it may be said that we all in Europe are Christians that is true enough.  To many of us Socialism is merely an emotion.  An emotion is much and is also less than nothing.  It is the initial impulse.  The real Socialism of to-day is a religion.  It has its dogmas.  The value of the dogma does not consist in its truthfulness, and M. Anatole France, who loves truth, does not love dogma.  Only, unlike religion, the cohesive strength of Socialism lies not in its dogmas but in its ideal.  It is perhaps a too materialistic ideal, and the mind of M. Anatole France may not find in it either comfort or consolation.  It is not to be doubted that he suspects this himself; but there is something reposeful in the finality of popular conceptions.  M. Anatole France, a good prince and a good Republican, will succeed no doubt in being a good Socialist.  He will disregard the stupidity of the dogma and the unlovely form of the ideal.  His art will find its own beauty in the imaginative presentation of wrongs, of errors, and miseries that call aloud for redress.  M. Anatole France is humane.  He is also human.  He may be able to discard his philosophy; to forget that the evils are many and the remedies are few, that there is no universal panacea, that fatality is invincible, that there is an implacable menace of death in the triumph of the humanitarian idea.  He may forget all that because love is stronger than truth.

Besides “Crainquebille” this volume contains sixteen other stories and sketches.  To define them it is enough to say that they are written in M. Anatole France’s prose.  One sketch entitled “Riquet” may be found incorporated in the volume of Monsieur Bergeret a Paris.  “Putois” is a remarkable little tale, significant, humorous, amusing, and symbolic.  It concerns the career of a man born in the utterance of a hasty and untruthful excuse made by a lady at a loss how to decline without offence a very pressing invitation to dinner from a very tyrannical aunt.  This happens in a provincial town, and the lady says in effect:  “Impossible, my dear aunt.  To-morrow I am expecting the gardener.”  And the garden she glances at is a poor garden; it is a wild garden; its extent is insignificant and its neglect seems beyond remedy.  “A gardener!  What for?” asks the aunt.  “To work in the garden.”  And the poor lady is abashed at the transparence of her evasion.  But the lie is told, it is believed, and she sticks to it.  When the masterful old aunt inquires, “What is the man’s name, my dear?” she answers brazenly, “His name is Putois.”  “Where does he live?” “Oh, I don’t know; anywhere.  He won’t give his address.  One leaves a message for him here and there.”  “Oh!  I see,” says the other; “he is a sort of ne’er do well, an idler, a vagabond.  I advise you, my dear, to be careful how you let such a creature into your grounds; but I have a large garden, and when you do not want his services I shall find him some work to do, and see he does it too.