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Title: The Chautauquan, Vol. 04, May 1884, No. 8
Author: Circle, Scientific, Literary, The Chautauquan
Language: English
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Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "The Chautauquan, Vol. 04, May 1884, No. 8" ***

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                            THE CHAUTAUQUAN.


                 VOL. IV.        MAY, 1884.       No. 8.

Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Circle.

_President_—Lewis Miller, Akron, Ohio.

_Superintendent of Instruction_—Rev. J. H. Vincent, D.D., New Haven, Conn.

_Counselors_—Rev. Lyman Abbott, D.D.; Rev. J. M. Gibson, D.D.; Bishop H.
W. Warren, D.D.; Prof. W. C. Wilkinson, D.D.

_Office Secretary_—Miss Kate F. Kimball, Plainfield, N. J.

_General Secretary_—Albert M. Martin, Pittsburgh, Pa.


Transcriber’s Note: This table of contents of this periodical was created
for the HTML version to aid the reader.

    Readings from Roman History                                437
    Commercial Law
        IV.—Real Estate                                        439
    Sunday Readings
        [_May 4_]                                              440
        [_May 11_]                                             441
        [_May 18_]                                             441
        [_May 25_]                                             442
    Readings in Art
        II.—The Painters and Paintings of Northern Europe      442
    Selections from American Literature
        Thomas Bailey Aldrich                                  446
        Bayard Taylor                                          446
        Celia Thaxter                                          447
    United States History                                      448
    The Divine Sculptor                                        451
    Reminiscences of Wendell Phillips                          451
    Hesitation and Errors in Speech                            454
    Astronomy of the Heavens for May                           455
    The Amusements of the London Poor                          457
    The Dead-Letter Office                                     460
    Agassiz                                                    462
    Trained Nurses                                             466
    Eight Centuries with Walter Scott                          467
    A Private Charity of Paris                                 471
    Self-Dependence                                            472
    Duties of Women as Mistresses of Households                473
    Military Prisoners and Prisons                             475
    C. L. S. C. Work                                           477
    The Chautauqua University                                  478
    Outline of C. L. S. C. Readings                            478
    Local Circles                                              478
    The C. L. S. C. in Canada                                  481
    Questions and Answers                                      482
    Chautauqua Normal Course                                   484
    Editor’s Outlook                                           485
    Editor’s Note-Book                                         488
    C. L. S. C. Notes on Required Readings for May             491
    Notes on Required Readings in “The Chautauquan”            494
    Talk About Books                                           495



_Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Circle for 1883-4_.




It has not been the compiler’s purpose in these extracts to produce a
continuous sketch of the history of Rome. That, in the space assigned,
would be impossible. It has not been his purpose to present to readers
incidents or events in Roman story judged to be the most important
or the most striking of all that were open to his choice. That, too,
would require more room than could here be commanded. His purpose has
been simply, from the long historic panorama of Rome, to cut out a few
pictures, at the same time interesting enough, compact enough, and
complete enough within themselves, to deserve and to admit being shown to
readers of THE CHAUTAUQUAN, in the comparatively small space that could
be allotted to them in these columns.

We begin with a tale taken from the legendary part of Roman history.
Livy tells it for us, Mr. George Baker being his English interpreter, a
practical one and excellent. A war is in progress between the Romans and
the Albans.


[_No date assignable._]

It happened that, in each of the armies, there were three twin brothers,
between whom there was no disparity, in point of age, or of strength.
That their names were Horatius and Curiatius, we have sufficient
certainty, for no occurrence of antiquity has ever been more universally
noticed; yet, notwithstanding that the fact is so well ascertained, there
still remains a doubt respecting the names, to which nation the Horatii
belonged, and to which the Curiatii; authors are divided on the point;
finding, however, that the greater number concur in calling the Horatii
Romans, I am inclined to follow them. To these three brothers, on each
side, the kings proposed that they should support, by their arms, the
honor of their respective countries, informing them that the sovereignty
was to be enjoyed by that nation whose champions should prove victorious
in the combat. No reluctance was shown on their parts, and time and
place were appointed. Previous to the fight a league was made between
the Romans and Albans, on these conditions: That, whichever of the two
nations should, by its champions, obtain victory in the combat, that
nation should, without further dispute, possess sovereign dominion over
the other.

       *       *       *       *       *

The league being concluded, the three brothers, on each side, pursuant
to the agreement, took arms, the friends of each putting them in mind
that “the gods of their country, the country itself, the whole of their
countrymen, whether at home or in the army, rested on their prowess
the decision of their fate.” Naturally bold and courageous, and highly
animated, beside, by such exhortations, they advanced into the midst,
between the two armies. The two armies sat down before their respective
camps, free from all apprehensions of immediate danger to themselves, but
not from deep anxiety, no less than sovereign power being at stake, and
depending on the bravery and success of so small a number. With all the
eagerness, therefore, of anxious suspense, they fixed their attention
on an exhibition which was far, indeed, from being a matter of mere
amusement. The signal being given, the three youths, who had been drawn
upon each side, as in battle array, their breasts animated with the
magnanimous spirits of whole armies, rushed forward to the fight, intent
on mutual slaughter, utterly thoughtless of their own personal peril,
and reflecting that, on the event of the contest, depended the future
fate and fortune of their respective countries. On the first onset, as
soon as the clash of their arms and the glittering of their swords were
perceived, the spectators shuddered with excess of horror, and their
hopes being, as yet, equally balanced, their voices were suppressed,
and even their breath was suspended. Afterward, in the progress of the
combat, during which not only the activity of the young men’s limbs, and
the rapid motions of their arms, offensive and defensive, but wounds
also, and blood, were exhibited to view, the three Albans were wounded,
and two of the Romans fell lifeless, one over the other. On their fall
the Alban army set up a shout of joy, while the Roman legions were in a
state of the most painful anxiety, almost bereft of hope, and reduced
to a state of despair by the situation of their champion, who was now
surrounded by the three Curiatii. It happened that he was unhurt, so
that, though singly he was by no means a match for them altogether,
yet was he confident of success against each of them, separately. In
order, therefore, to avoid their joint attack, he betook himself to
flight, judging that they would pursue with such different degrees of
speed as their wounds would allow. He had now fled to some distance
from the place where they had fought, when, looking back, he perceived
that there were large intervals between the pursuers, and that one was
at no great distance from him; against him he turned back, with great
fury, and while the Alban army called out to the Curiatii to succor
their brother, Horatius having in the meantime slain his antagonist,
proceeded, victorious, to attack the second. The Romans then cheered
their champion with shouts of applause, such as naturally burst forth
on occasions of unexpected joy; on his part, he delayed not to put an
end to the combat; for, before the third, who was at no great distance,
could come up to the relief of his brother, he dispatched the second
Curiatius. And now they were brought to an equality, in point of number,
only one on each side surviving, but were far from an equality either in
hopes or in strength; the one, unhurt, and flushed with two victories,
advanced with confidence to the third contest; the other, enfeebled by a
wound, fatigued with running, and dispirited, beside, by the fate of his
brethren already slain, met the victorious enemy. What followed could
not be called a fight; the Roman, exulting, cried out: “Two of you have
I offered to the shades of my brothers, the third I will offer to the
cause in which we are engaged, that the Roman may rule over the Alban;”
and, whilst the other could scarcely support the weight of his armor, he
plunged his sword downward into his throat; then as he lay prostrate, he
despoiled him of his arms. The Romans received Horatius with triumphant
congratulations, and a degree of joy proportioned to the greatness of
the danger that had threatened their cause. Both parties then applied
themselves to the burying of their dead, with very different dispositions
of mind; the one being elated with the acquisition of empire, the other
depressed under a foreign jurisdiction. The sepulchers still remain, in
the several spots where the combatants fell: those of the two Romans in
one place, nearer to Alba, those of the three Albans on the side next to
Rome; but in different places, as they fought.

       *       *       *       *       *

    Do our readers wonder that Byron speaks of Livy’s “pictured
    page?” We advance immediately to the beginning of authentic
    Roman history—the date of the war between Pyrrhus and Rome. Our
    historian shall be the German, Wilhelm Ihne (pronounced Eé-nuh),
    who, however, writes himself directly in English. He is still
    later than Mommsen, and far more judicial than he.


[_About 280 B. C._]

The embassy of Cineas to Rome was celebrated in antiquity and was a
favorite topic for rhetorical declamation. It is said that he took with
him beautiful presents for men and women, but offered them in vain.[A]
Rome, which in a later time the Numidian king Jugurtha declared to be
ready to sell itself if only a purchaser could be found, was still, as
is related, pure and virtuous. It was the time of Manius Curius, the
conqueror of the Samnites, who, sitting by his own hearth and eating
his simple peasant’s food, had proudly rejected the tempting presents
of the Samnites; it was the time when C. Cornelius Rufinus was cast out
of the senate by the censors because he had silver plate to the weight
of ten pounds in his use. And was not Fabricius, the first soldier and
statesman of his time, a pattern of simplicity and contentment, and
superior to all temptation? What a contrast to the mercenary Greeks,
whose greatest patriots and statesmen were publicly accused of bribery,
and were compelled to defend themselves against such charges before the
public tribunals! But Cineas was a shrewd, experienced negotiator. Where
one scheme failed, he tried another. He discovered the point where the
stout Romans were vulnerable. He flattered their pride. On the second day
after his arrival he knew the names of all the senators and knights, and
had something obliging to say to each. He visited the influential men in
their houses, to get them secretly to favor his propositions. At length,
when he appeared in the senate and made known his commission, when he
brought offers of peace and friendship from the powerful king of Epirus,
the redoubted warrior, the victor of Heraclea, the senate wavered in
its decision; the deliberations lasted many days, and it appeared that
the advice of those would prevail whose courage was damped and whose
confidence was small. At that critical moment, the blind Appius Claudius,
bowed down with age and infirmity, appeared, supported by his sons, in
the solemn assembly. He had for some years retired from public life, but
his haughty temper could not brook the idea that Rome should accept
laws from a foreign conqueror. The Claudian pride which animated him was
the genuine Roman pride, the first national virtue. He summoned all his
strength once more to raise his voice in that council which he had so
often swayed by his wisdom, and had subdued by his indomitable will. As
if from the grave, and as if inspired by the genius of a better time,
his words, echoing in the ears of the breathless assembly, scared away
all pusillanimous considerations and infused the spirit of resistance
which animated the men of Rome when, from the height of the capitol,
they beheld the Gaulish conquerors rioting in the ruins of their town.
The speech of Appius Claudius was a monument of a glorious time, the
contemplation of which warmed and inspired succeeding generations. It
is the first speech of the contents of which there has been preserved
a substantially correct report. Later generations believed they
possessed even the exact words, and Cicero speaks of it as of a literary
composition of acknowledged authenticity. This view is hardly tenable;
but it may be believed that the general purport and some of the arguments
of the speech were faithfully preserved in the Claudian family books, and
we can not deny ourselves the pleasure of listening to the faint echo
which introduces us for the first time into the immediate presence of the
most august assembly of the old world.

