formity. The roller of industrialism, be rudely handled and cast aside when the news has been snatched out of them— or when regard for them is like that of a hungry man for oysters, who scoops out the soft parts and chucks away the shells, perhaps with pearls in them. The love for the book goes along naturally with the love of literature itself, and there is something wanting in the "humanities” of a man, whatever his attainments, who has not a respect for what may be called the personality of a book. It is an underbred culture which does not honor it. Books, those unfailingly faithful companions, stand mute and waiting on the shelves; in their hearts are preserved the thought, the aspiration, the despair, the love, the heroism, the emotion, the tragedy, the immortal beauty, the bewitching loveliness, the personality of all the ages. We take one down-it is ready to yield to our every mood; we handle it with care; we linger a little over the cover; we study the book-plate; we judge the title-page; we inhale the book fragrance as we open it and begin to taste its un-material essence. It is brutal not to respect its individuality. of bureaucracy, of the mode, has passed over the world and erased originality. All the world sings and whistles the same melody for six months, and then drops it for another. Local manners, costumes, provincial idioms and songs, all are effaced. To the traveller the railways, the stations, the hotels, the theatres, are as alike as brothers. The province, spread out and empty, despairing of itself, offers only a reduced and feeble image of the great city. How can the youth have an individual physiognomy? It is a heresy not to be like the rest of the world. "The fear of being singular appears even in the dress. No one submits more passively to the mode than certain young people. They must have the same hat, the same knot in the cravat, the same cut of garments. There are no more individuals who walk the streets, but specimens, by the dozen-by the gross, as they say in the factory. In fact, one has a vague impression of the manufactory, of something put on, in seeing move about such a great number of beings identically alike. The eye-glass, the cane, the attitudes, the stereotype speech, remind one of an automaton. One would not be surprised to find stamped on him somewhere a trade-mark, a signature, something like Grévin fecit." Manners conform to the régime of dress, and ideas follow suit. It is a procession of imitative sheep-les moutons de Panurge, says the author. And yet there are some, from day to day more in number, who begin to comprehend that if there is any way to be saved, it is to draw near to the normal life, to return to base lines, to elementary things, to appropriate the good, near or far off, in the present and in the past, wherever a shred of it can be found, to renounce exclusive tendencies and party interests, and become simply men. "To be really young, and really men," is the last word. To believe in life, to taste it with faith, to have joy in it and make the most of it, that it is to find the soul in one's self, the soul in things. V. Whoever helps to keep alive the respect for a book, for books as books, renders a great service in this time, when the feeling towards books is becoming like that towards newspapers that they are to No one of late years in America has done more than Mr. Laurence Hutton to recall us to this refined taste and reverence for books. He is more than their lover; he is their intimate and friend. He treats them always with a gentle courtesy, and yet with the humorous freedom of a friend. It would be exaggeration to say that they are to him exactly living things, but they are all alive with human associations, with the interest of life, with the warmth of the personality of their authors. We see what books are even in their accidental features in a dainty little volume, From the Books of Laurence Hutton. The title, which at first sight is misleading, is suggested by the first essay, which is on "Book-plates." The term book-plate is not felicitous. As the author says, the Latin Ex Libris ("from the books of "), still employed by the French and other Latin races of the Continent, is much more happy....Ex Libris Gulielmi Stubbsi is unquestionably the parent of "Bill Stubbs, One of his Books.' From the book-plates, the engraved or printed labels pasted in the books to denote ownership, in his library, it is that Mr. Hutton makes a most charming chapter of reminiscence, anecdote, and information about engravers, authors, and their tastes. And it all has a quiet humor and an exquisite literary flavor. The same may be said of the succeeding chapters: "Grangerism," from Granger's Biographical History; on "Portraits of Mary, Queen of Scots"; on some "Portrait Inscriptions"; and on "Poetical Inscriptions." The author's accuracy in research, his curious learning, his lively humor, and power to give charm to details, were exhibited