"The Grandissimes " is replete with episode and mirth; "Dr. Sevier" is delicate and artistic.

Lovable "Uncle Remus" introduces us to "Brer Rabbit," "Brer Fox" and "Brer B'ar," who fascinate us alike with folk-lore and philosophy. "In Ole Virginia" we read of plantation life during the war. Who does not know "Marse Chan" and "Meh Lady"?

Another lures us away into the remote wilds of the Tennessee mountains, and lets us into the secrets of a gloomy and powerful race; and then we may emerge into the broad sunshine of the Kentucky "blue-grass region"— listen to the song of the cardinal, and revel in the witchery of meadows and hempfields, sunny skies, and wild forests, as pictured in the sketches of its literary artist. Maurice Thompson speaks of the South as the land

whose gaze is cast

No more upon the past."

XXIX

WESTERN LITERATURE

VERY like the New England colonists were the selfreliant pioneers of the West, working shoulder to shoulder, with push and energy, following the trail over the aboriginal mountains or through the dense woods, fighting Indians or wild beasts, mining for gold, or building camps and towns and their assertive, democratic character is seen in the books of their authors as in the speeches of their political leaders; and while in the South, we have the note of the lyrist or the romancer, in the West, we may gather tales of bold and picturesque adventure.

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With scant traditions and few high schools, the busy West made a tardy beginning in literature, but its growth has been unchecked, until to-day as we follow the sweep of civilisation across our broad land, we find an unbroken line of authors. We study the lives of some of these to learn what has been accomplished.

First, there is Bret Harte (1839-1902), who is a kind of historian of an early era, for his renown rests on his making California life—in phases both good and bad-known to the world in the days of the modern Argonauts. The son of a Greek professor

of Albany, New York, he was deemed a precocious rather than a scholarly boy; but even at seven, he pored over Dickens, just because he liked his way of saying things. As he older grew, visions of golden air-castles floated before him as he marvelled at the almost unbelievable stories that came to the Eastof the finds of California-stories that lured many a youth to the then distant Pacific coast.

When he was fifteen, his father having died, he took his mother and started West to pick up a fortune ready to his hand. What unusual scenes must have opened on the eyes of both mother and son when they reached California, coming as they did from dignified, conservative Albany! For they were at once face to face with novel and chaotic social conditions; this sparsely-settled land of majestic mountains, primeval forests, rugged canyons, and flashing sea-coast, had been suddenly altered into a very wildwood of freedom.

Few women were to be seen; but thousands of men in red shirts and high-topped boots were digging for gold; some of them heroic men, delving with restless, homesick energy for a hoard just large enough to transport their families thither. Rugged workmen, too, there were; and vagabonds and fugitives from justice and they varied the digging by gambling and duelling and much easy sword practice.

But Harte did not, at once, enter into his "El Dorado." After a time his mother married again.

He made many ventures, he policed the safes of the Wells and Fargo Express Company " from bandits; he was, in turn, collector, druggist, school-teacher, and secretary of the mint, and finally from being a printer, he graduated into editorial work, and was one of a group of young journalists -among them was Mark Twain - all full of hope in the future; and Harte was later made editor of the newly-started "Overland Monthly."

His various occupations had taken him all over the country, and with rare mimetic quality and keen sensitiveness for the spectacular, he had collected materials for many short stories, and these were his gold mines which he profitably worked for years. They were not like those of Dickens but written in the same sympathetic spirit and with Irving, Poe, and Hawthorne, he is conspicuous among our creators of the short story. His style is individual and he has an astounding vocabulary. Most of his characters are apprehended with realistic humour and pathos, from real life.

After several of Harte's books had been published and welcomed, it was suggested that they would be even more telling, if he would try romance. Then "The Luck of Roaring Camp appeared. Its characterisation was so rough and unusual that it was severely criticised, but it attracted notice everywhere, and "The Atlantic" immediately asked for another story after the same manner. This gave Bret Harte

reputation for his tales, while "The Heathen Chinee," somewhat later, made his name as a humourous poet.

At this period, Chinese "cheap labour was the war-cry and "He went for the Heathen Chinee!" and immortalised him. Many other poems of Harte's are very popular; so, as well, are his prose tales, for he was an incessant writer. He had no rival in his descriptions of old California sights and sounds. Sometimes he delivered lectures; the one most often heard was "The Argonauts of Fortynine." But slow of thought and speech, he cared little for lecturing.

A man of strong impulse, he was weak in character; he was true to a present friend while ignoring an absent one. He was uncertain in keeping appoint ments and most improvident in financial concerns; there was a vein of satire in his editorial columns that grew more evident; he did not hold his own in the world of letters; and after a few years, he lost favour in San Francisco. He came East and wrote for "The Atlantic" and other periodicals. He lived an irregular life, always beyond his income, and finally, in 1878, left his family to accept the consulate at Crefeld, Germany, and was soon transferred to Glasgow, Scotland; but he was "a wandering comet " - he did not meet his duties squarely — and was presently removed from the consular service. However, as a polished gentleman and a man of