According to the tradition, Appius spoke something as follows: “Hitherto,
assembled fathers, I used to mourn that I was deprived of the light of
the eye; now, however, I should consider myself happy if, in addition
to that, I had lost the sense of hearing, that I might not hear the
disgraceful counsels which are here publicly proposed, to the shame of
the Roman name. How are you changed from your former estate! Whither
have your pride and your courage flown? You that boasted you would have
opposed the great Alexander himself if, in the period of your youth, he
had dared to invade Italy; that he would have lost in battle against
you the fame of the invincible, and would have found defeat or death in
Italy, to the glory of the Roman name—you now show that all this was
nothing but vain boasting; for you fear now the Chaonians and Molossians,
who have always been the spoil of the Macedonians, and you tremble
before Pyrrhus, who passed his life in the service of one of Alexander’s
satellites. Thus one single misfortune has made you forget what you once
were. And you are going to make him who is the author of your shame
your friend, together with those who brought him over to Italy. What
your fathers won by the sword, you will deliver up to the Lucanians
and the Bruttians. What is this but making yourselves servants of the
Macedonians? And some of you are not ashamed to call that peace which is
really slavery!”

When Appius had spoken, the negotiations with Cineas were broken off. He
was warned immediately to leave the town, and to inform his king that
there could be no idea of peace and friendship between him and the Roman
people until he had left the shores of Italy. That was the answer of a
people conquered, but not broken in spirit; a people prepared to stand up
for their honor and their greatness, even to the last man. The impression
which the Romans made on Cineas is described as very powerful. It is said
that he compared the town of Rome to a temple, and the senators to kings.
Indeed, the dignity, the calmness, and firmness of the Roman people could
not have failed to convince him that the Romans were barbarians of a
peculiar type; although in refinement and polish, in art and the higher
enjoyments of life below the Greeks, still as citizens and soldiers very
superior to them. The day of Heraclea was far from damping their courage.
A new army was formed in Rome, probably under Cineas’s own eyes, from
volunteers, who, full of enthusiasm, poured thither from all parts to
fill up the gaps.

       *       *       *       *       *

    Let Dr. Thomas Arnold be compared with Ihne, at this point of
    the history, and a curiously instinctive contradiction appears.
    Both historians refer, for their authority, to precisely the
    same passages in two different works by Cicero; but whereas Ihne,
    as our readers have seen, makes Cicero in them vouch for the
    authenticity of Appius Claudius’s speech, Arnold, on the other
    hand, makes him regard it as utterly unworthy of trust! But
    Arnold adds a comment that our readers will like to see.

No Englishman can have read thus far without remembering the scene, in
all points so similar, which took place within our fathers’ memory in
our own House of Parliament. We recollect how the greatest of English
statesmen, bowed down by years and infirmity, like Appius, but roused,
like him, by the dread of approaching dishonor to the English name, was
led by his son and son-in-law into the House of Lords, and all the peers
with one impulse arose to receive him. We know the expiring words of that
mighty voice, when he protested against the dismemberment of this ancient
monarchy, and prayed that if England must fall, she might fall with
honor. The real speech of Lord Chatham against yielding to the coalition
of France and America, will give a far more lively image of what was said
by the blind Appius in the Roman senate, than any fictitious oration
which I could either copy from other writers or endeavor myself to
invent; and those who would wish to know how Appius spoke, should read
the dying words of the great orator of England.

[A] Plutarch, Pyrrh, 18. According to Zonaras, however (viii:3), the
attempts at corruption were not fruitless.




How known? Unfortunately, this is not always easily determined, as much
expensive litigation is continually demonstrating. There are two general
divisions of property, which we designate as real and personal.

Land is real property, or real estate. Stocks, lumber, evidences of debt,
and all that property which is classed as movable is personal estate.
Personal estate may become real estate. How? Take lumber, bricks, etc.,
which are personal property, and therewith construct a house, and locate
it, with stone or brick foundation, on your land. The personal property,
so used, merges its lesser title in that of the greater, that of the land
on which it is placed, and becomes with the land real estate, subject
to real estate law as regards taxation, transfer, and in fact every
essential feature. Whence comes the original ownership? First by right
of discovery; next by royal grant, and by purchase, and then by descent
and purchase. It is our purpose to consider this transfer by purchase.
This being accomplished through the medium of a deed, we pass on to
mention a few of its characteristics. This document is the evidence of
a sale and conveyance of certain real estate, which should therein be
accurately described. There is a recognized form of deed in general use,
which although containing a few seeming superfluous words, according
to the ideas of an occasional iconoclast, is yet safe; and this blank,
which may be purchased of publishers, is the one to use. Lack of space
will not permit an analysis of a deed, but we will endeavor to explain
its execution. The deed must be signed by the party or parties making
the sale; must be sealed, acknowledged, witnessed (this is not required
in all the states, but is generally done), delivered and recorded.
The deed should be written in ink. The writing should be plain, since
it is written to be read, a fact sometimes seemingly overlooked. The
description and all the clerical work should be completed and accurately
completed before signing, since no change is legitimate, if made after
signature has been attached. The witnesses should see the grantor sign
his name, and then sign themselves. A corporation making a transfer does
it by its president or treasurer, who signs in this way:

                                  Cimbrian Manufacturing Company,
                                                       By James Felt,

A seal (a small piece of paper attached as a wafer or sealing wax is
ordinarily used) is placed opposite the signature of the grantor, or,
if more than one name, a seal for each. After signing, sealing and
witnessing, the deed must be “acknowledged.” For this purpose the grantor
goes before a Justice of the Peace, or Notary Public, or, if the grantor
is not resident in the state where the real estate is situated, then
before a State Commissioner of Deeds, _or_ if in a foreign country, then
before a consul. These are persons qualified by appointment to the office
which they hold, to take acknowledgments. The deed is shown the officer,
to whom grantor makes the acknowledgment that the document by him signed
is his free act and deed; and by whom a certificate to that effect by
him signed, is attached to the deed. The deed being duly executed is
now delivered by the grantor to the grantee (this matter of delivery is
essential), and is by him placed upon record.

By record is meant this: Each county of the state has an office wherein
are kept the records of all the real estate conveyances of that county,
or of land situated in that county. This office opens its records to
the inspection of the public, and by the records there each real estate
owner’s title may be investigated. Between the parties to a transfer,
the deed would be sufficient evidence of such passing of title without
record, but wherever the rights of other parties might clash with such
a change of ownership, record would be absolutely necessary for the
protection of the grantee. Make it a rule, then, when right or title in
or to real estate becomes vested in you by deed, to allow no great length
of time to elapse before having records made. Since all titles are to
be established in the Registry of Deeds, it is the privilege of any one
purchasing, either to investigate the title to his proposed purchase
himself, or have some one do it for him. Whenever one wishes an agent to
make a transfer he must first authorize his agent, by giving him a power
of attorney to attend to the execution of the deed, and this power of
attorney must contain specific authority and plenary, and be executed
with the formality of a deed, and be regularly recorded.

On writing deeds remember:

That the price paid is ordinarily stated in the deed. The exact amount
need not be mentioned. It may read “In consideration of one dollar.” The
amount named is not conclusive evidence of amount paid;

That the description should be accurate. It is quite common to find very
imperfect descriptions, but this is wrong, and is the cause of much
trouble. In addition to description, refer to previous deeds, by giving
book and page; wherein recorded in the Registry of Deeds;

That a deed should describe the incumbrances, if any there be. If any
such exist, and the deed is silent regarding them, the grantor is selling
that which does not belong to him, a species of business activity which
the law does not encourage;

That, if the grantor be a married man, his wife should sign the deed,
relinquishing her interest in the property, commonly called dower;

That either a warranty or quit-claim deed transfers the owner’s entire
interest in the real estate; but while by the former the grantor warrants
the title and engages to defend the same “against the lawful claims
and demands of all persons,” by the latter he avoids all such personal
liability. Therefore if property be free from incumbrances a quit-claim
is as good as a warranty deed; notwithstanding this, a purchaser had
better insist on having the latter in every case;

That deeds should be recorded in the Registry of the county in which the
real estate is located.

MORTGAGES—Real Estate.

A mortgage is a transfer made with intent of giving mortgagee security
for money loaned or a debt in some way incurred. The mortgage is a deed
conveying to the mortgagee the owner’s title to the estate granted
in just the same way and with same formalities as a regular deed of
transfer, subject to one condition, which is, that the mortgage deed
shall be void if the amount therein specified is paid at the stated time.

After the delivery of the mortgage deed the relative standing of the
parties is this:

The mortgagee:

Unless the right is specially waived in the deed, he may enter and take
possession. He is therefore the owner subject to a condition, and has in
him the right of possession;

He may sell and assign to a third party his interest in the mortgaged
property, investing such person with all his rights therein;

When the stated time for payment, whether of principal or interest, has
elapsed, and the conditions have not been complied with, foreclosure of
mortgage may be commenced, and at the expiration of three years from
such commencement, he may take absolute possession of the estate, unless
mortgagor redeems it within that time;

He may insure mortgaged premises for his own protection.

The mortgagor:

He is not in possession of mortgaged premises by right, unless by special

He must pay all amounts designated in the mortgage deed, at the time
therein specified;

He may redeem the property at any time within three years after
commencement of foreclosure, by paying amount due; with interest and
legal costs.

He may sell his remaining interest (called equity of redemption), after
mortgage transfer, or procure other mortgages on same property.

Personal Property.

Mortgages of personal property are much more informal in their execution
than similar transfers of real estate. The transfer is a complete change
of ownership title, with similar conditional clause, relative to payment,
to that of a mortgage deed.

The several states make provisions for record of these conveyances, which
are to be observed in order to insure the proper security of mortgagee’s
title, since record has same significance with personal as with real
estate mortgage transfers.

A farther analogy may be found in the fact of a right of foreclosure and
equity of redemption.


If at any time we were to say that “Every man his own lawyer” would be
giving to some very poor assistance, we think the suggestion would be
eminently proper here. This is not the word of discouragement, but of
caution, else the practicability of these articles, which is the theory
leading to their publication, might with propriety be questioned. There
is no department of legal work where more skill and care may be demanded
than in this. But though care is ever to be exercised, not always is
superior skill necessary, for one may desire a very simple and direct
disposition of his property, and this may be done if only the formalities
are observed, by one not conversant with the niceties of law points, and
done in such a proper and regular manner that all complications will be
avoided. But where different interests are to be carved out of an estate,
then the execution of it requires skill and experience.

Who may make a will? Any person who has attained proper age and is of
sound mind. By the old common law a married woman was not competent, but
this restriction has been removed by statutory enactment in most of the
states, and a married woman in those states is no longer forbidden the
disposition of her property in accordance with her own wishes.

Quite generally eighteen years for males and sixteen for females
are designated as proper ages. Children not mentioned in a will,
unless provided for in testator’s lifetime, are presumed to have been
accidentally omitted, and take same share of the estate as they would
if there had been no will. It will therefore be readily seen that if
omission was intentional, testator’s design would be defeated. Whenever
such omission of gift to a child is designed it should be particularly
mentioned in the will.

A codicil is simply an addition to or change in the will, and should be
attached to the original, and executed with same formalities.

