of the situations in the novel are exceedingly dramatic. Others sparkle with genuine humor. This is a story to make people laugh, and cry, and think.
Illustrations by F. E. Mears.12mo, Cloth.$1.50
FUNK A WAGNALLS COMPANY, PublishersNEW YORK & LONDON
St. Louis Globe-Democrat: "It is a simple, gentle, quietly-humorous narrative, with several love affairs in it."UNDER MY OWN ROOFBy Adelaide L. RouseAuthor of "The Deane Girls," "Westover House," etc.A story of a "nesting impulse" and what came of it. A newspaper woman determines to build a home for herself in a Jersey suburb. The story of its planning is delightfully told, simply and with a literary-humorous flavor that will appeal to lovers of books and of the fireside.Before the house-building details are allowed to tire the reader, a love story is begun, and catches the interest. It concerns the home-builder, an old flame, and an old friend, the third of whom has become a next-door neighbor. With this romance are entwined a number of heart affairs as well as warm friendships.The style is bright, and the humor genial and pervasive. The "literary worker" and the "suburbanite" particularly will enjoy the book. Women of culture everywhere should appreciate its delicate style.Illustrations by Harrie A. Stoner. 12mo, Cloth.Price, $1.20, net; postage, 13 cents.FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY,Publishers,New York & London
St. Louis Globe-Democrat: "It is a simple, gentle, quietly-humorous narrative, with several love affairs in it."
UNDER MY OWN ROOF
By Adelaide L. Rouse
Author of "The Deane Girls," "Westover House," etc.
A story of a "nesting impulse" and what came of it. A newspaper woman determines to build a home for herself in a Jersey suburb. The story of its planning is delightfully told, simply and with a literary-humorous flavor that will appeal to lovers of books and of the fireside.
Before the house-building details are allowed to tire the reader, a love story is begun, and catches the interest. It concerns the home-builder, an old flame, and an old friend, the third of whom has become a next-door neighbor. With this romance are entwined a number of heart affairs as well as warm friendships.
The style is bright, and the humor genial and pervasive. The "literary worker" and the "suburbanite" particularly will enjoy the book. Women of culture everywhere should appreciate its delicate style.
Illustrations by Harrie A. Stoner. 12mo, Cloth.Price, $1.20, net; postage, 13 cents.
FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY,Publishers,New York & London
JESUS THE JEWAND OTHER ADDRESSESBy Harris WeinstockIntroduction by Prof. David Starr JordanTen straightforward talks by a broad-minded student of the Jewish Race, explaining alike to Jew and Christian the fundamental and highest conceptions of liberal Judaism and its relationship in Christianity.HIGH PRAISE FROM THE NON-JEWISH PRESSHerald and Presbyter, St. Louis, Mo.: "The author is a man of force and of large liberality, and goes far beyond what the ordinary orthodox Jew would be willing to concede."The Outlook, New York: "It will justify a wide attention from both Jews and Christians, and in many respects will be of peculiar helpfulness to some who have no conscious religious faith."News-Letter, San Francisco: "A very interesting volume, well written, broad in its tendencies, and one that will be helpful to any one who reads it, regardless of race or creed."COMMENDED BY LEADING JEWISH PAPERSThe Jewish Spectator, New Orleans: "Its tendency is to remove prejudices from the minds of non-Jews and to strengthen the faith of the Jew. Every Israelite in the land should obtain two copies, read one for his own benefit and comfort, and give the other to a Christian friend who entertains yet a few prejudices and is desirous of divesting himself of them."Jewish Ledger, New Orleans, La.: "It deserves a conspicuous place in the homes of intelligent people.... Always couched in respectful and courteous language, and refreshing in logical consideration of the question."12mo, Cloth, 229 pp.$1.00, net; by Mail, $1.07FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY, PublishersNEW YORK & LONDON
JESUS THE JEWAND OTHER ADDRESSES
By Harris WeinstockIntroduction by Prof. David Starr Jordan
Ten straightforward talks by a broad-minded student of the Jewish Race, explaining alike to Jew and Christian the fundamental and highest conceptions of liberal Judaism and its relationship in Christianity.
HIGH PRAISE FROM THE NON-JEWISH PRESS
Herald and Presbyter, St. Louis, Mo.: "The author is a man of force and of large liberality, and goes far beyond what the ordinary orthodox Jew would be willing to concede."
The Outlook, New York: "It will justify a wide attention from both Jews and Christians, and in many respects will be of peculiar helpfulness to some who have no conscious religious faith."
News-Letter, San Francisco: "A very interesting volume, well written, broad in its tendencies, and one that will be helpful to any one who reads it, regardless of race or creed."
COMMENDED BY LEADING JEWISH PAPERS
The Jewish Spectator, New Orleans: "Its tendency is to remove prejudices from the minds of non-Jews and to strengthen the faith of the Jew. Every Israelite in the land should obtain two copies, read one for his own benefit and comfort, and give the other to a Christian friend who entertains yet a few prejudices and is desirous of divesting himself of them."
Jewish Ledger, New Orleans, La.: "It deserves a conspicuous place in the homes of intelligent people.... Always couched in respectful and courteous language, and refreshing in logical consideration of the question."
12mo, Cloth, 229 pp.$1.00, net; by Mail, $1.07
FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY, PublishersNEW YORK & LONDON
FOOTNOTES[1]See text, section on "Realism."[2]Recently defunct—June, 1901.
[1]See text, section on "Realism."
[2]Recently defunct—June, 1901.