Castelar has remarked that: "In Belles Lettres we have the illustrious Celt, Emilia Pardo Bazán, whom, living, we count among the immortals, and whose works, though of yesterday, are already denominated Spanish classics." Garcia, in his History of Spanish Literature, calls her the Spanish de Staël. Rollo Ogden writes: "No masculine pen promises more than that of Pardo Bazán. Her equipment is admirable; it is based on exhaustive historical and philosophical studies, from which she passed on to the novel. In this transition does she resemble George Eliot, whom, however, she surpasses in many respects." G. Cunninghame Graham remarks: "We have not in England, no, nor in Europe, so illustrious a woman in letters as Pardo Bazán." Goran Bjorkman declares that "Among Spanish writers, Pardo Bazán most resemble Turgénieff, excelling him, however, in the sane gayety of her temperament." Senora Pardo Bazán is descended from a noble and illustrious family, in whose genealogy Victor Hugo sought the characters of his Ruy Blas. An only daughter, her childhood was passed amid her father's extensive library. When scarcely sixteen she was married to the scholarly gentleman, Don José Quiroga. Several subsequent years were occupied in European travels and study, at the conclusion of which she consecrated herself to the literary labors which have yielded so rich a harvest. To enumerate these masterpieces of contemporaneous Spanish letters would be superfluous. They have been translated into every European tongue. Doña Emilia, as she is affectionately called by the Spanish people, passes her winters in Madrid, her salon being the rendezvous of the literary, political and diplomatic world. The author smacks not of the bas bleu; she is a simple woman in the truest sense of the word, and a regal grande dame as well. Annabel Hord Seeger. A GREAT GRANDSON OF LOUIS XVI Over one hundred and thirteen years ago, in Paris, at ten in the morning of the twenty-first day of January, seventeen hundred and ninety-three, Louis Seize bowed his head beneath the guillotine's blade, as the Abbé Edgeworth called aloud, "Son of Saint Louis, ascend into heaven!" and as the surging multitude sent up the wild shout, "Vive la République!" A few months ago, in Paris, at ten in the morning of the twenty-first day of January, nineteen hundred and six, two automobiles drew up before the parish church, Saint-Denis de la Chapelle, whose historic walls, fifteen centuries since, enclosed during life the intrepid and holy patroness of France, Geneviève de Nanterre; before whose shrine, five centuries since, the glorious virgin Savior of the realm, Jeanne d'Arc, passed an entire day in prayer; whose sacred aisles were ever the avenues for the royal feet in ancient times, on the termination of the coronation ceremony.