In making a will be careful to observe:

That the person is of proper age and sound mind;

That all statements and declarations be made in clear, unambiguous
language, so that a misconception of it will be impossible;

That, in propriety, the word “bequeath” should be used as applied to
personal estate, and “devise” as belonging to real;

That, unless a life estate simply is intended, words of inheritance
(heirs) should be coupled with devisee’s name;

That, in most of the states, three witnesses are required. They should be
wholly disinterested, so far as having no personal interest in the will;
they should see the testator sign, and should each attach his signature
in testator’s presence, and in presence of the others;

That it is well for the testator to name an executor, although this is
not required, since in the absence of such directions the Court will
appoint an administrator.


    I ⸺ ⸺ of ⸺ ⸺ being of sound mind, hereby make and declare this
    to be my last will and testament. I give, devise and bequeath my
    estate and property, real and personal as follows:

    [Then follow disposition of property and appointment of executor.]

    In witness whereof I have signed, sealed, published and declared
    this instrument to be my last will and testament, at ⸺ this ⸺ day
    of ⸺.

                                                           ⸺ ⸺ [SEAL]

The witnesses then add:

    The said ⸺ ⸺ on said ⸺ day of ⸺ signed, published and declared
    the above as his last will and testament; and we, at his request,
    and in his presence, and in the presence of each other, have
    hereunto subscribed our names as witnesses thereto.

                                                                  ⸺ ⸺
                                                                  ⸺ ⸺
                                                                  ⸺ ⸺

The destruction of a will revokes it. The making of a new will revokes
all former ones.



[_May 4._]

Draw yet nearer, O, my soul! with thy _most fervent love_. Here is matter
for it to work upon, something worth thy loving. O see what beauty
presents itself! Is not all the beauty in the world united here? Is not
all other beauty but deformity? Dost thou now need to be persuaded to
love? Here is a feast for thine eyes and all the powers of thy soul; dost
thou need entreaties to feed upon it? Canst thou love a little shining
earth, a walking piece of clay? And canst thou not love that God, that
Christ, that glory, which are so truly and unmeasurably lovely? Thou
canst love thy friend because he loves thee; and is the love of a friend
like the love of Christ? Their weeping or bleeding for thee does not ease
thee, not stay the course of thy tears or blood; but the tears and blood
that fell from thy Lord have a sovereign, healing virtue. O my soul! If
love deserves and should beget love, what incomprehensible love is here
before thee! Pour out all the store of thy affections here, and all is
too little—O that it were more! O that it were many thousand times more!
Let him be first served that served the first. Let him have the first
born and strength of thy soul, who parted with strength, and life and
love for thee.

O my soul! dost thou love for _excellency_? Yonder is the region of
light; this is the land of darkness. Yonder twinkling stars, that shining
moon and radiant sun, are all but lanterns, hung out of thy Father’s
house, to light thee while thou walkest in this dark world. But how
little dost thou know the glory and blessedness that are within.

Dost thou love for _suitableness_? What person more suitable than
Christ—his god-head and humanity, his fullness and freeness, his
willingness and constancy, all proclaim him thy most suitable friend.
What state more suitable to thy misery than mercy, or to thy sin and
pollution than honor and perfection? What place more suitable to thee
than heaven? Does this world agree with thy desires? Hast thou not had a
sufficient trial of it, or dost thou love for interest and near relation?
Where hast thou better interest than in heaven, or nearer relation than

Dost thou love for _acquaintance and familiarity_? Though thine eyes
have never seen thy Lord, yet thou hast heard his voice, received his
benefits, and lived in his bosom. He taught thee to know thyself and him;
he opened thee that first window, through which thou sawest into heaven.
Hast thou forgotten since thy heart was careless and he awakened it;
hard, and he softened it; stubborn, and he made it yield; at peace, and
he troubled it; whole, and he broke it; and broken, till he healed it
again? Hast thou forgotten the times when he found thee in tears; when he
heard thy secret sighs and groans, and left all to come and comfort thee?…

Methinks I hear him still saying to me, “Poor sinner, though thou hast
dealt unkindly with me, and cast me off, yet I will not do so by thee;
though thou hast set light by me and all my mercies, yet they and myself
are thine. What wouldst thou have that I can give thee? And what dost
thou want that I can not give thee? If anything I have will give thee
pleasure, thou shalt have it. Wouldst thou have pardon? I freely forgive
thee all the debt. Wouldst thou have grace and peace? Thou shalt have
both. Wouldst thou have myself? Behold I am thine, thy friend, thy Lord,
thy brother, husband and head. Wouldst thou have the Father? I will bring
thee to him, and thou shalt have him, in and by me.” These were my Lord’s
reviving words.

       *       *       *       *       *

If _bounty and compassion_ be an attractive of love, how immeasurably,
then, am I bound to love him! All the mercies that have filled up my
life, all the places that ever I abode in, all the societies and persons
I have been conversant with, all my employments and relations, every
condition I have been in, and every change I have passed through, all
tell me that the fountain is overflowing goodness. Lord, what a sum of
love am I indebted to thee! And how does my debt continually increase!
How should I love again for so much love? But shall I dare to think of
requiting thee, or of recompensing all thy love with mine? Will my mite
requite thee for thy golden mines, my faint wishes for thy constant
bounty; mine, which is nothing, or not mine, for thine, which is infinite
and thine own? Shall I dare to contend in love with thee, or set my
borrowed languid spark against the sun of love?

       *       *       *       *       *

No, Lord, I yield; I am overcome. O blessed conquest. Go on victoriously
and still prevail, and triumph in thy love. The captive of love shall
proclaim thy victory; when thou leadest me in triumph from earth to
heaven, from death to life, from the tribunal to the throne! myself, and
all that see it, shall acknowledge thou hast prevailed, and all shall
say, “Behold how he loved him.”—_From Baxter’s “Saint’s Rest,” abridged
by Fawcett._

[_May 11._]

For we, being accustomed to a careless and perfunctory performing of
these duties, can not but find it a hard and difficult matter to keep
our hearts so close unto them as to perform them as we ought to do, and
so as that we may be really said to do them. For we must not think that
sitting in the church while the word of God is preached, is hearing
the word of God, or being present there while prayers are read is real
praying; no, no, there is a deal more required than this to our praying
to the great God aright; insomuch that, for my own part, I really think
that prayer, as it is the highest, so it is the hardest duty that we can
be engaged in; all the faculties of our souls as well as members of our
bodies being obliged to put forth themselves in their several capacities,
to the due performance of it.

And as for these several graces and virtues with which our souls must be
adorned withal, before they ever can come to heaven, though it be easy
to talk of them, it is not so to act them. I shall instance only in some
few, as to love God above all other things, and other things only for
God’s sake; to hope on nothing but God’s promises, and to fear nothing
but his displeasure; to love other men’s persons so as to hate their
vices, and so to hate their vices as still to love their persons; not
to covet riches when we have them not, nor trust on them when we have
them; to deny ourselves that we may please God, and to take up our cross
that we may follow Christ; to live above the world whilst we are in it,
and to despise it whilst we use it; to be always upon our watchguard,
strictly observing not only the outward actions of our life, but the
inward motions of our hearts; to hate those very things which we used to
love, and to love those very duties which we used to hate; to choose the
greatest affliction before the least sin, and to neglect the getting of
the greatest gains rather than the performing of the smallest duty; to
believe truths which we can not comprehend, merely upon the testimony of
one whom we never saw; to submit our own wills to God’s and to delight
ourselves in obeying him; to be patient under sufferings, and thankful
for all the troubles we meet with here below; to be ready and willing to
do and suffer anything we can for him who hath done and suffered so much
for us; to clothe the naked, feed the hungry, relieve the indigent, and
rescue the oppressed to the utmost of our power; in a word, to be every
way as pious toward God, as obedient to Christ, as loyal to our prince,
as faithful to our friends, as loving to our enemies, as charitable to
the poor, as just in our dealings, as eminent in all true graces and
virtues, as if we were to be saved by it; and yet by no confidence in
it, but still look upon ourselves as unprofitable servants, and depend
upon Christ, and Christ alone for pardon and salvation.—_From “Private
Thoughts upon Religion and a Christian Life,” by Bishop Beveridge._

[_May 18._]

Now, upon the bank of the river, on the other side, they saw the two
Shining Men again, who there waited for them. Therefore, being come out
of the river, they saluted them, saying: “We are ministering spirits,
sent forth to minister for those who shall be heirs of salvation.” Thus
they went toward the gate.

Now, you must note that the city stood upon a mighty hill; but the
pilgrims went up that hill with ease, because they had these two men to
lead them up by the arms; they had likewise left their mortal garments
behind them in the river; for though they went in with them, they came
out without them. They therefore went up here with much agility and
speed, though the foundation upon which the city was framed was higher
than the clouds; they therefore went up through the regions of the air,
sweetly talking as they went, being comforted because they safely got
over the river, and had such glorious companions to attend them.

The talk that they had with the Shining Ones was about the glory of the
place; who told them that the beauty and glory of it was inexpressible.
There, said they, is “the Mount Zion, the heavenly Jerusalem, the
innumerable company of angels, and the spirits of just men made perfect.”
You are going now, said they, to the paradise of God, wherein you shall
see the tree of life, and eat of the never fading fruits thereof; and,
when you come there, you shall have white robes given you, and your
walk and talk shall be every day with the King, even all the days of
eternity. There you shall not see again such things as you saw when you
were in the lower region, upon the earth, to-wit: sorrow, sickness,
affliction and death; “for the former things are passed away.” You are
going now to Abraham, to Isaac, and to the prophets, men that God hath
taken away from the evil to come, and that are now resting upon their
beds, each one walking in his righteousness. The men then asked, What
must we do in the holy place? To whom it was answered: You must there
receive the comfort of all your toil, and have joy for all your sorrow;
you must reap what you have sown, even the fruit of all your prayers,
and tears, and sufferings for the King by the way. In that place you
must wear crowns of gold, and enjoy the perpetual sight and visions of
the Holy One; for there you shall see him as he is. There also you shall
serve him continually with praise, with shouting and thanksgiving, whom
you desired to serve in the world, though with much difficulty, because
of the infirmity of your flesh. There you shall enjoy your friends again
that are gone thither before you, and there you shall with joy receive
even every one that follows into the holy place after you. There also you
shall be clothed with glory and majesty, and put into an equipage fit to
ride out with the King of Glory.… Also when he shall again return to the
city, you shall go too, with sound of trumpet and be ever with him.—_From
Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress._

[_May 25._]

