He enables him to get though a great deal of work. During many years, first as secretary, latterly as treasurer and vice-president, he has been a staunch friend of the Canadian Institute. is a prominent member of the Scottish societies of Toronto. He is an honorary member of the Library Association of the United Kingdom and of the Minnesota Historical Society, an active member and Canadian representative of the American Manuscript Commission and an ordinary member of about twenty English and American societies. He lent a vigorous hand in organizing the meeting of the British Association at Toronto in 1897, and was the local treasurer of that body. He has written a number of monographs on historical and other questions in a perspicuous and fluent literary style. In the literary life of the city he fills no small place, and his opinion is sought, not in vain, by all in need of counsel, research, and judgment in the prosecution of literary work. For one who has no association with politics, Mr. Bain is admirably posted on political measures, men, and events, thus dispelling the illusion that to be in close touch with the public movements of the time you must belong to one party or the other. On the question of the British connection, however, no man holds more pronounced views, and Mr. Bain has always shared to the full the sentiment of attachment to British institutions and ideals that dominates the community. In social life it would be hard to find a more congenial companion. A good listener, but an equally good raconteur, a keen relish for genuine fun, a mind stored with anecdote and literary reminiscences, a kindly and dignified manner touched with the flavour of that fine old-fashioned courtesy one sometimes associates with the old world rather than the new, are a few of the characteristics that have drawn about him a host of appreciative friends. He is now in the vigour and prime of later life with many years of service and useful activity before him. The generations to come will hold him in grateful remembrance. A. H. U. Colquhoun. SHE AND I. By Etta Callaghan WE had been chatting together some time before I discovered her advanced ideas of womanhood. Then we differed on some little point, and I happened to add, "There is not a particle of the New Woman' about me, not that I mean to infer that there is a touch of it about you either." She replied, "But there is more than a 'touch' of it about me; I am a new woman, out and out." I immediately became on the qui vive for new impressions, for this was the first time I had encountered one who was avowedly an out-and-out new woman. She did not look in the least like one. The new woman, as she existed in my imagination, wore clumsy boots, a short skirt, an ill-fitting bodice, and -invariably-spectacles, not a becom ing pince-nez, but uncompromising spectacles, hooked securely behind the ears. She, on the contrary, had no glasses, and, as she occasionally tapped her foot, I noticed that she wore a dainty pair of fine kid slippers. As she moved across the room to find a book from which to illustrate a point, I knew by the gentle frou-frou that she wore a silk petticoat, and when she resumed her chair I saw that her well-cut serge skirt had a scarlet taffeta lining with a foot frill edged with two rows of black velvet bébé ribbon. Her silk blouse had ruchings of chiffon on it, and it had such a pretty, soft collar-my imaginary new woman wore stiff collars and Ascot ties. Judging by appearances I was inclined to doubt the sincerity of her as sertion; but she assured me that she was in earnest, and she began forthwith to talk so learnedly that I almost had to gasp for breath. I realized that I was hopelessly behind the times, because so much of what she said was "Greek" to me. She talked about "the woman movement," and "the economics of women," and many other unfamiliar topics, but the phrase "economics of women occurred so often that I felt I must expose my ignorance and ask the meaning of the term if I were not to lose the gist of her remarks. As nearly as I could make out, "the economics of women" means something about every woman being in a position to support herself; but I am even yet rather 'hazy about its exact import, as she was so thoroughly conversant with the subject that it seemed too trivial to need much explanation. In common parlance, she thinks we are too ready to dance to whatever tune the men may choose to play, and she says the result is that we lower their ideals. That, if we are content with being less than their equals intellectually, they will be content to have us remain so, but that if we study to improve our minds and raise our standard of excellence in every direction, they will be compelled to raise their standard too, and the result will be a higher intelligence all round. I mildly suggested that, instead of feeling that they must study to keep pace with our improved intellects, they might turn their attention to those girls who were willing to look up to them on their pinnacle