siderations determine you, and then the woman will be plunged in shame and misery. I must guard against that, because Chane was my wife, and directly this affair with you is made public her father and the whole congregation will turn their backs on her, and she will be quite forsaken. And then I must look after Chane, because I But that is nothing to you. So one thing I tell you, short and clear, if you do not marry Chane I will kill you, so help me God! You are a circuit judge: I am only a Jew. You have a hundred ways of disarming me, but I will keep my word for all that.'

The judge turned pale, and raised his hand as if in protest; but Nathan got up and interrupted him sharply. "Take no oath. Keep your word, so that I need not keep mine. In a few days we shall be divorced. If you wish Chane to remain any longer in my house I have no objection for a few weeks. But once more: if within two months Chane is not your wife you are a dead man. Farewell.'

Nathan Goldenstein became the richest man in the neighbourhood; but his busy life was overshadowed by his sorrow and his atonement. His great wealth went to Chane's boys.

'Baron Schmule' is a story of Jewish stedfastness and endurance. It follows the fortunes of a boy who begins life as a pedlar of sweetmeats in the Ghetto, and ends it as baron, Christian, landowner, millionaire. Through the years of bitter privation and incessant work, the motive that spurs his flagging courage and keeps alive his resolve is the hope of revenge. Though his apostacy brings with it divorce from a beloved wife he even becomes a Christian; because in those days no Jew could be a landowner in Gallicia, and his determination is to buy the estates of the drunken and bankrupt vagabond who once cruelly injured him.

In The Picture of Christ' the character of the Bocher (bachelor) David is interesting and drawn with care. The writer's memory dwells with affectionate reverence on the admirable qualities of his old teacher, on his mysterious and melancholy personality, and on the beauty of his face. The silent scholarly man who has renounced a great career to do a doctor's work amidst the dirt and disease of the Ghetto, is the only man the Christian boys do not hurl mud at and abuse. The ghost of an old love story arises to ruffle his calm, but the unexpected rencontre only deepens his devotion to the needy, and clenches his determination to give them all his time and strength.

In the Jewish cemetery the 'gute Ort,' the rich man's grave

VOL. II.-NO. 8, N. S.

10

stone only differs from the poor man's in size, and perhaps in the comparison of the adjectives that describe the virtues of the deceased. The belief is that at the sounding of the last trumpet the angel of life will arise and go from stone to stone, calling the wicked to punishment and the just to everlasting bliss; but when there is no name the angel may pass by. So a stone without inscription' is of deep significance. It bears witness to a sinner who has incurred the most awful of Jewish curses-His name shall not be remembered '-and whose best hope is annihilation.

The objection that the Jews had to bringing their criminals before a Christian court, and their fashion of judging within the Ghetto and inflicting punishment, has been alluded to. Not only did they hate to cast additional disgrace on the national name, but some offences would have found no precedent in any Christian penal code. How would any government have punished the old soldier who was discovered eating sausages on the Day of Atonement? or the poor shoemaker who prayed to a picture of Christ and answered the Rabbi in a spirit of agnosticism that went near to cost him his life? And the beautiful mother buried between her boy babies, who dragged father and husband down to damnation with her what had she done to bring the dreadful curse on her head?-Leah, with the long hair, the most beautiful Jewess in Barnow. Unlike the rest of her race she was a blonde, with rosy cheeks and deep blue eyes and splendid golden hair that fell around her shoulders and below her knees like a mantle of gold. She was the spoiled darling of her home as well as the beauty of the town-so spoiled and wilful that one lover after the other was dismissed, and yet her parents did not interfere. The old marriage agent used to say, 'I hope to live until two things come to pass-Leah's marriage and the coming of the Messias. Certainly the last is more likely than the first.' In the end she fixed her choice on Ruben Rosemann, a handsome, well-educated man, suspected of liberal ideas. Before the marriage the young people had a long and mysterious interview, and the parents heard Ruben make his bride a solemn promise, but what it was remained a secret. Leah looked more beautiful than ever under the marriage canopy, though her most brilliant ornament had disappeared. It is the Jewish law that a woman must cut off her hair (just before her marriage) and cover her head with the 'scheitel,' a silken or woollen cap. The union was a happy one, but two children died directly after they were born. The Rabbi

asked Leah if she was conscious of any secret sin. She turned pale, but firmly answered No. Just before the birth of her child she insisted, though her husband and her physician both forbad it, on spending the Day of Atonement in the school where the Jews go to pray.