If we can make this with ourselves: I was in times past dead in
trespasses and sins, I walked after the prince that ruleth in the air,
and after the spirit that worketh in the children of disobedience; but
God, who is rich in mercy, through his great love, wherewith he loved
me, even when I was dead, hath quickened me in Christ. I was fierce,
heady, proud, high minded, but God hath made me like a child that is
newly weaned. I loved pleasures more than God; I followed greedily the
joys of this present world; I esteemed him that erected a stage or
theater more than Solomon which built a temple to the Lord; the harp,
viol, timbrel, and pipe, men singers and women singers were at my feast;
it was my felicity to see my children dance before me; I said of every
kind of vanity, O how sweet art thou unto my soul! All which things are
now crucified to me, and I to them; now I hate the pride of life, and
the pomp of this world; now I take as great delight in the way of thy
testimonies, O Lord, as in all riches; now I find more joy of heart in
my Lord and Savior, than the worldly minded man when “his possessions do
much abound;” now I taste nothing sweet but the bread which came down
from heaven, to give life unto the world; now my eyes see nothing but
Jesus rising from the dead; now my ears refuse all kinds of melody, to
hear the song of them that have gotten the victory of the beast and of
his image, and of his mark, and of the number of his name, that stand on
the sea of glass, “having the harps of God, and singing the song of Moses
the servant of God, and the song of the Lamb, saying, Great and marvelous
are thy works, Lord God Almighty; just and true are thy ways, O King of
saints.” Surely, if the Spirit have been thus effectual in the sacred
work of our regeneration with newness of life, if we endeavor thus to
form ourselves anew, then we may say boldly with the blessed apostle, in
the tenth to the Hebrews: We are not of them that withdraw ourselves to
perdition, but which follow faith to the salvation of the soul.…

The Lord of his infinite mercy give us hearts plentifully fraught with
the treasure of this blessed assurance of faith unto the end.—_From

       *       *       *       *       *

All men have a rational soul and moral perfectibility; it is these
qualities which make the poorest peasant sacred and valued by me. Moral
perfectibility is our destiny, and here are opened up to the historian a
boundless field and a rich harvest.—_Forster._



    This paper is abridged from “German, Flemish and Dutch
    Paintings,” by H. J. Wilmot Buxton, M.A., and Edward J. Poynter,

Art in Germany and the Netherlands may be considered as beginning about
the middle of the fourteenth century. There is, however, no name of
importance in the German school of artists until the time of Albrecht
Dürer. Before him painters had shown little or no originality in their
work. They had followed the Byzantine models largely, and had been
influenced by the servile and narrow influences of the middle ages. With
the new intellectual and spiritual life which sprang up in the fifteenth
century, artistic life awoke in Germany. Dürer was the first and greatest
master of the school. He was born in Nuremberg on the 21st of May, 1471.

His father was a Hungarian, who settled in Nuremberg as a goldsmith.
Albrecht Dürer was taught his father’s trade, but fortunately his talent
for art was observed, and he was sent, in 1484, a boy of thirteen years,
to Schongauer. In 1486 he was apprenticed to Michael Wolgemut for three
years. From the studio of his master, Albrecht Dürer passed, in the year
1490, to a new world—he traveled; and in those “wander-years,” which
lasted till 1494, he was doubtless laying in stores of learning for the
after-time; but unfortunately we know nothing of those years, except
that he had a glimpse of Venice, the first sight of the Italian paradise
which, in his case, though seen again, never made him unfaithful to the
art of his fatherland. In 1494, Albrecht Dürer returned to Nuremberg, and
married Agnes Frey, the daughter of a singer. He received two hundred
florins with his wife for her dowry, and it has been said that with
her he found more than two thousand unhappy days. In 1506, Dürer again
traveled to Italy, and found a warm welcome from the painters at Venice,
a city which he now beheld for the second time. Doubtless he learned
much from the works which he saw, and the criticism which he heard, but,
fortunately for his country, he could go to Italy without becoming a
copyist. Giovanni Bellini paid him especial honor, and Dürer tells us
that he considered Bellini “the best painter of them all.”

Between the years 1507 and 1520, Dürer produced many of his most famous
works. In 1509, he bought a house for himself in the Zisselgasse, at
Nuremberg. In 1515 Raphael sent a sketch from his own pencil to his great
brother, who has been well styled the “Raphael of Germany.” The sketch is
in red chalk, and is preserved in the collection of the Archduke Charles,
at Vienna. In 1520 we find Dürer appointed court-painter to the emperor,
Charles V., a position which he had already held under Maximilian. His
own countrymen seem to have been niggardly in their reward of genius,
for the court-painter had only a salary of one hundred florins a year,
and painted portraits for a florin (about twenty English pence). In the
same year Dürer, accompanied by his wife, visited the Netherlands, and
at Antwerp, then the most important town of the Low Countries, both he
and his wife were entertained at a grand supper; the master has recorded
in his journal his pleasure at the honor bestowed upon him. At Ghent
and Bruges all were delighted to show their respect for his genius. At
Brussels, Dürer was summoned to the court of Margaret of Austria, Regent
of the Netherlands, to whom he presented several engravings. Either
through jealous intrigues, or from some other cause, his court favor was
of short duration. In Brussels he painted several portraits which were
never paid for, and for a time he was in straitened circumstances. Just
at this time, however, Christian II., king of Denmark, became acquainted
with him, and having shown every mark of honor to the painter, sat to him
for his portrait. Soon afterward he returned to Germany.

Once more at home in his beloved Nuremberg, Dürer wrote to remind the
Town Council that whilst the people of Venice and Antwerp had offered
him liberal sums to dwell among them, his own city had not given him
five hundred florins for thirty years of work. But we must pass to the
end. Whether the health of Albrecht Dürer had been injured by home cares
and the tongue of Agnes Frey, we know not, though many passages in his
letters and journal seem to point to this fact. He died on the 6th of
April, 1528, and was buried in the cemetery of St. John, at Nuremberg.

Most of Dürer’s works are to be found in Germany. In the Louvre there are
only three or four drawings. The Museum of Madrid possesses several of
his paintings—a “Crucifixion” (1513), showing the maturity of his genius,
two “Allegories” of the same type as the “Dance of Death,” so favorite
a subject at this period, and a “Portrait of Himself,” bearing the date
1496. At Munich we may trace, in a series of seventeen pictures, the
dawn, the noonday, and the evening of Albrecht Dürer’s art. The “Portrait
of his Father,” 1497, is one of his earliest works. His father was then
seventy years old. The color is warm and harmonious. The masterpiece of
Dürer’s art is the painting of the four apostles—“St. John, St. Peter,
St. Paul and St. Mark.” This wonderful work is clearly the production of
his later years; it bears no date, but the absence of the hardness, which
Michael Wolgemut’s workshop had imparted to his early style, is gone, and
the whole work shows the influence of his travels and unflagging study.
It is usually assigned to the year 1526. The picture has been supposed
to represent the “Four Temperaments,” but there is no satisfactory proof
that Dürer intended this.

Vienna possesses some of the finest specimens of his art. In the legend
of “The Ten Thousand Martyrs,” who were slain by the Persian king
Shahpour II., Dürer has described on a panel of about a foot square every
conceivable kind of torture. These horrors are witnessed by two figures
which represent the painter himself, and his friend Pirkheimer.

The “Adoration of the Trinity” is one of the most famous of Dürer’s
works. It is a vast allegorical picture, representing the Christian

Of his wood-cuts the best known are the “Apocalypse,” 1498; the “Life
of the Virgin,” 1511; and the “History of Christ’s Passion.” Of his
copper-plate engravings, “St. Hubert,” “St. Jerome,” and “The Knight,
Death, and the Devil,” bearing the date 1513, in which we see what Kugler
calls “the most important work which the fantastic spirit of German art
has ever produced.” The weird, the terrible, and the grotesque look forth
from this picture like the forms of some horrible nightmare. Another
famous engraving, called “Melancholy,” is full of mystic poetry; it bears
the date 1514. To these may be added a series of sixteen drawings in pen
and ink on gray paper, heightened with white, representing “Christ’s
Passion,” which he never engraved. They are in his best style, and among
the finest of his works.


Contemporary with Dürer lived another great artist, Hans Holbein. He was
born at Augsburg, in 1497. Comparing him with Albrecht Dürer, Kugler
says that “as respects grandeur and depth of feeling, and richness of
his invention and conception in the field of ecclesiastical art, he
stands below the great Nuremberg painter. Though not unaffected by the
fantastic element which prevailed in the Middle Ages, Holbein shows it
in his own way.” What we know of Holbein’s life must be told briefly. He
was painting independently, and for profit, when only fifteen. He was
only twenty when he left Augsburg and went to Bâle. There he painted his
earliest known works, which still remain there. In 1519, after a visit to
Lucerne, we find him a member of the Guild of Painters at Bâle, and years
later he was painting frescoes for the walls of the Rathaus—frescoes
which have yielded to damp and decay, and of which fragments only remain.
These are in the Museum of Bâle, as well as eight scenes from “The
Passion,” which belong to the same date. Doubtless Holbein had gone
to Bâle poor, and in search of any remunerative work. It is said that
he and his brother Ambrose visited that city with the hope of finding
employment in illustrating books, an art for which Bâle was famous. Hans
Holbein was destined, however, to find a new home and new patrons. In
1526, Holbein went to England. The house of Sir Thomas More, in Chelsea,
received him, and there he worked as an honored guest—painting portraits
of the ill-fated Chancelor and his family. Of other portraits painted at
this time that of “Sir Bryan Tuke,” treasurer of the king’s chamber, now
in the collection of the Duke of Westminster, and that of “Archbishop
Warham,” in the Louvre, are famous specimens. Having returned to Bâle for
a season, hard times forced Holbein to seek work once more in England.
This was in 1532, when he was taken into the service of Henry VIII., a
position not without its dangers. He was appointed court-painter at a
salary of thirty-four pounds a year, with rooms in the palace. The amount
of this not very magnificent stipend is proved from an entry in a book at
the Chamberlain’s office, which, under the date of 1538, contains these
words: “Payd to Hans Holbein, Paynter, a quarter due at Lady Day last, £8
10_s._ 9_d._”

Holbein was employed to celebrate the marriage of Anne Boleyn by painting
two pictures in tempera in the Banqueting Hall of the Easterlings, at the
Steelyard. He chose the favorite subjects for such works, “The Triumph of
Riches,” and “The Triumph of Poverty.” The pictures probably perished in
the Great Fire of London. In 1538, Holbein was engaged on a very delicate
mission, considering the matrimonial peculiarities of his royal master.
He was sent to Brussels to paint the “Portrait of Christina,” widow of
Francesco Sforza, Duke of Milan, whom Henry would have made his queen,
had she been willing. Soon after, having refused an earnest invitation
from Bâle to return there, Holbein painted an aspirant to the royal hand,
Anne of Cleves. Perhaps the painter flattered the lady; at all events
the original was so distasteful to the king that he burst into a fit of
rage which cost Thomas Cromwell his head. Holbein continued his work as a
portrait painter, and has left us many memorials of the Tudor Court. He
died in 1543, of the plague, but nothing is known of his burial place.
Some time before his death we hear of him as a resident in the parish of
St. Andrew Undershaft, in the city.

The fame of this great master rests almost entirely upon his power as
a portrait painter. In the collection of drawings at Windsor, mostly
executed in red chalk and Indian ink, we are introduced to the chief
personages who lived in and around the splendid court in the troublous
times of the second Tudor.