of intellectual superiority, but she assured me that I was mistaken. their ambition might merely be turned in another direction, rather than that it had dropped altogether. But she would not agree to this, and repeated her "narcotic theory." Then she told me that the key-note to the new woman movement was individuality, and she gave me to understand that, to realize our highest good, we must strengthen and broaden, and raise our individuality so that we may be able to cope with all the great questions of the day, and to take our place on the platform of intellectual equality with the men. I suppose I ought to have been inspired with an ambition for a seat on that platform. Perhaps' because I am behind the times in this woman movement, or perhaps because I am mentally indolent, I felt, as she pictured it all, that I should much prefer a seat in the audience where I might look up at that platform and hear the others carry on the discussion. And then she talked of the manysidedness of life, of the numerous outside interests with which women might connect themselves, and of all the good they can do for humanity. When she turned the conversation into another channel, it was not because she had exhausted her supply of arguments, but, I fear, because my ideas were not sufficiently advanced to pursue the subject any further. Each carried away her own impressions of the other. I dare say she considers that I am hopelessly hedged in a narrow groove of conventionality, and that my life is as unattractive and uninteresting as ruts are supposed to be. On the other hand, I found her most profoundly interesting. She talked like a book and she made me feel such a shallow, incompetent sort of individual, in need of a mental tonic of some kind. But, for all that, I think I should become very tired of being a new woman, for her course is like that of a cyclist tak She defined marriage as "an excellent narcotic for disappointed ambition," and when I insisted upon a further elucidation of that definition she said that was the only way she could account for the fact that so many girls with lofty ideals were content to marrying a short cut through a strange field, most uninteresting men, and, while letting all their ambitions go, yet appeared to be perfectly happy. Again I ventured a protest by suggesting that where stones and thorns and rough places are to be encountered at every turn of the wheel. HEINRICH HEINE By W. A.R Kerr WITH ORIGINAL TRANSLATIONS OF SOME OF HIS THERE HERE is perhaps no foreign poet who is such a favourite with English readers as Heine. He is at once as sentimental as Orlando, and as cynical as Jaques. It is in his infinite variety that his charm lies. He was himself the strangest "bundle of contrasts" that ever lived: a Jew who was a pagan; a German who possessed the esprit gaulois; a man of feeling who said that love was "hell." With Heine's prose we have here nothing to do, only to recall a few of his songs. Heinrich Heine was born in Düsseldorf on December the thirteenth, 1799. For his own purpose he afterward said, he first saw the light on New Year's Day, 1800; and so ironically called himself one of the first men of the century." 66 His father, Samson Heine, though a somewhat slack, feckless individual, was a fine musician and greatly interested in matters of art. From his mother Heine inherited his intellectual qualities. She was a woman of high mental endowment. Though a Jewess by race, she was in religion a Deist of the age of Voltaire. She was very ambitious for the future of her children, three boys and a girl, the eldest of whom was Heinrich. It had been at first intended that the boy should enter the army, but with the downfall of Napoleon that career was closed, and Heine's mother was forced to seek out something else for her clever young son. In the light of SONGS. later days it is amusing to learn that the Church was seriously considered. Luckily both for Heine and the Church the proposal was dropped. With medicine he would have nothing to do. At last, in 1816, he was installed in the banking house of his Uncle Solomon in Hamburg. Heine had already had a boyish love affair with a strange girl called Sefchen, the daughter of a long line of hereditary executioners, from whom the taint of bloodguiltiness kept away less romantic youths. So on his arrival in Hamburg he was ready to fall at once desperately in love with his cousin Amalie, a girl of great beauty and charm. But when her father, Heine's uncle, found that his nephew had no business talent whatever, and that instead of adding up his columns of figures he was engaged in making love songs, the old banker decided it was time to get rid of him. He offered to help Heinrich with five hundred thalers a year if he would undertake the study of law. As he had no other prospects, Heine consented, and in 1819 set out for Bonn, carrying with him his unfortunate manuscripts. Heine's college days were not entirely given over to the assimilation of Justinian. Most of his hours were devoted