THE WORKERS THE existence of the no sooner HE existence of the critic and his lems of the employer and the employed. This criticism was no sooner made than Mr. Wyckoff met it by resolving to enter the ranks of "unskilled labor"; to live by the toil of his hands, the sweat of his brow, and the ache of his back; and thus to investigate for himself experimentally the problems which he had been discussing theoretically as a student. Promptly putting his resolution into execution, he started out with an empty purse in his pocket and a loaded pack on his back, to take up the life of a tramping workman. The Workers is the record of this tramping expedition, and relates the author's experiences as a day laborer at West Point, a porter of a summer hotel in the highlands of the Hudson, a hired man at an insane asylum, a farmhand, and a "buddy" buddy" in a Pennsylvania logging camp. work is sometimes defended on the ground that Public Opinion cannot be relied upon to form, without guidance, sound judgments concerning works of literature and art. Whatever may be the defects of Public Opinion as a critic, it is unquestionably quick and sure in its recognition of the man who does something worth doing in spite of opposition and difficulties. This is certainly the case with Mr. Walter Wyckoff and his recently published book, The Workers. Mr. Wyckoff, who is a lecturer on Sociology in Princeton University, was a year ago unknown to the reading public; his name was not even seen on the lists of contributors to the popular periodicals; and to-day he easily takes his place among the prominent and talked-of younger American writers. It is not often that a new book, and a first book at that, springs into wide and favorable repute so quickly and so surely. But it is not difficult to put one's finger on the exact cause of a success at once so sudden and so sound. Mr. Wyckoff has accomplished something in a fresh and unworked field, and he has described his achievement in the same simple, natural, and straightforward spirit in which he performed it. A difficult and unexpected thing well done, that is the secret. In a modest preface Mr. Wyckoff tells the reader how he came to undertake the two years' expedition of which his book is the record. While a guest at a country house not far from New York a fellowguest, a man of affairs and practical experience, genially twitted him with being a theorist in Sociology, with knowing little of the actual perplexities and prob THE WORKERS. By Walter A. Wyckoff. Illustrated. Charles Scribner's Sons, 12mo, $1.25. Such is the scheme of The Workers— on the face of it apparently a very simple one, and announced and narrated in so unassuming a way by the author that the magnitude of the task and the difficulties in the way of its accomplishment are likely at first to escape the reader's appreciation. But one is not long in discovering the real facts in the case. A man of university education, with carefully trained tastes, accustomed to the companionship of cultivated men and women, knowing and appreciating the pleasures of a highly organized social life, proposes to go out and dig sewers, mix mortar, heave stone, cart garbage, eat coarse and often wretched food, and to subject himself to hardships, suspicion, contempt, and vulgar abuse that is the undertaking stated in plain English. We need to read only a page or two of the book before beginning to understand that this is not a mere curious and adventurous "WE BREATHE THE HOT AIR, HEAVY WITH THE SMELL OF FRESH SOIL, AND THE SWEAT DRIPS FROM OUR FACES UPON THE DAMP CLAY '' attempt to do something out of the common, but a sympathetic and carefully planned effort to study and describe certain phases of human life that escape the ordinary observer. We entirely believe Mr. Wyckoff when he says of his experiment: I entered upon it with no theories to establish and no conscious preconceptions to maintain." The impartiality and frankness of The Workers bears him out in this statement, and it is this attitude that makes his book of acknowledged value as a study in Sociology. But we cannot help thinking that he started out at least with a vigorous faith in human nature and a belief, like Abraham Lincoln's, in the wholesomeness and integrity of "the common people." At all events, such a faith is confirmed and strengthened by a reading of The Workers. And this we venture to consider the most valuable result of Mr. Wyckoff's investigations-not the light they throw on the study of Sociology, not the steps they take towards the solution of the labor problem; but the assurance they give that, in spite of the perils of immigration, degradation, and illiterate ignorance, in spite of the hatred of the rich by the poor and the contempt for the poor of the rich, in spite of the wretched condition of the great masses of laborers, in spite of much selfishness and cruelty and meanness of spirit among both employers and employed, there is nevertheless a latent instinct of human brotherhood in almost every man, no matter how low down in the social scale, that can be aroused if he is properly treated and that constitutes a real defence against very serious social disorders. It would be a pity, however, to give the impression that The Workers is merely a "problem" book. Those who care nothing for social problems will read it because it is an extremely interesting story told with literary skill of a very