After the death of Dürer and Holbein the German school did not long
hold its supremacy. Its decline was rapid, and not until the present
century was there a re-awakening. Johann Friedrich Overbeck, the chief
of the revivalists of German art, was born at Lübeck, in 1789. When
about eighteen years of age he went to Vienna, to study painting in the
academy of that city. The ideas on art which he had carried with him
were so entirely new and so little agreeable to the professors of the
academy, that they met with but small approval. On the other hand, there
were several among his fellow-pupils who gladly followed his lead; and in
1810, Overbeck, accompanied by a small band of youthful artists, went to
Rome, where he established the school which was afterward to become so

Overbeck, who was professor of painting in the Academy of St. Luke, a
foreign member of the French Institute, and a member of all the German
academies, died at Rome in 1869, at the advanced age of eighty years. He
painted both in fresco and in oil. Of his productions in fresco, the most
noteworthy are a “Vision of St. Francis” in Santa Maria degli Angeli, at
Assisi, and five scenes from Tasso’s “Jerusalem Delivered,” in the villa
of the Marchese Massimo, in Rome. Of his oil paintings, the best are the
“Triumph of Religion in the Arts,” in the Städel Institute at Frankfort;
“Christ on the Mount of Olives,” at Hamburg; the “Entrance of Christ
into Jerusalem,” painted in 1816 for the Marien Kirche, at Lübeck; and
a “Descent from the Cross,” at Lübeck. Overbeck also executed a number
of small drawings. Of these we may mention forty designs of the “Life of
Christ,” and many other Biblical subjects.


In the Netherlands, we find before the seventeenth century, two schools
of art; that of Bruges, whose most famous painters were the brothers Van
Eyck, and that of Antwerp, whose founder, Matsys, did some fine work. It
was not until the beginning of the seventeenth century, however, that
art in the Netherlands attained its full strength and life. The artist
to whom the revival was due was Peter Paul Rubens. He was born on the
day of the festival of St. Peter and St. Paul—the 29th of June, 1577, at
Siegen, in Westphalia. His father was a physician, who being suspected of
Protestant proclivities, had been forced to flee from his native town of
Antwerp, and was subsequently imprisoned, not without cause, by William
of Orange, whose side he had joined. When Peter Paul was a year old,
his parents removed to Cologne, where they remained for nine years, and
then on the death of her husband, the mother of Rubens returned with her
child to Antwerp. Young Rubens was sent to a Jesuit school, doubtless
in proof of his mother’s soundness in the faith of Rome, and studied
art. Fortunately for the world, Rubens possessed too original a genius
to be much influenced by his masters. He visited Italy in 1600, where
the coloring of the Venetians exercised a great influence upon the young
painter, and we may consider Paolo Veronese as the source of inspiration
from which Rubens derived the richness of his tints. In 1601 we find
Rubens in the service of Duke Vincenzo Gonzaga of Mantua, an enthusiastic
patron of art, and two years later he was sent to Philip III. of Spain,
on an “artistic commission,” some secret mission, perhaps, but certainly
as the bearer of costly presents. On his return from Spain he passed some
time in Mantua, Rome, and Genoa; the _dramatic power_ of his pictures
he derived probably from Michelangelo, as he had learned richness of
coloring from Veronese, and we can trace the influence of Giulio Romano,
whose works he must have studied at Mantua.

Rubens settled in Antwerp, and married in 1609 his first wife, Isabella
Brandt. Always popular, and always successful, Rubens founded a school
of painting in Antwerp, which was soon crowded with pupils. His life,
however, was destined to be full of action and movement. In 1620 he
went to Paris at the invitation of Marie de Medicis, then living in the
Luxembourg Palace. The work which the widowed queen proposed to Rubens
was to decorate two galleries, the one with scenes from her own history,
the other with pictures from the life of Henri IV.

In 1626 Rubens visited Holland, saw the principal painters of that
country, and lost his wife in the same year. The picture of the two sons
of this marriage is in the Lichtenstein Gallery, in Vienna. In 1627
Rubens was employed in diplomatic service at the Hague, and in the next
year he was ambassador to Philip IV. of Spain, from the Infanta Isabella,
widow of the archduke Albert. In 1629 we find the painter still acting as
a diplomatist, and this time to the Court of England. The courtly manner,
handsome person, and versatile genius of Rubens made him a favorite at

On his return to Antwerp in 1630, he married his second wife, Helena
Fourment, a girl of sixteen, belonging to one of the richest families
in the city. She served him many times as a model for his pictures. The
great master died in 1640, wealthy, honored, and famous, not only in his
own city, but in many another. He was buried in the Church of St. Jacques
at Antwerp.

In speaking briefly of the chief works of Rubens, we come first to the
“Descent from the Cross,” in Antwerp Cathedral. We find in this wonderful
work perfect unity, and a nobler conception and more finished execution
than usual. Of the coloring it is needless to speak. But even here in
this masterpiece we notice the absence of spirituality. The dead Christ
is an unidealized study, magnificently painted and drawn, but unredeemed
by any divinity of form, or pathos of expression in the head, so that we
discover no foregleam of the Resurrection; it is a dead body, no more.
Among the eighteen pictures by Rubens in the Antwerp Museum, is a “Last
Communion of St. Francis,” which has a great reputation, but suffers from
the ignoble type of St. Francis’s head. It was painted in 1619.

In the Gallery at Munich we find ninety-five paintings by this master,
illustrating all his styles. The masterpiece is the “Last Judgment.”
Passing to Vienna, we find in the Lichtenstein Gallery the portraits
of Rubens’s “Two Sons,” and a long series of pictures illustrating the
“History of Decius.” In the Belvedere is a magnificent portrait of
his second wife, “Helena Fourment.” In the Louvre we find forty-two
paintings by Rubens. The greater number of these belong to the series
illustrating “The Life of Marie de Medicis.” At Madrid in the Museo del
Rey is a “Glorified Virgin,” a truly wonderful work. Turning to Russia,
we find in the Hermitage at St. Petersburg some fine works by this
master; especially deserving of notice is the “Feast in the House of
Simon.” Coming home to England we find this great master again largely
represented. The “History of Ixion on the Cloud” is in the gallery of
the Duke of Westminster; and “Diana and her Nymphs surprised by Satyrs,”
painted for Charles I. in 1629. Blenheim contains many great works by


The greatest of the pupils of Rubens, the son of a merchant of good
standing, was born at Antwerp, in 1599. At ten years of age he was
studying art under Van Balen, and was registered in the Guild as his
pupil; from him he proceeded to the studio of Rubens. His wonderful
precocity enabled Van Dyck to become a master in the Guild of Antwerp
painters when only nineteen. In 1620 he was engaged as an assistant by
Rubens, and in the following year he was in England employed by James I.
This royal service soon ended, and in 1623 Van Dyck went to Italy; in
Venice he copied many of Titian’s works, and spent some time in Rome,
and a much longer time at Genoa. Wherever he went he was busy with brush
and canvas, and in Genoa he painted many of his best pictures. From
1626 to 1632 Van Dyck was in Antwerp, diligently working at some of his
greatest pictures, historical subjects and portraits. In the Cassel
Gallery there are fourteen of his portraits, among which that of the
“Syndic Meerstraten” is one of the most characteristic of his art at
this period. At the close of these six years of Antwerp work a new world
opened to him. His first visit to England seems to have been unfruitful,
but in 1632 he became one of the court painters of Charles I. Success
and honor now crowned the new works of Van Dyck. He received a salary of
£200 a year as principal painter to the Stuart court, and was knighted
by the king. Nothing succeeds like success, and we find Van Dyck sought
after by the nobility and gentry of England, and at once installed as a
fashionable portrait painter.

Later, after his return to Flanders, in 1640, with his wife, a lady of
the Scottish house of Ruthven, he went to Paris, hoping to obtain from
Louis XIII. the commission to adorn with paintings the largest saloon in
the Louvre, but here he was doomed to disappointment, as the work had
been given to Poussin. Van Dyck returned to England, and found that he
had fallen, like his patron, Charles I., “on evil tongues and evil days.”
The Civil War had commenced. There was no time now for pipe or tabor,
for painting of pictures or curling of lovelocks, and whilst trumpets
were sounding to boot and saddle, and dark days were coming for England,
Van Dyck died in Blackfriars, on the 9th of December, in 1641, and was
buried hard by the tomb of John of Gaunt, in old St. Paul’s.

Possessed of less power of invention than his great master, Van Dyck
shows in his pictures that _feeling_ which is wanting in the works of
Rubens. It is infinitely more pleasant to gaze on a crucifixion, or some
other sacred subject, from the pencil of Van Dyck, than to examine the
more brilliant but soulless treatment of similar works by his master. As
a portrait painter Van Dyck occupies with Titian and Velasquez the first
place. In fertility and production he was equal to Rubens, if we remember
that his artistic life was very brief, and that he died at the age of
forty-two. He lacked the inexhaustible invention which distinguishes
his teacher, and generally confined himself to painting a “Dead Christ”
or a “Mater Dolorosa.” Of Van Dyck’s sacred subjects we may mention the
“Taking of Jesus in Gethsemane” (Museum of Madrid), “Christ on the Cross”
(Munich Gallery), the “Vision of the Blessed Hermann Joseph” (Vienna),
the famous “Madonna with the Partridges” (St. Petersburg), and the “Dead
Christ,” mourned by the Virgin, and adored by angels, in the Louvre.

Portraits by Van Dyck are scattered widely throughout the galleries of
Europe, and his best are probably in the private galleries of England. In
all his portraits there is that air of refinement and taste which rightly
earned for Van Dyck the name which the Italians gave him, _Pittore


Contemporaneous with the Flemish school of which Rubens and Van Dyck were
the masters, was the Dutch school, of which the great name was Rembrandt
Harmensz van Rijn. Few persons have suffered more from their biographers
than the painters of the Dutch school, and none of them more than
Rembrandt. The writings of Van Mander, and the too active imagination
of Houbraken, have misrepresented these artists in every possible way.
Thus Rembrandt has been described as the son of a miller, one whose first
ideas of light and shadow were gained among his father’s flour sacks
in the old mill at the Rhine. He has been described as a spendthrift
reveler at taverns, and as marrying a peasant girl. All this is fiction.
The facts are briefly these: Rembrandt was born on July 15, 1607, in the
house of his father, Hermann Gerritszoon Van Rijn, a substantial burgess,
the owner of several houses, and possessing a large share in a mill on
the Weddesteeg at Leyden. Educated at the Latin school at Leyden, and
intended for the study of the law, Rembrandt’s early skill as an artist
determined his father to allow him to follow his own taste.

But it was not from these nor from any master that Rembrandt learnt to
paint. Nature was his model, and he was his own teacher. In 1630 he
produced one of his earliest oil paintings, the “Portrait of an Old
Man,” and at this time he settled as a painter in Amsterdam. He devoted
himself to the teaching of his pupils more than to the cultivation of the
wealthy, but instead of being the associate of drunken boors, as some
have described him, he was the friend of the Burgomaster Six, of Jeremias
de Decker the poet, and many other persons of good position. In 1632
Rembrandt produced his famous picture, “The Lesson in Anatomy;” about
that time he was established in Sint Antonie Breedstraat; in the next
year he married Saskia van Ulenburch, the daughter of the Burgomaster
of Leeuwarden, whose face he loved to paint best after that of his old
mother. We may see Saskia’s portrait in the famous picture, “Rembrandt
with his wife on his knee,” in the Dresden Gallery; and a “Portrait of
Saskia” alone is in the Cassel Gallery.