to reading poetry, ancient, mediæval and modern. He was writing steadily by this time. His hopeless affection for Amalie seems to have thrown a gloom over his mind, and a great many disconsolate lyrics were the result. It is generally thought that the famous romance, "Mountain Echo," contains a reflection of his despair: MOUNTAIN ECHO. A horseman rides adown the glen, And forward moves the cavalier, "The grave is rest!" A tear rolls down the cavalier's cheek, And if in the grave alone is rest, An odd little poem, called "Instruction," gives what is probably Heine's later attitude towards his affair with his cousin Amalie. It is marked by that strange mingling of sentiment and cynicism for which the author is fam ous: DIE LEHRE. Mother to little bee: Whirr round the light he does, Youthful blood, silly blood Flares the light red anew, After the wandering habit of the German student, Heine shifted in 1820 from Bonn to Gottingen, but becoming involved in a duel he was rusticated, and he moved on to Berlin. As he had already acquired some little fame, he was taken up by the fashionable literary circle of the Prussian capital. At the house of Frau Varnhagen he came into contact with the most cultured and intellectual society in Germany. The impulse he received is evident by his publication in 1823 of two tragedies with a "Lyrical Interlude." This "Interlude" contained by far the best work Heine had yet done. The tiny poem which follows can hardly be matched in modern literature for its wonderful power of suggestion : A pine tree standeth lonely It slumbereth; while ice and snowflakes And of a palm it dreameth, One other example from the "Interlude" exhibits Heine's lifelong delight in folksong and myth. The original of these few verses breathes a melody which it would demand an English Heine to reproduce in translation : From tales of elf and fairy Where giant flowers languish And wan with love's sweet anguish Where all the trees are chattering And sweeter songs are trilling O that I might come yonder, In dreams I see it often, While in Berlin Heine had been very reckless of his health, and in 1823 he left the city for the seaside at Cuxhaven. On his road thither he passed through Hamburg, and there he was overwhelmed by a flood of old painful memories about his love for Amalie. The literary result of this sad return to the scene of his "Youthful Sorrows" was the collection of songs called the "Home-coming." A note of regret sounds through them all, now reckless, now cynical, now fanciful. The most famous of all Heine's songs, the "Lorelei," is to be found in the "Home-coming." As everyone is familiar with it, however, I have chosen another : As the moon with flashing effort On the deck we all were sitting, At her feet there I sat musing, Bells were ringing; boys were singing, Like a fairy tale were passing It was Heine's first sight of the sea at Cuxhaven which struck an almost untouched chord in German song. Till then the mystery, the ceaseless change, the subtle suggestiveness of the ocean, had been unnoticed in the Fatherland. Heine's sea poetry written in an odd irregular metre without rhyme, which is extraordinarily successful in his hands, but such lines as "Sunset" are very difficult to render at all adequately into English: SUNSET. The sun all lovely Has peacefully sunk down into the sea; is Strews them o'er with golden lights, From the time of the publication of the Book of Songs in 1827, in which may be found the originals of all the preceding selections, Heine led till 1831 a wandering life. He was by turns in England, Italy, Germany and Heligoland. Then came the Revolution of July, and Heine could not keep himself away from Paris. There he arrived in May of 1831. In Paris Heine met with continuous success. His work was of all kinds criticism, history and special foreign correspondence. No more verse appeared till 1844, when the "New Poems" were published. The same year also saw the production of "Germany" and "Atta Troll." The following dainty little song is from the "New Poems: " Stars with tiny feet and golden Wander on high with step so light, Lest they should the earth awaken Sleeping in the lap of night. Listening stand the silent forests, And its shadowy arm the mountain, Hark! what broke the stillness yonder? Though Heine during his long stay in Paris had never ceased to heap ridicule on Germany, despite his forced gaiety, his genuine heart-sickness of exile finds a pathetic echo in one of the "New Poems: WHERE? When shall I have ceased to wander, Where at last my place of rest? Under southern palms far yonder, Or beside the Rhine's loved breast? Shall some desert lonely hold me, Ever on! The heavens cover In 1845 Heine was attacked by a first slight stroke of paralysis. In the next year he went to the Pyrenees in search of health, but the quest was vain. One May day in 1848 he took his last walk-"the last day of his life," he himself calls it. From that hour on for eight endless years the poor invalid lay bolstered up with pil |