high order. Mr. Wyckoff writes in a style that combines in an unusual degree simplicity and directness with imagination and delicacy. His pages are full of bits of quiet humor, of graceful descriptions of scenery, of deft sketches of character, that a reviewer is tempted to quote. Here, for example are two roadside pictures happily drawn in a few telling lines : There was no wrench on the next morning in parting with the family with whom I boarded, unless my landlady shared my regret at leaving. She was a meek little woman who slaved heroically at household work to support her daughter, who studied stenography and typewriting, and her invalid husband who led the life of a professional invalid. He had tried upon me highly colored tales of his career as a soldier, and of what he would have done in life but for his illwith small services to his wife, and he gave me up health, tales which I soon learned to interrupt as hopelessly unsympathetic. A baseball game on the Asylum grounds attracted a large crowd one afternoon; and as Hunt and I drove past on an errand, I caught sight of the ex-soldier, who, at his home, was too great a sufferer to contribute even a helping hand at the housework toward his own support, but who here was dancing in vigor of delight over a two-base hit. I sat on the door-step to rest, and invited the children to look at the pictures, which they did, hesitatingly at first, with timid advances, in which curiosity struggled with their fear of the unfamiliar. But they grew bolder as I invented stories to match the illustrations and presently they were all nestling about me in the ease of absorbed attention. One little girl of four or five, who had eyed me at first with an anxious look of alarm, now stood leaning over my shoulder with an arm about my neck, and her soft brown hair, escaped from her sun-bonnet, touching my face while she looked down upon the pictures, and I could feel her breath quickening as the story neared its climax. The present volume is to be followed. by another recounting Mr. Wyckoff's further experiences in the West, and it is safe to say that it will be welcomed by a large circle of appreciative readers whenever it appears. Lawrence F. Abbott. CORRESPONDENCE Dear Sir: Is sympathy old-fashioned or of this time? There seems to be among a certain portion of the book-buying public a vague dissatisfaction with the "gentle " reviewer, a feeling that new writers are too gingerly handled and too much encouraged to produce their wares-a Malthusian sentiment that the safety of the race lies in the restriction of production. The more exacting of these objectors would have the whole truth about a book before they buy it, neither half truths nor phases of the truth nor one man's idea of it, but the very "Truth that careless angels know." Others, realizing the impossibility of separating the precious from the base according to a fixed standard of worth where a literary product is concerned, would at least have the reviewer look on the dark side of the work in his hands. Let him tell the good if he has time, but let him omit a defect at his peril. There is something, of course, to be said for this point of view. Putting honesty (which we venture to take for granted) out of the question, it is quite possible to train the critical sense so that imperfections are as plain to it, and as distressing, as blots on a white page, while very considerable merits shrink into the background. From a critic thus trained an author may learn much, and the public not a little. But it is interesting to find through a recent reprint of Walter Pater's reviews for the Guardian that the most self-critical author of our own time was the most lenient and generous of anonymous reviewers. With the humility that belongs to high endeavor and the sympathy of large knowledge he approaches his contemporaries respectfully, almost with a certain gracious reverence, giving cause to no one to say, as poor Stevenson said: By writing a novel-even a bad oneI do not make myself a criminal for anybody to insult." More than this, with "eyes to seek the hidden clue," he finds the subtle virtue of a work and reveals it, enriching by so much the minds of the unobserving. This is the critic's art, if not the art of which Browning wrote: "For don't you mark We're made so that we love First when we see them painted, things we have passed Perhaps a hundred times nor cared to see; In Mr. Pater's own writing no word apparently is set down with unconsidering haste. There are exquisite chapters in "Gaston de la Tour" in which the beauty of the phrasing would seem surpassing in comparison with most of the work of the time, and for which the editor apologizes, saying that "they have certainly not received the revision which the author would have been careful to give them before he allowed them to appear among his published writings." It would be natural for an author less considerate of his medium to fear the judgment of so delicate a craftsman. Mrs. Humphry Ward, for example, so careful of the type, she seems so careless of the single word, might well have supposed that Mr. Pater fresh from his finely wrought sentences would find in Robert Elsmere" something, perhaps not a little, to object to. And, knowing his careful studies in religion, and his marvellous knowledge of its effect upon the temperament and character of men, she might have dreaded his estimate of