In the year 1640 Rembrandt painted a portrait, long known under the
misnomer of “The Frame-maker.” It is usually called “Le Doreur,” and it
is said that the artist painted the portrait in payment for some picture
frames; but is in reality a portrait of Dorer, a friend of Rembrandt.
The year 1642 saw Rembrandt’s masterpiece, the so-called “Night-watch.”
Saskia died in the same year, and the four children of the marriage
all died early, Titus, the younger son, who promised to follow in his
father’s steps, not surviving him. Rembrandt was twice married after
Saskia’s death. The latter years of the great master’s life were clouded
by misfortune. Probably owing to the stagnation of trade in Amsterdam,
Rembrandt grew poorer and poorer, and in 1656 was insolvent. His goods
and many pictures were sold by auction in 1658, and realized less than
5,000 guilders. Still he worked bravely on. His last known pictures are
dated 1668. On the 8th of October, 1669, Rembrandt died, and was buried
in the Wester Kerk.

Rembrandt was the typical painter of the Dutch School; his treatment is
distinctly Protestant and naturalistic. Yet he was an idealist in his
way, and as “The King of Shadows,” as he has been called, he brought
forth from the dark recesses of nature, effects which become, under his
pencil, poems upon canvas. Rembrandt loved to paint pictures warmed by a
clear, though limited light, which dawns through masses of shadow, and
this gives much of that air of mystery so noticeable in his works. In
most of his pictures painted before 1633, there is more daylight and less
shadow, and the work is more studied and delicate.

In the National Gallery we find two portraits of Rembrandt, one
representing him at the age of thirty-two, another when an old man.
In the same collection is the “Woman taken in Adultery” (1644), and
the “Adoration of the Shepherds” (1646), both superb in arrangement
and execution. Germany and Russia are almost as rich as Holland in the
number of Rembrandt’s pictures which they possess. The “Descent from the
Cross,” in the Munich Gallery, is a specimen of the sacred subjects of
this master. He interprets the Bible from the Protestant and realistic
standpoint, and though the coloring of the pictures is marvelous, the
grotesque features and Walloon dress of the personages represented
make it hard to recognize the actors in the gospel story. Many of his
Scripture characters were doubtless painted from the models afforded him
in the Jews’ quarter of Amsterdam, where he resided. The magnificent
panoramic landscape belonging to Lord Overstone, and the famous picture
of “The Mill” against a sunset sky, are signal examples of his poetic
power, and his etchings show us this peculiarity of his genius, even
more than his oil paintings. Of these etchings, which range over every
class of subject, religious, historical, landscape and portrait, there
is a fine collection in the British Museum; and they should be studied
in order to understand the immense range of his superb genius. The “Ecce
Homo,” to say nothing of the splendor, the light and shade, and richness
of execution, has never been surpassed for dramatic expression; and we
forgive the commonness of form and type in the expression of touching
pathos in the figure of the Savior; nor would it be possible to express
with greater intensity the terrible raging of the crowd, the ignobly
servile and cruel supplications of the priests, or the anxious desire to
please on the part of Pilate. The celebrated plate “Christ Healing the
Sick,” exhibits in the highest perfection his mastery of chiaroscuro, and
the marvelous delicacies of gradation which he introduced into his more
finished work.

The number of Rembrandt’s pictures in Holland, although it includes
his three greatest, is remarkably small—indeed, they may be counted on
the fingers; and lately, by the sale of the Van Loon collection, the
Dutch have lost two more of his finest works in the portraits of the
“Burgomaster Six” and “His Wife.” But his works abound in the other great
galleries of Europe.

       *       *       *       *       *

There is really in nature such a thing as high life. A life of health, of
sound morality, of disinterested intellectual activity, of freedom from
petty cares is higher than a life of disease and vice, and stupidity and
sordid anxiety. I maintain that it is right and wise in a nation to set
before itself the highest attainable ideal of human life as the existence
of a complete gentleman.—_Hamerton._



    “Among the writers who have done much to refine and elevate
    American literature, Thomas Bailey Aldrich should have the
    brightest place of one who has wrought equally well in prose and
    poetry. Among his early efforts ‘Baby Bell’ will longest hold its
    place in poetry.”—_Henry James, Jr._

It is the vision of a gentle, tender spirit, and many eyes unused to
tears will grow moist over the delicate lines. We have not room for the

“Baby Bell.”

    Have you not heard the poets tell,
    How came the dainty Baby Bell
          Into this world of ours?
    The gates of heaven were left ajar;
    With folded hands and dreamy eyes,
    Wandering out of Paradise,
    She saw this planet, like a star,
    Hung in the glistening depths of even—
    Its bridges, running to and fro,
    O’er which the white-winged angels go,
          Bearing the holy dead to heaven.
    She touched a bridge of flowers—those feet,
    So light they did not bend the bells
    Of the celestial asphodels.
    They fell like dew upon the flowers;
    Then all the air grew strangely sweet!
    And thus came dainty Baby Bell
          Into this world of ours.


    O, Baby, dainty Baby Bell,
    How fair she grew from day to day!
    What woman-nature filled her eyes;
    What poetry within them lay!
    Those deep and tender twilight eyes,
          So full of meaning, pure and bright,
          As if she yet stood in the light,
    Of those oped gates of Paradise.
    And so we loved her more and more;
    Ah, never in our hearts before
          Was love so lovely born;
    We felt we had a link between
    This real world and that unseen—
          The land beyond the morn.
    And for the love of those dear eyes,
    For love of her whom God led forth
    (The mother’s being ceased on earth
    When Baby came from Paradise),
    For love of Him who smote our lives,
    And woke the chords of joy and pain,
    We said, Dear Christ! our hearts bent down
          Like violets after rain.


    It came upon us by degrees,
    We saw its shadow ere it fell—
    The knowledge that our God had sent
    His messenger for Baby Bell.
    We shuddered with unlanguaged pain,
    And all our hopes were changed to fears,
    And all our thoughts ran into tears
          Like sunshine into rain.
    We cried aloud in our belief,
    “O, smite us gently, gently, God!
    Teach us to bend and kiss the rod,
    And perfect grow through grief.”
    Ah, how we loved her, God can tell;
    Her heart was folded deep in ours;
          Our hearts are broken, Baby Bell!

    At last he came, the messenger,
          The messenger from unseen lands;
    And what did dainty Baby Bell?
    She only crossed her little hands,
    She only looked more meek and fair;
    We parted back her silken hair,
    We wove the roses round her brow—
    White buds, the summer’s drifted snow—
    Wrapt her from head to foot in flowers
    And thus went dainty Baby Bell
          Out of this world of ours.

Some of Aldrich’s descriptions of oriental scenery are richer in color
and more luxurious, but he is more at home and more captivating with
familiar themes drawn from every day life. We are charmed with such
simple pictures as

“Before the Rain.”

    We knew it would rain, for all the morn
    A spirit on slender ropes of mist
    Was lowering its golden buckets down
    Into the vapory amethyst

    Of marshes and swamps and dismal fens,
    Scooping the dew that lay in the flowers,
    Dipping the jewels out of the sea,
    To sprinkle them over the land in showers.

    We knew it would rain, for the poplars showed
    The white of their leaves, the amber grain
    Shrunk in the wind—and the lightning now
    Is tangled in tremulous skeins of rain.


North from Jerusalem.

We left Jerusalem by the Jaffa Gate. Not far from the city wall there
is a superb terebinth tree, now in the full glory of its shining green
leaves. It appears to be bathed in a perpetual dew; the rounded masses
of foliage sparkle and glitter in the light, and the great spreading
boughs flood the turf below with a deluge of delicious shade. A number
of persons were reclining on the grass under it, and one of them, a very
handsome Christian boy, spoke to us in Italian and English. I scarcely
remember a brighter and purer day than that of our departure. The sky was
a sheet of spotless blue; every rift and scar of the distant hills was
retouched with a firmer pencil, and all the outlines, blurred away by the
haze of the previous few days, were restored with wonderful distinctness.
The temperature was hot, but not sultry, and the air we breathed was an
elixir of immortality.

Through a luxuriated olive grove we reached the Tombs of the Kings,
situated in a small valley to the north of the city. Part of the valley,
if not the whole of it, has been formed by quarrying away the crags of
marble and conglomerate limestone for building the city. Near the edge
of the low cliffs overhanging it, there are some illustrations of the
ancient mode of cutting stone, which, as well as the custom of excavating
tombs in the rocks, was evidently borrowed from Egypt. The upper surface
of the rocks was first made smooth, after which the blocks were mapped
out and cut apart by grooves chiseled between them. I visited four or
five tombs, each of which had a sort of vestibule or open portico in
front. The door was low, and the chambers which I entered, small and
black, without sculptures of any kind. There were fragments of sarcophagi
in some of them. On the southern side of the valley is a large quarry,
evidently worked for marble, as the blocks have been cut out from below,
leaving a large overhanging mass, part of which has broken off and fallen
down. The opening of the quarry made a striking picture, the soft pink
hue of the weather-stained rock contrasting exquisitely with the vivid
green of the vines festooning the entrance.

From the long hill beyond the tombs, we took our last view of Jerusalem,
far beyond whose walls I saw the Church of the Nativity, at Bethlehem.
Notwithstanding its sanctity, I felt little regret at leaving Jerusalem,
and cheerfully took the rough road northward over the stony hills.
There were few habitations in sight, yet the hillsides were cultivated,
wherever it was possible for anything to grow. After four hours’ ride we
reached El Bireh, a little village on a hill, with the ruins of a convent
and a large Khan. The place takes its name from a fountain of excellent
water, beside which we found our tents already pitched. The night was
calm and cool, and the full moon poured a flood of light over the bare
and silent hills.

We rose long before sunrise and rode off in the brilliant morning—the
sky unstained by a speck of vapor. In the valley, beyond El Bireh, the
husbandmen were already at their plows, and the village boys were on
their way to the uncultured parts of the hills with their flocks of sheep
and goats. The valley terminated in a deep gorge, with perpendicular
walls of rock on either side. Our road mounted the hill on the eastern
side, and followed the brink of the precipice through the pass, where an
enchanting landscape opened upon us.

The village of Zebroud crowned a hill which rose opposite, and the
mountain slopes leaning toward it on all sides were covered with
orchards of fig trees, and either rustling with wheat or cleanly plowed
for maize. The soil was a dark brown loam, and very rich. The stones
have been laboriously built into terraces; and, even where heavy rocky
boulders almost hid the soil, young fig and olive trees were planted in
the crevices between them. I have never seen more thorough and patient
cultivation. In the crystal of the morning air the very hills laughed
with plenty, and the whole landscape beamed with the signs of gladness on
its countenance.