in his Curiosities of the American Stage, which is a delightful supplement to his Plays and Players. It has a place in a notice like this rather on account of its literary quality than for its faithful delineation of the mimic life of the stage. But it is in two other volumes, The Literary Landmarks of London and the, later, Literary Landmarks of Edinburgh, that Mr. Hutton has rendered the most distinguished service to literature. For there is nothing more important in regard OUR to the respect for books of which we have spoken than the preservation of the traditions of literature, the flavor of human interest and personality in it. Both these volumes, on London and on Edinburgh, filled with portraits and drawings of the abodes of authors, are as far as possible from being dry guide books de place; they are, indeed, so accurate and comprehensive as to excite the admiration of the cities, which take shame for leaving this important work to be done by an American; but they contain the very essence of literary history, are full of personal anecdote and allusion, and have a charm of narrative, of brightness, of fun, and of pathos which is quite another thing than the gabble of professional valets de place. The reader would be tempted, were it not for offending the author by an exaggeration, to exclaim, "If Hutton makes my literary guide-books, I care not who makes the literature." Monthly Record of Current Events. POLITICAL. UR Record is closed on the 14th of September. The State election in Arkansas, on the 5th of September, resulted in a decisive victory for the Democrats. L. K. Fuller, Republican, was elected Governor of Vermont on the 6th of September, and Henry Cleaves, Republican, was elected Governor of Maine on the 12th. On the 18th of August orders were issued by the Governor of New York for the assembling of the entire National Guard of the State at Buffalo, to enforce the law during the strike of railroad switchmen at that place, the beginning of which was noted in our Record for October. On the 24th a conference of the chiefs of other railway labor unions decided not to order a sympathetic strike, and the grand master of the switchmen's union declared the conflict at an end, advising those who could do so to return to their places. The greater part of the militia were at once withdrawn. In Tennessee several other attempts, besides that mentioned in our Record for October, were made by the free miners to liberate the convicts employed in the mines, but without success. The cholera continued to rage with great fatality in southern Russia, causing, according to official reports, nearly 3000 deaths daily. About the 20th of August it appeared in Hamburg, Germany, and soon afterward broke out in Antwerp, Bremen, Havre, and other cities. Within the next week there were cases of the disease in London, Liverpool, and some other places in Great Britain. the 31st the steamship Moravia, from Hamburg, arrived in New York Bay with cholera on board. Twenty-two deaths from the disease had occurred among the passengers during her voyage. The survivors and crew were at once quarantined in the lower bay, and vigorous measures were taken to prevent infected vessels from passing through the On August 15th.-The new British ship Thracian was wrecked off the Isle of Man, and twenty-three persons were drowned. August 25th.-The British steamer Anglia was capsized in the Hooghly River, India, and fifteen of her crew were lost.-An explosion occurred in a coal mine at Bridgend, Wales, and nearly 100 miners lost their lives. August 31st.-The steamer Western Reserve was wrecked in Lake Superior, and twenty-six lives were lost. September 11th.-In a collision on the Fitchburg Railroad, Massachusetts, nine persons were killed and thirty-seven injured. OBITUARY. August 22d.-In Rio Janeiro, Brazil, Marshal Manoel Deodora da Fonseca, ex-President of Brazil. August 23d.-At Canandaigua, New York, Myron Halley Clark, ex-Governor of New York, aged eightysix years. August 31st.-At Livingston, Staten Island, New York, George William Curtis, aged sixty-eight years. September 5th-In Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, Daniel Dougherty, lawyer, aged sixty-six years.-At Scituate, Massachusetts, Thomas William Parsons, poet, aged seventy-three years. September 7th.