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olics. The "Fragments" show, throughout, an entire lack of sympathy with English character, but contain some just criticisms. The "Letters from Berlin" are not unlike the letters of any newspaper correspondent, except in that they are more than usually interesting. The essay on "Poland" contains an excellent description of the life and manners of the Polish peasants and noblemen.
How shall I describe the "Book of Ideas," since it is indescribable? Fancy, whim, enthusiasm, poetry, iconoclasm—all are jumbled together. In eloquent words the author tells of his admiration for Napoleon, and laments the fate of his hero. Heine, when a child, saw the emperor once at Düsseldorf, and all his life he remembered those lips that "needed only to whistle in order to make the entire Holy Roman Empire dance," and the brow behind which were passing thoughts so great that "one of them would give a German author material enough to last his lifetime." In this book and in the "Memoirs" he lays bare his own early life with wonderful frankness. Most people would have kept back some things—would have smoothed others over. Heine tells everything down to childish mortifications and disappointments. He even jests about the mortifying blunder that he made in the Latin of his final oration at Göttingen. "The Romans would certainly not have had time enough left to conquer the world, if they had been obliged to learn Latin first. These happy people knew, even in the cradle, what nouns have the accusative in ine."
Altogether, the "Reisebilder" is a remarkable book. It is full of merits, and full of defects, but it is never commonplace.
In few places in literature can we find fresher or more beautiful descriptions. Too often men look at nature through the dusky spectacles of their predecessors, and describe what they see in stock phrases handed down from generation to generation. Heine saw her with keen and loving eyes, and described her with the inspired words of the poet. This is the way Spring came on, just before the journey to
Italy." The sun broke forth out of heaven; the mountains shuddered with delight and their snow-tears flowed mightily; the icy covers of the seas crashed and broke; the earth opened its blue eyes, out of its bosom sprang forth the loving flowers, and the resounding woods, green palaces of the nightingales; all nature smiled and the name of this smile was Spring."
The few lyrics in the book are musical and have that peculiar atmosphere which makes the best poetry untranslatable. They are so simple in expression, too, that they tempt the leader to try his skill, but somehow any transition seems lamentably wooden, and falls far below the exquisite poetry of the original.
With all its poetry, the book is full of wit in fact, wit is almost the predominating feature. Droll conceits and keen sarcasms abound on every page.
But the sarcasm often becomes cruel irony, and mars the beauty of the work. Nothing is safe. Other men's reputations, things sacred to the readers, are all food for Heine's wit. Hand in hand with this goes a disfiguring cynicism that spoils much of the best work; not however, an affected cynicism, but a natural outcome of the unhappiness of Heine's life. The vulgarity of some parts of the book has already been mentioned. This is the worst defect. Sarcasm and gloom can be forgiven a man who has led an unhappy life; but it is intolerable that a writer capable of such heights should descend below the level of common decency.
I have given but an imperfect estimate of the "Reisebilder;" it is too many-sided to be described in a few paragraphs. Whatever may be its faults, it is a wonderfully interesting book-there is not a dull page between its covers—and it contains much that is very beautiful and noble. BERTHA PETERSON.
My First Shot.
The morning came when I, aged fourteen, was to go hunting for the first time. I had my new gun and the necessary ammunition in readiness and I was in such a state of nervous anticipation that I hardly looked at my breakfast, al-