The site of ancient Bethel was not far to the right of our road. Over
hills laden with the olive, fig and vine, we passed to Aian el Haramiyeh,
or the fountain of the robbers. Here there are tombs cut in the rock on
both sides of the valley. Over another ridge, we descend to a large,
bowl-shaped valley, entirely covered with wheat, and opening eastward
toward the Jordan. Thence to Nablous (the Shechem of the Old and Sychar
of the New Testament) is four hours through a winding dell of the richest
harvest land. On the way, we first caught sight of the snowy top of Mount
Hermon, distant at least eighty miles in a straight line. Before reaching
Nablous, I stopped to drink at a fountain of clear sweet water, beside
a square pile of masonry, upon which sat two Moslem dervishes. This, we
were told, was the tomb of Joseph, whose body, after having accompanied
the Israelites in all their wanderings, was at last deposited near

There is less reason to doubt this spot than most of the sacred places of
Palestine, for the reason that it rests not on Christian, but on Jewish
tradition. The wonderful tenacity with which the Jews cling to every
record or memento of their early history, and the fact that from the time
of Joseph a portion of them have always lingered near the spot, render it
highly probable that the locality of a spot so sacred should have been
preserved from generation to generation to the present time.

Leaving the tomb of Joseph, the road turned to the west and entered the
narrow pass between Mounts Ebal and Gerizim. The former is a steep,
barren peak, clothed with terraces of cactus, standing on the northern
side of the pass. Mount Gerizim is cultivated nearly to the top, and is
truly a mountain of blessing, compared with its neighbors. Through an
orchard of grand old olive trees, we reached Nablous, which presented a
charming picture, with its long mass of white, dome-topped stone houses,
stretching along the foot of Gerizim through a sea of bowery orchards.
The bottom of the valley resembles some old garden run to waste.


Her home is by the sea, and she gives us some vivid glimpses of ocean
scenes. Occasionally a joyous phrase is delicately presented, but the
prevailing tone of her verse, on whatever subject, is in the minor.
Perhaps “Beethoven” shows most imagination and insight, as well as
felicity of expression.


    If God speaks anywhere, in any voice,
    To us his creatures, surely here and now
    We hear him, while the great chords seem to bow
    Our heads, and all the symphony’s breathless noise
    Breaks over us, with challenge to our souls!
    Beethoven’s music! From the mountain peaks
    The strong, divine, compelling thunder rolls;
    And “Come up higher, come!” the words it speaks,
    “Out of your darkened valleys of despair;
    Behold, I lift you upon mighty wings
    Into Hope’s living, reconciling air!
    Breathe, and forget your life’s perpetual stings—
    Dream, folded on the breast of Patience sweet,
    Some pulse of pitying love for you may beat!”


    Fain would I hold my lamp of life aloft
      Like yonder tower built high above the reef;
    Steadfast, though tempests rave or winds blow soft,
      Clear, though the sky dissolve in tears of grief.

    For darkness passes; storms shall not abide,
      A little patience and the fog is past.
    After the sorrow of the ebbing tide
      The singing flood returns in joy at last.

    The night is long and pain weighs heavily;
      But God will hold His world above despair.
    Look to the east, where up the lucid sky
      The morning climbs! The day shall yet be fair!

The Sandpiper.

    Across the narrow beach we flit,
      One little sandpiper and I;
    And fast I gather, bit by bit,
      The scattered driftwood bleached and dry.
    The wild waves reach their hands for it,
      The wild wind raves, the tide runs high,
    As up and down the beach we flit—
      One little sandpiper and I.

    Above our heads the sullen clouds
      Scud black and swift across the sky,
    Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds
      Stand out the white light-houses high.
    Almost as far as eye can reach
      I see the close-reefed vessels fly,
    As fast we flit along the beach—
      One little sandpiper and I.

    I watch him as he skims along,
      Uttering his sweet and mournful cry;
    He starts not at my fitful song,
      Or flash of fluttering drapery;
    He has no thought of any wrong,
      He scans me with a fearless eye.
    Stanch friends are we, well tried and strong,
      The little sandpiper and I.

    Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night
      When the loosed storm breaks furiously?
    My driftwood fire will burn so bright!
      To what warm shelter canst thou fly?
    I do not fear for thee, though wroth
      The tempest rushes through the sky;
    For are we not God’s children both,
      Thou, little sandpiper and I?



Before the middle of the eighteenth century the current of events in the
American colonies became rapid and impetuous. Many obstacles were met,
but the swollen stream rushed on, leaping over, or dashing aside the
barriers that seemed to accelerate, rather than hinder the progress.

But a crisis was at hand, and the danger grew apparent.

England and France, rival nations, and often in conflict, both had
extensive possessions in this country, and their rights were in dispute.
The English occupied the Atlantic coast from Maine to Florida, and their
colonies were well established. As yet all their important settlements
were east of the Allegheny Mountains, though they claimed, as their right
by discovery, all the land westward to the Pacific.

Meanwhile, the French had made important inland settlements, occupying
principally the valley of the St. Lawrence and some of its tributaries.
They had built Quebec and Montreal, more than 500 miles from the gulf,
with other towns of importance; had fortified themselves at different
points along the great chain of lakes, from Ontario to Superior; had
penetrated the wilderness of western New York, Pennsylvania, Ohio,
Michigan and Illinois, fixing their stations and building forts on all
the more important tributaries of the Mississippi, with the evident
and avowed intention of connecting their St. Lawrence and Canadian
possessions with the great western valley; and, through the large rivers
that drain it, find their way to the sea. They would thus confine the
English to the Atlantic States, and found their empire in the West.
Comparatively little intercourse as there was between the East and West,
these designs were well understood, and the resolute purpose to thwart
them was at once avowed. The nations beyond the Atlantic were nominally
at peace, but not friendly, and neither disposed to yield to the claims
of the other. France, dominated by Roman Catholics, and England, the
leading Protestant nation of Europe, had nurtured hatred and jealousies
that might any day precipitate a conflict of arms, and the theater of the
strife would be in their colonial possessions.

But before war was declared the colonists themselves became involved in
actual hostilities. The English had adjusted their difficulties, and,
confederate by articles of agreement and a strong national feeling,
refused to be restrained by the mountain barriers. Two settlements were
begun west of the Alleghenies, one on the Youghiogheny, and one in some
part of western Virginia. Their relations with the Indians were friendly,
and trade with them was profitable. The French, who had taken possession
of the valley of the Ohio, and were doing their utmost to secure the
influence of the Indians in all the region between the river and the
lakes, protested against the encroachment of the English, and warned the
Governor of Pennsylvania to restrain his subjects from entering territory
claimed by the King of France. Of course no attention was paid to the
warning other than appeared in preparations for the conflict that now
seemed inevitable. The “Ohio Company,” composed of Virginians, continued
to explore and survey the country. The natives protested against the
French occupying their country, and the tribes prepared for an armed
resistance. The Virginia charter included the whole country north to Lake
Erie, and Governor Dinwiddy thought best, before hostilities were begun,
to draw up a remonstrance, setting forth in order, the nature and extent
of the English claim to the valley of the Ohio, and warning the French
against any further attempt to occupy it. It was necessary that this
paper, whatever danger and hardship it might require, should be carried
to the French General St. Pierre, who was stationed at Erie, as commander
of their forces in the West. The journey, that could be performed only
on foot, would be through a vast, unbroken wilderness, and would require
more than ordinary endurance, as well as undaunted courage. George
Washington, then a young surveyor, was sent for from his home on the
Potomac, and duly commissioned to carry the document. He set out on
the last day of October, with four attendants and an interpreter. The
route was through the mountains to the head waters of the Youghiogheny,
thence down the stream to the site of Pittsburgh, which was noted as an
important point, and the key to the situation in the valley of the Ohio.
Thence the course was twenty miles down the river, and across to Venango
(Franklin), and thence, by way of Meadville, to Fort Le Bœuf, on the
head waters of French Creek, fourteen miles from Erie, where he met the
General, who had come over in person to superintend the fortifications.

The officer received him with courtesy, but declined to discuss any
questions of national rights. “His superior, the Governor of Canada,
owned the country from the lakes to the Ohio; and being instructed to
drive every Englishman from the territory, he would do it.” A respectful
but decided reply was sent to Dinwiddy, and Washington was dismissed, to
find his way back to Virginia.

It was by this time midwinter, and the perils of the long journey were
increased by swollen rivers that had to be crossed on the treacherous
ice, or on rafts constructed of logs and poles cut for the purpose. Of
the incidents of that first great public service by the “Father of his
Country,” but few authentic records are found, and we only know that it
was performed with fidelity, and that the fuller information gathered
respecting the strength of the French forces, and their preparations for
descending the Allegheny with their large fleet of boats and canoes,
in the spring, thoroughly aroused the Virginians to the importance
of holding the point at the confluence of the great rivers forming
the Ohio. In March, and before it was possible for the French to come
down the Allegheny, a rude stockade was built; but there was not force
enough to hold it. As the fleet came sweeping down the river, and
resistance was found impossible, the little band at the head of the Ohio
surrendered, and was allowed to withdraw from the stockade, which the
enemy at once entered, and where they laid the foundations of Fort Du
Quesne. Remonstrance and negotiations having failed, the alternative
of war was promptly accepted, and Washington having been made Colonel,
was commissioned to take the fort, “to kill or repel all who interfered
with the English settlements in the disputed territory.” His regiment of
Virginia soldiers, in the month of April, encountered difficulties and
hardships in their westward march that made progress slow.

The roads were well nigh impassable, the streams were bridgeless, and
drenching rains fell on the tentless soldiers. Before reaching the
Ohio, Washington learned that the enemy were on the march to attack
him, and immediately built a stockade that he called Fort Necessity. He
advanced cautiously, with some heavy skirmishing, in which a number of
the enemy were killed, and some prisoners were taken. But the promised
reinforcements not arriving, he fell back to his little fort, and was
scarcely within the rude enclosure when he was surrounded. The enemy
in force gained an eminence, from which they could fire into the fort,
while they were partly concealed. For hours, the gallant little band,
encouraged by the calm, resolute bearing of their colonel, vigorously
returned the fire. Thirty of the company were killed, and others wounded,
when they were allowed to withdraw, taking all their stores and equipage.
The retreat was orderly, but the enterprise was abandoned.

The valley of the Ohio and the whole country to the lakes was left in the
power of the French, who were also strengthening their works at Crown
Point and Fort Niagara.

As yet there had been no declaration of war by England or France, and
the ministers of the two countries kept assuring each other of peaceful
intentions, though the hostility of their dependencies in America could
not be ignored. Louis XV., to help keep the peace, sent an army of
three thousand soldiers to Canada, and the British government ordered
General Braddock, with two regiments, to America, to protect their
frontier settlements. Early in the spring of 1755 this force reached the
Chesapeake, and in April Braddock held a council with all the Governors,
at Alexandria. As there had been no formal declaration of war they would
not invade Canada, but repel the French from the northern and western
frontier. Vigorous and concerted measures, however, were to be employed.
Governor Lawrence was to settle and guard the boundaries of Nova Scotia.
Johnson, of New York, with his militia and a force of Mohawks, hired
for the purpose, was to capture the French post at Crown Point, while
Shirley, of Massachusetts, was to drive the enemy from their fortress
at Niagara; and Braddock himself as commander-in-chief, with the main
body of the regulars, was to subdue Fort Du Quesne. It was a magnificent
program, but easier to plan than to execute; and those so full of
confidence were to encounter some sad reverses.