her success in the field of the Tendenz-Roman. But how much of the charm of tolerance and the beauty of the broad view may be learned from the review of "Robert Elsmere"! "It abounds in sympathy with people as we find them, in aspiration towards something better-towards a certain ideal-in a refreshing sense of second thoughts everywhere." Robert himself is certainly worth knowing— a really attractive union of manliness and saintliness, of shrewd sense and unworldly aims, and withal with that kindness and pity the absence of which so often abates the actual value of those other gifts." And again: "Mrs. Ward has been a true disciple in the school of Wordsworth and really undergone its influence. Her Westmoreland scenery is more than a mere background; its spiritual and, as it were, personal hold on persons, as understood by the great poet of the Lakes, is seen actually at work, in the formation, in the refining of character." Could all criticism be of this nature there would no longer be any ground for the assertion that people cannot be taught literature-taught, that is, to read. It is the truth, but the truth seen from the "gentil" point of view, in the old Chaucerian sense. Nor is it indiscriminate praise. Mr. Pater does not hesitate to say of the impul sive Robert: " It strikes us as a blot on his philosophical pretensions that he should have been both so late in perceiving the difficulty, and then so sudden and trenchant in dealing with so great and complex a question." He does not hesitate to warn Mr. Saintsbury that "there are still some who think that, after all, the style is the man"; he discriminates between the poet and the poetic scholar in writing of Mr. Gosse; but his effort is to draw attention to the virtues in a book in which virtue exists, rather than to faults which are not of its essence. He judges the work before him not always in its relation to the great best, but with reference to the average, and enters so far as he can into the author's intention. This does not make of a review a sensation, it furnishes only a sober amusement to the reader, it gives little scope for a sarcastic gift; but is it not calculated, after all, to raise the general level not merely of writing, but-what is nearly as important of appreciation? E. L. Cary. Ο NOTES OF RARE BOOKS NE of the questions that is most constantly asked an old collector is this: "What book or books shall I read that will teach me to be a wise and careful buyer?" Alas, there is no such book written for bookcollecting. Like other collecting, it is largely a matter of taste and experience. What can teach a man to observe nature, to know all the joys of an October or June day? What book can teach a man to admire a Raphael or Andrea Del Sarto? Still, although many things cannot be taught by anything but experience, there are some books which are of infinite value to the collector, and which save him many mistakes and help him in a way to formulate his tastes. One essential to the successful book hunter is absolute, accurate knowledge. One frequently hears Lowndes' "Bibliographical Manual" mentioned, and sometimes with asperity; and yet it is conceded, today, to be upon the whole the most useful-yes, essential—“tool" the collector can have. Many hundred special bibliographies have been issued since-in fact, almost every field of learning now has its special bibliography, but none that are not greatly indebted to Lowndes. One is reminded of this by the appearance lately of the British Museum Catalogue on "Shakespeare," which can be bought separately. It stands, we believe, as the best and fullest bibliography of the subject. Careful collations of all the original quarto plays, as well as the first four folios, are given, while the list of books relating to Shakespeare is the largest we have ever seen. Excellent as this list is, it has one serious limitation. It is only a catalogue of books cwned by the Museum, and one notes many gaps and omissions from its closely printed pages. Second, about as useful a little book on the general subject of collecting as one can find is Lang's "The Library." It does for the larger books what the primers do-gives in outline the important facts, in a pleasant way, of all that is essential to know as a background. The latest edition contains one or two additional chapters, and Mr. Dobson's contribution on "Illustrated Books" is delightful reading. One could not go far astray if one read this book once a year, and kept its facts clearly in mind while following its advice implicitly. This small quarto was published in Cambridge and contained poems by various writers on the death of Mr. Edward King. Only one copy, slightly imperfect, came up for sale at auction last year, and that was bought by Mr. Quaritch for £60. In 1886 a very tall copy fetched £101. It will thus be seen that this is a rarer book even than "Paradise Lost," which had the honor of requiring seven title pages of various dates to piece out the original sheets printed at the time of its first issue. One hears of so many tales of remarkable finds that are not so that one always likes to take each new one cum grano salis. A well-known bookseller, dealing principally in old and second-hand tomes, told me recently of an experience which comes seldom enough even to the persistent and industrious bookseller. A man called and told the bookseller that he had a small lot of books for |