That was to be her ruin.

The air of the old school is never exactly impregnated with the spices of Araby, but on this occasion there prevails a suffocating and poisonous stench, arising from the innumerable wax candles and from the breath of so many people who pray there for hours, weep, and, unfortunately, perspire. It was an atmosphere in which the healthiest person might faint away; all the more a delicate person in Leah's state of health. She lost consciousness, and with a low cry sank from the stool on which she had been kneeling. The women pressed forward and attended to her. They loosened her clothes, and held twenty smelling bottles to her nose at once. But suddenly they flew back like lightning—a resounding shriek from a hundred voices, and then silence, the silence of deepest horror.

Leah's scheitel' had got pushed aside, and from under it streamed unchecked the closely packed-away hair, and lay like a cloud of light about her face that looked beautiful and pale as death.

That had been Leah's secret.

Ruben was able to rescue her from the furious crowd that was ready to lynch her on the spot; but the vengeance of the congregation pursued them both, and the ultimate fate of the poor young wife was a tragic one.

As long as Franzos keeps to short sketches and stories he is eminently successful. The author's strong point is his intimate knowledge of these half-barbaric lands and people, and he is at his best among the Polish Jews. Their social and political position and marked national character afford a setting that stands above the need of high seasoning.

If any corrupt official, or unjust steward, finds Western Europe too hot for him, let him seek office under Austrian rule in Gallicia. He may trample on the whole Decalogue, and no one will find fault with him unless some particularly virtuous peasant turns Hajdamak and takes the law into his own hands; in which case the brigand captain may pay him a midnight visit, from which he will not recover. In the beginning of A Fight for

Right,' Taras Barabola is the god of village idolatry. He is as mild as a lamb, as just as a judge, of angelic goodness, and superhuman strength. The unjust steward and the corrupt official of the story manage, by perjury and bribery, to win a suit that Taras brings against them for the public good. So the Ruthene peasant goes to Vienna to lay his cause before the Emperor. Here is a situation that the giants of fiction have made their own, and in using it an author must suggest comparison with mighty shades. Franzos avails himself of the impressions made by a great city on the rural mind, but he hardly throws new light on an experience that has been often described. He brings into prominence the hero's gradual conviction that the question of such overwhelming importance to himself means just nothing to this bustling world, and he succeeds in interesting us in the dogged patience of the man, and the dumb misery with which he waits weeks and months before an audience is granted. There is no suspense as to his success, for Taras comes home with despair in his face, and is his own historian. He is not even civilised enough to feel grateful for the imperial admiration of his costume and the imperial curiosity about his furs and boots. It is after this that he enters on his duties as Avenger, and we have scenes of bloodshed that would make the fortune of a melodrama.

It is, however, as a guide in an unfamiliar world that English readers will follow Franzos. Like the magician of fairy stories, who could summon any scene into his magic mirror, he offers a sight of lives and interests that few of us could peep at without him. Such superficial phases as the mirror would reveal, or the ordinary tourist observe, he sketches with effect. He lays stress on the physical conditions under which the people he writes of live, and we are made familiar with their country. The endless heaths stretch far away to the foot of the Carpathians that form the horizon like a bank of never-changing storm clouds. The Pruth winds capriciously through the plains past cornfields and woods and common lands; in the town of Barnow the unclean air of the Ghetto oppresses us; the close and dirty streets defile us. Local colour is necessary to his purpose as a background, but intricate architectural details, or studies of atmospheric effects that read like a carefully kept diary of the weather, would be out of relation to what he has to say. All his thought and care and power he concentrates on giving a true picture of this barbarous life to Western Europe.

The Scorpion' said: 'Ah, no, no, Capeetan! No been throw nothing at myself. Beesiness!-I'se been com' for beesiness. Big thing, Capeetan !'

The last phrase was spoken with such a profound wink that Hindhaugh held his hand, and, addressing the man as one would an ill-conditioned dog, said: 'Don't keep bowing and scraping there, you tastrel. Get it out, sharp!'

The 'Scorpion' whispered: 'No been talk up here. Keep ship one hour, two hour, three hour. You'se been com' with me, and I speak you somethin' myself.'

Like many of his tribe, this interesting native spoke a kind of English which is not heard anywhere else on the Mediterranean shore. A few of the people on the Rock learn to talk very well to our men, but most of those who come about the ships use a picturesque lingo in which myself' takes the place of quite a variety of parts of speech.