imagination. The Pope and the King of Italy are both puppets in his hand; nor does he hesitate, under the guise of romance, to discuss the profoundest questions which agitate statesmen and theologians. But it is time to approach his masterpiece more nearly, and to hint what treasures will reward the reader's curiosity.

David Rossi, or David Leone, is the son of the Pope, though neither he nor his august father know the horrid truth; and he first appears before us in the streets of London with a frozen squirrel under his arm. A philanthropic doctor of Soho picks him up, restores him to life, and educates him as his son. The doctor, of course, is a prince in disguise, exiled for his liberal opinions, and the Pope's son and the Prince's daughter grow up together. Twenty years elapse, for Mr Caine is no pedant on the unities, and while David has grown into a first-class agitator, Roma-such is the name of the Princess-has taken Italy by storm. She is beautiful, she is wicked. Her abundant hair is raven-black, her complexion has a golden tint, her violet eyes have "a slight recklessness of expression." Nor is this all. She has lived at least so says the English diplomatist, and "lived," as it turns out, with the Prime Minister of Italy. Now, Signor Bonelli, the Prime Minister, is a really admirable villain. We do not believe that the old Adelphi ever provided a better specimen, and that is high praise indeed. And when David Rossi in a public speech couples his name with the golden-tinted lady, the fat (so to say) is in the fire. The old-fashioned drama of Samson and Delilah begins again. Roma, thirsting for revenge, swears that she will shear the locks of David, and Bonelli grins horribly. But Roma falls in love with the man she is sworn to betray, marries him privately in Bonelli's despite, saves him from a charge of murder, and dies to leave him valiant and broken-hearted.

This brief outline does no justice to the quick invention and the poignant emotion of the book. The personages

A surfeit of

emotions.

are a continual surprise to the reader; their names remain the same. David is always David, Roma is never anything but Roma. Yet they are seldom the same, for they change their views and their characters at a moment's notice. The churlish critic may murmur Inconsistency. But what does consistency matter, when a pleasing variety makes boredom impossible? On one page the stalwart David swears he will never look upon a woman. On the next "he had lifted her hand to his lips and was kissing it again and again." Nor is the lady far behind him. Upon page 106 Roma laughs to think "how little execution her gentleman's fusilade will make in this direction." On page 111 she has resolved to represent him in her celebrated fountain (of course she is a sculptor) as "John -the beloved disciple. That would fit him exactly. His mind was like a palace that is less beautiful in itself than for some monument of the past that is preserved within it." What an agreeable lightness this variety imparts to a book! You might get tired of David or of Roma, but Mr Caine doesn't give you the chance. He turns his characters inside out by a wizard's touch, and you read on with a new zest, wondering what will become of them on the morrow.

Splendid as Roma appears, we confess that we prefer David. The Admirable Crichton has been falling out of fashion, and here is he restored to us, finer than he was in Ouida's earliest romances. The socialist agitator goes hunting in the Campagna. Three times he rides his horse—“ a high, strong-limbed sorrel, with wild eyes and panting nostrils"-at a wall. Three times the horse refused.

"The hunters had waited to watch the result "-we quote Mr Caine's words," and as the horse came up for a fourth trial, with its wild eyes flashing, its nostrils quivering, and its forelock tossed over one ear, it was seen that the bridle had broken and Rossi was riding with one rein. 'He'll be lucky if he isn't hurt,' said some

one. 'Why doesn't he give it the whip over its quarters?' said another. But David Rossi only patted his horse until it came to the spot where it had shied before. Then he reached over its neck on the side of the broken rein, and with open hand struck it sharply across the nose. The horse reared, snorted, and jumped, and at the next moment it was standing quietly on the other side of the wall."

Of course it was, and we are left thinking of our old friend Guy Livingstone. But the episode is not concluded. Said Sir Evelyn, "You handle a horse like a man who began early." "Yes," said David Rossi, “I was a stable-boy two years in New York." A noble reply, worthy of a hero, who, when the Countess (or the Princess) asked him whether he had before been at the Grand Hotel (where, by the way, Mr Caine informs us, the women are "clothed in diamonds"-cold and comfortless), declares that he has been a waiter there. In brief, this son of a Pope is a perfect hero, and it is positively cruel of Mr Caine not to have let him live happy ever after with his raven-haired, violet-eyed, goldentinted, reckless, faithful Roma.

But if the last page disappoints us, we get plenty of emotion for our money. The hero and heroine pass their lives in the wildest transports. His "blood beats in stabs," while her throat is continually "throbbing." Now, "the muscles in his face quiver"; now, she is overcome by “a sense of suffocation"; and nothing can be more pleasing than these transports to those whose throats never throb, and whose muscles seldom quiver. But that, of course, is the great gift of the imaginative novelist: he takes us out of ourselves, and he bids us share the fruit of his erudition. Mr Caine has studied Rome profoundly, and he has given us the results of his study amiably sweetened. Thus, when a Princess explains the structure of the Opera House to a journalist, who must have been perfectly familiar with it, we overlook the absurdity, because we recognise that Mr Caine does not care to convey his instruction at first hand. Again, when a

high-born Italian lady exclaims, "How funny the men look in evening dress in the morning!" we know that Mr Caine is expressing not the lady's surprise, which she could not feel, but his own; and we thank him for it. We have been told that a certain chapter of the book was suppressed by the editor of a magazine. We have sought that chapter in vain, and we must protest in the name of letters against the editor's tyranny. That Mr Caine was guilty of impropriety we refuse to believe. He touches dangerous themes with a delicacy which Mr Pecksniff himself might have envied, and his book contains no page of offence. In conclusion, we owe Mr Caine our sincere thanks for beguiling our leisure with a romance of Italy. His characters are not wholly strange, you might meet the most of them in Bloomsbury or Bedford Park. But he has chosen such names for them as arouse the dullest curiosity. The Egyptian donkey-drivers call their beasts Mr Gladstone, Mrs Langtry, and what not, and Mr Caine has followed an amiable example. His donkeys (if he will pardon the term) are all princes, kings, and popes, and it is only on reading his book that we discover the pleasantry.

The Egyptian pleasantry.

OCTOBER.

THE cruel murder of William McKinley reminds us that Anarchy is still a living and a working terror. Not only was it cruel · it was purposeless, even for The cruel an anarchic outrage. The President of the murder of McKinley. United States represents neither privilege nor tyranny. He is not a ruler whose indolence the people is asked to support by unequal taxes; he is not the member of a sheltered family, which claims a high office by virtue of exalted birth. He is but a citizen, like the rest, and, as the world knows, the door of the White House stands open to all comers. Moreover there is no American so poor but he may arrive at the President's throne, upon which none ever sits without discovering that he is the servant, not the master, of the people. Nor is there any episode in McKinley's career which should condone or explain the act of vengeance. Throughout his double term of office he served his country by faithfully representing the majority. His policy of protection was popular, because it made America instantly prosperous. The war with Spain was not a war of his devising; had he been free to follow his own discretion he would have ensured peace by diplomacy or by gold. He was incapable of echoing such cries as "Remember the Maine!" or of appealing to the quickly roused hysteria of his countrymen. But no sooner was war inevitable than he assured its vigorous conduct, and so carried out with energy and effectiveness the will of the people. Nor was he following a personal inclination