-At Hampton Falls, New Hampshire, John Greenleaf Whittier, aged eighty-five years. THE TRUE STORY OF THE SURRENDER OF THE MARQUIS CORNWALLIS. HAD done me once to be ap- It was repeated. then that I pointed provisional secretary and treasurer not the gentleman of the ware want it was of the State Chapter of the Society of the Sous of the Revolution, or of the American Revolution; I never can remember which. (To this unhappy fault of memory I owed my early removal from the responsible and remunerative office, for the offspring of the two societies were like the first pair of brothers, not wholly in unity.) In the discharge of this office I became acquainted with a good deal of history which has satisfied me that the commonly received versions are far from accurate. Among the true accounts which I thus received is the following story of the surrender of the Marquis Cornwallis, related to me by an eyewitness, and which is of course true. I was seated one day in my office, when there was a tap at my door. It differed essentially from either the deferential tap of a client, or the more imperious rap of the creature who carries around a packet of long, narrow invitations to settle, the acceptance of which keeps a man poor. This knock was light and tentative, and yet had in it a certain assertion. "Come in," I called. venient invitations. He never waits to be invited twice. Sometimes he comes even when a response is withheld. I called more boldly, "Come in." The door opened slowly, and a person entered a little, old, dried-up-looking individual with a little, old, dried-up black face, surmounted by a little, old, dried-up black beaver. The white corners of two little eyes, or of what from their geographical position I supposed were eyes, were visible. The visitor, with his back to me, closed the door without the slightest sound, as carefully as if a creak would have blown the house down. Then he turned and faced me. "Well ?" I said. "What is it?" "Sarvent, suh. Is dis de place whar you gits you' money?" "No, it is not," I said, feeling that I was safe within the bounds of truth this far. ""Tain't?" He reflected a little while. "Dis de place dee tole me is de place." He gazed all around curiously. "Who told you?" I asked. "Dee. Who is you? Is you de American Rebelution?” His little eyes were on me scrutinizingly. "Well, I believe I am; but I am not sure," I said. "Well, you's de one." He looked relieved. "I is de son of de American Rebelution." This cast some doubt on my identity. "You are the son of which one?" I asked, having learned to be discreet. gol' cyurb to it big as log-chain, an' a swo'd by he side long as a fence-rail. An' as he come ridin' up he say, 'Did'n' I tole you to s'render?' he say. 'You don' s'render, don't you?' he say. An' Markiss Cornwallis he wuz so skeert he ain' know what to do. He jes turn white as you' shut, an' he ain' wait mer nuttin'; he jes took out hard as he could stave it. An' Gen'l Wash'n'n he teck out after him, an' he “Of bofe,” he said. “I wuz right dyah at de hollers, 'Stop! s'render!' says he. An' he say, time-in little York. I seed it all." "You saw it? What?" "Generul Wash'n't'n's surrender. I seed it. I seed it when he come a-gallinupin' up on he big iron-gray haws, an' I see de Markiss Cornwallis too. I see 'em bofe." I began to be interested. "You saw it all?” I asked. 66 Well, tell me about it." "Den you gwine gi' me my money?" "Yes, if it is not too much." 66 'Well, I'll tell you," he said. "You see twuz dis a-way. I wuz born right dyah in little York. My mammy she wuz de nuss for ole missis chillern, an' I wuz-" "Wait; how old are you?" I asked. "I don' know how ole I is. I so ole I done forgit. I know I is over a hunderd. I know I is, 'cuz I wuz twelve year ole when my mammy die, an' she die when she had nuss ole missis lars gal, jes after de holidays, de littles' one o' all, an' I know she wuz ol'er'n ole missis. I know I is over a hunderd. I reckon may be I is two hunderd-maybe I is." This was convincing, so I said, "Go on. You know all about it." “Oh! yes, suh, I knows all about it. Hi! how I gwine help it? Warn't I right dyah! seein' of it fum de top of de ole Father Aberham apple-tree in ole marster gyardin? Markiss Cornwallis he had done been dyah for I don' know how long, jes a-bossin' it 'roun', eatin' off o' ole marster bes' chany an' silver whar Nat rub up, an' chawin' tobacker, an' orderin' roun' jes big as ole marster. An' he use' to strut roun' dyah, an' war he beaver hat an' he swo'd, an' set on de front poach, an' drink he julep jes like he own all de niggers fum Pigeon Quarter spang to Williamsbu'g. An' he say ef Gen'l Wash'n'n jes dyah to set he foot dyah he'd teck de hide off him, he say. An' one day, jes after dinner, he wuz settin' on de poach a smokin' he cigar, an' come a nigger on a mule wid a note, au' he look at it, an' squint he eye up dis a-way, an' say, 'Heah he now.' An' de urrs say, 'Who? An' he say, 'Dat feller, Gen'l Wash'n'n.' An' he say, 'He want me to s'render.' An' dee all laugh. An' he say, 'You go back, an' tell him I say to come on, an' ef he come I'll teck de hide off'n him,' he say, 'an' I'll whup him wid one han' 'hine my back,' he say. "Talk 'bout surrender! he say. An' he sont de nigger back, an' holler for he haws an' he swo'd. An' fus' thing you know, heah come Gen'l Wash'n'n a-ridin' on a big iron-gray, a gol' pum'l to he saddle, an' a silver bit to he bridle long as you' arm, au' a I ain' gwine s'render,' says he. An' he wuz a-ketchin' up wid him; an' Markiss Cornwallis he teck out roun' a apple-tree-a gre't big apple-tree-a Father Aberham apple-tree. An' Gen'l Wash'n'n he teck out right after him, an' dyah dee hed it! Well, suh, you nuver see san' fly so in you' life. Fus' Markiss Cornwallis, an' den Gen'l Wash'n'n. Markiss Cornwallis he wuz ridin' of a little sorrel pacin' myah, an' she wuz jes a-movin'; her legs look like guinea-lens. Gen'l Wash'n'n he wuz ridin' of a big iron-gray haws, an' he wuz gwine like elephant. De myah war'n' nowhar. An' ev'y now an' den Gen'l Wash'n'n he hollers out an' say, 'S'render! an' Markiss Cornwallis he say, 'I ain' gwine s'render,' says he, an' he wuz jes a-flyin'. An' pres'ny Gen'l Wash'n'n he come up wid him--even-so, an' he draws he swo'd, an' Markiss Cornwallis he holler out an' say, 'I s'renders,' says he. But 'tain' no use to say 's'render' den. Gen'l Wash'n'n he done git he blood up, an' he say. ‘Oh yes,' he say. 'Who dat you gwine teck de hide off'n him?' he say, au' he jes drawed he weepin', an' he giv' a swipe, an' he cut he head right clean off, he did. Yes, sub; he done dat thing, 'cuz I seed him. Whar wuz I? I wuz right up in de apple-tree. What did I do? I jes slip' down out'n de tree an' hol' Gen'l Wash'n'n haws for him while he wuz cuttin' he head off; an' when he git thoo, he say, 'Felix, how's de Cun'l an' de ladies, au' de fambly?' an' he wipes he swo'd, an' put 't back in de scabbard, an' when he git ready to mount, he gi' me two an' threepence, an' says he, Felix, a gent'man nuver gies less 'n dat to a servant,' says he. Suh? "Well, suh, anything you choose. You is a gent'man, I see; an' Gen'l Wash'n'n he say a gent'man nuver gies a servant less 'n— Thankee, sub; I knowed you wuz a gent’man.” THOMAS NELSON PAGE. BROAD VIEWS. THEY were talking over the interesting point of how far a million dollars could be made to go, when one of them said: "A million silver dollars piled on top of each other would make a column two miles high." "Really?" said the other. "Jove! What a broad view of the world one could get from the top of that column!" "Yes," was the response. "And what a broad view of everything you could take at the foot of it, if you owned the column!" SCAGGS'S MARE POLLY. THEY were talking about horses, and more particularly about Nancy Hanks's wonderful record of 2.054. Every one seemed to be more or less impressed with the marvellousness of this record except old Mr. Scaggs, a retired farmer. "She's fast, yes," he said. "But I oncet owned a mare up on the farm as could beat her. That mare was lightnin' on legs. Polly was her name-named her after Mrs. Scaggs's mother, and a finer woman you never met. She could bake all around any other woman in the county, an' when it came to me bein' sick, she'd nurse me tenderlier than as if I wasn't a son-in-law at all, but her own boy. My, how she could trot!" "Your mother-in-law?" asked one of the circle. "No; the hoss," snapped Scaggs, with fire in his eye. "I'm talkin' about the hoss. I bought her when she was eight years old from old Mrs. Tompkins. She wasn't much on looks, Mrs. Tompkins wasn't, but she was business all through. When her husband died she took charge of the grocery, an' added a millinery department to it, 'nd by Joe! inside of a year she was able to close up the grocery 'nd do nothin' but make hats. Tompkins used to hitch her up to the delivery wagon, you know, but of course-" "You don't mean to say that any man was ever mean enough to hitch his wife up to a grocery wagon, and make her haul the packages about town?" queried the inquisitive member of the party. "'Ain't said nothin' o' the kind," retorted Scaggs. "Don't you get too funny. I'm talkin' about the hoss. I was goin' on to tell ye how when old Mrs. Tompkins got makin' twodollar hats for the women folks 'nd sellin' 'em to 'em for ten, she give up the grocery business, 'nd so didn't have any use for the hoss old Tompkins had used for drivin' his delivery wagon. It happened I wanted a hoss 'bout that time, 'nd so I called on old Mrs. Tompkins to talk it over. She was only eight years old at the time, and hadn't much style about her, though she was calculated to be faster'n anything else in town. I ast old Mrs. Tompkins what she'd take, 'nd she says $24. "That's pretty high for an eight-year-old,' says I. 'I'll give ye a dollar'nd a half a year for the hoss. That's $12.' 666 'Make it two, and she's yours,' says old Mrs. Tompkins. "Throw in a hat for my wife,' says I, ''nd it goes.' 666 "Done,' says she. "So I bridled her, paid the money, 'nd led her home. Few days later some o' the boys, knowin' as I had sportin' blood, came an' ast me to let Polly trot on a mile track for the record. My wife didn't want me to at first, because she was a little off her feed, 'nd didn't approve of racin' anyhow, but when the boys offered a purse of $10 if she could beat 2.10, she let up. So I said all right, 'nd we set a date." "Well, what was the result?" asked the inquisitive youth. Two four for the mile," said Scaggs. "Two four?" cried the whole circle at |