Braddock’s army numbered about 2,000, nearly all veterans who had served
in the wars of Europe. There were few provincial troops; two companies
led by Gates, of New York, and Washington, joining the army at Fort
Cumberland, was placed on Braddock’s staff as aid-de-camp. The movement
was necessarily slow. Over a narrow and exceedingly rough road the
slender column stretched out for some four miles. Braddock was a brave,
resolute general, acquainted with his army, but ignorant of the country
and the forces he would have to meet.

Franklin and others had suggested that it would be wise to move
cautiously. But he scouted the idea that the assault of untutored
savages that might be encountered before reaching the fort he proposed
to capture, could make any impression on his regulars. When Washington,
understanding the modes of Indian warfare, suggested the possibility
of an ambuscade, the General was furious, and indignantly refused to
be advised by an inferior. They had advanced without any noteworthy
casualty till within about seven miles of the fort, and no enemy yet
appeared. Confident of speedy success, Braddock, at the head of twelve
hundred chosen troops, pressed on more rapidly, Colonel Gage, leading a
detachment of three hundred men, in the advance. The road was but twelve
feet wide, the country uneven and thickly wooded; a hill on the one hand
and a dry ravine on the other, the whole region covered with a thick
undergrowth. A few scouts were thrown forward, but the situation gave
no opportunity for the feeble flanking parties to act. Suddenly there
was a sharp, rapid fire of musketry heard in the front. The scouts were
killed or driven in. The advance forces were thrown back in confusion,
leaving their cannon in the hands of the enemy, who were found to be
an unexpectedly strong force of both French and Indians. The peril of
the situation was at once apparent, and, suffering much from their
concealed foe, Gage’s men wavered and became confusedly mixed in thickest
underbrush with a regiment that Braddock pushed forward to support them.
The confusion grew almost to a panic, the men firing constantly, with
but little effect, in the direction of the concealed enemy, while their
well directed volleys, from under the cover of rocks and trees, told with
terrible effect on the English crowded together in the narrow roadway.
The rash, but brave General rushed to the front, and with impetuous
courage rallied his men to charge on the foe. But it was impossible.
They, panic-stricken, were huddled together like sheep, or fled in
disorder to the rear. The army routed, his aids and officers mostly
killed or wounded, and the forest strewn with dead or disabled soldiers,
the General, after having five horses shot under him, fell mortally
wounded. To Washington, who came to his aid, the fallen hero said: “What
shall we do now, Colonel?” “Retreat, sir, retreat!” This was ordered,
and the dying General carried from the scene of carnage. Washington,
with the Virginians that remained alive, covered the hasty retreat of
the ruined army. Nearly everything was lost. The artillery, baggage,
provisions and private papers of the officers were left on the field.
Braddock died the fourth day, and was buried by the roadside, a mile west
of Fort Necessity, where Dunbar had been left, an officer with neither
capacity nor courage. When the fugitives, who had not been pursued far
from the battleground, reached, his camp, the panic was communicated; he
destroyed the remaining artillery, baggage and army stores, to the value
of a hundred thousand pounds sterling, and joined in a most precipitate
retreat to Fort Cumberland, and thence, in a thoroughly demoralized
condition, to Philadelphia. Thus, the main army, of which much was
expected, was in a few days practically destroyed, and nothing more was
attempted that year.

The work of subduing the French in Nova Scotia, assigned by Braddock and
the Governors to Lawrence, assisted by the English fleet under Colonel
Monckton, was done with dispatch and unparalleled cruelty.

The province had been ceded to the English in the treaty of 1713, and,
remaining under the dominion of Great Britain, was ruled by English
officers, though the inhabitants were largely French.

The French forts near the New Brunswick line being taken after but feeble
resistance, the English were masters of the whole country east of the St.
Croix; and, pretending to fear an insurrection on the part of the Nova
Scotians, or Acadians, adopted measures with them that have always and
everywhere met with the most unqualified condemnation. The French in the
province outnumbered the English three to one, and had their pleasant
homes in that oldest settlement of their people on the continent. They
were ruthlessly torn from their homes and the graves of their kindred,
driven at the point of the bayonet, forced on ship-board, and more than
three thousand of them, half-starved and destitute, were scattered here
and there among English colonists, from whom but little kindness and
less of fellowship could be expected. The guilty agents in the infamous
transaction, as cowardly as it was inhuman, made themselves the scorn of

In about the only quarter where the British army had that year any
success, what followed the victory was so shocking to the feelings of
humanity, and met with such universal condemnation, that even the guilty
perpetrators of the deed would have blotted the record if they could.

The campaign planned for Shirley, who with his Indian allies was to take
Fort Niagara, was about as utter a failure as that of Braddock. The fort
had no great strength, and was not well garrisoned; but it was a month
before he reached Oswego, where his provincials were to assemble. Four
weeks were spent in getting his boats ready. A storm caused farther
delay, and after the storm the wind was in the contrary direction. Then
another storm caused delay. Sickness prevailed in camp, and by the first
of October Shirley declared the lake too dangerous for navigation. The
Indians deserted his standard. The fact was that while on the march, news
of Braddock’s defeat reached him, and, as they had expected to meet at
Niagara, he feared to go there, thinking the same fate might await him.
So he marched homeward, without striking a blow.

Johnson, who was to attack the enemy at Crown Point, had better success,
though the objective point was not reached, and his was a dear-bought
victory. His movements were all anticipated, and the portion of his army
led by Williams, ambushed and cut to pieces. Several hundred Englishmen
fell. The French still held Crown Point, and had seized and fortified

That was a year of disasters to the English, and so was the next. The
Indians, doubtless influenced by the unsuccessful campaign of the
English, and perhaps instigated by French emissaries, had killed more
than 1,000 people.

In May, 1756, after two years of actual hostilities, war was declared.
The English, chagrined with the reverses of the past year, and in danger
of losing all the territory west of the Alleghenies, after much debate
in Parliament, decided to place all the military forces sent to America
under one command. A large army was equipped, and Lord Loudon placed in
command. He proved unfit for the position, and another year passed with
great losses and little or nothing gained. The French, led by competent,
determined men, were everywhere successful, and wasted the British forces
with repeated assaults, capturing or destroying a large part of the
armament, till the English had not a single fort or hamlet remaining in
the valley of the St. Lawrence. And every cabin where English was spoken
was swept out of the valley of the Ohio. At the end of the year France
seemed to be in secure possession of twenty times as much territory in
America as her British rival.

Her colonial possessions endangered, and the flag of the country in
disgrace, the ministers were forced to resign, and the great commoner,
William Pitt, became Prime Minister. The dilatory, imbecile Loudon, was
deposed, and Abercrombie put in his place, with Lord Howe next in rank.
The gallant Wolfe led a brigade. The campaign for the summer was well
arranged and prosecuted with energy. In May Amhurst, at the head of ten
thousand men, reached Halifax. A few days after the fleet was in Gabarus
Bay, and Wolfe landed his division without serious loss, though under
fire from the enemy’s batteries. The French dismantled their guns and
retreated. The siege of Louisburg was pressed with great vigor. Four
French vessels, one a seventy-four-gun ship, were fired by the English
boats, and burned in the harbor. The town and fortress became a ruin.
Resistance was hopeless, and Louisburg capitulated. The garrison, with
the marines, in all six thousand men, became prisoners of war, and were
sent to England. Cape Breton and Prince Edward’s Island were surrendered
to Great Britain.

In another quarter, however, there was not long after only partial
success, followed by severe disaster. General Abercrombie, with 15,000
men, reached Lake George, and embarked for Ticonderoga. His equipment
was in all respects thorough. Proceeding to the northern extremity of
the lake, they landed safely on the western shore. But the difficulty of
going farther compelled them to leave the heavy artillery behind, Lord
Howe leading the advance in person. Before reaching the fort, in a sharp
skirmish with the pickets, that brave officer was killed. The French
were overwhelmed, but the soldiers of Howe, smitten with grief, began to
retreat. Abercrombie was in the rear with the main army, but the soul
of the expedition was gone. Two days after a determined effort was made
to take the fort by assault. The defences proved much stronger than was
expected, and the assailing parties were again and again repulsed with
great loss. The unavailing efforts were continued for four hours, and
then they withdrew, having lost in killed and wounded nearly two thousand
men. Probably in no other battle on the continent did the English have
so many men engaged, or suffer such terrible loss. Abandoning this
enterprise as hopeless, the army was withdrawn to Fort George, at the
other extremity of the lake. Thence Colonel Bradstreet was sent with
three thousand men, mostly provincials, against Fort Frontenac, at the
present site of Kingston, at the outlet of Ontario. He embarked his
command at Oswego, and landed within a mile of the fort. This fortress,
of great importance, was at the time but feebly garrisoned, and after
two days’ siege capitulated. Forty-six cannon, nine vessels of war,
and a vast quantity of military stores were the fruit of this victory.
It compensated the English for all their losses at Ticonderoga, except
for the men who were there sacrificed. It was a crushing defeat for
the French, who became disheartened. Their crops had failed, and with
almost a famine in the land, it became so difficult to subsist the army
that the people clamored for peace. “Peace, peace; no matter with what
boundaries,” was the message sent by the brave Montcalm to the French

The outlook in Canada and along the lakes was not encouraging, and
Forbes, with nine thousand men from Philadelphia, undertook the
reduction of Fort Du Quesne, and the expulsion of the French from the
valley of the Ohio.

Washington was again in command of the Virginians, Armstrong led the
Pennsylvanians. An advance section, under Major Grant, more eager than
wise, was attacked by the enemy in ambush, and lost heavily. The main
column came on slowly, cutting roads and bridging streams, but in such
force that, as they drew near, those in the fort became alarmed, burned
their works, and with what they could carry, floated down the river.
Those eager for the assault, and to avenge injuries received in former
attempts, marched, unopposed, over the ruins, and unfurled their flag
over that gateway of the West, calling it, in honor of the great British
minister, whose energetic measures gave confidence to the army and hope
to the colonists—Pittsburgh.

Marked progress was made during the summer and fall campaign, and
Parliament voted twelve million pounds sterling for carrying on the war.
The colonial magistrates exerted themselves to the utmost, and by the
spring of 1759 the whole effective force of the English was near fifty
thousand, while the entire French army was less than eight thousand.

The conquest of Canada was not at first contemplated, but it had become
evident that the rival nations could not live in peace, with such slight
natural barriers between them, and so Canada must be conquered and made
a British province. With that object in view, the campaigns for the year
were planned.

Prideaux proceeded against Niagara, for the relief of which the French
collected all their available forces from Detroit, Erie, Le Bœuf and
Venango. Prideaux was accidentally killed on the 15th, and Sir William
Johnson, on whom the command devolved, so disposed his forces as to
intercept the approaching French, and a bloody battle was fought in which
they were completely routed; the fort soon after capitulated.

Amhurst was victorious on Lake Champlain, and proceeded through Lake
George, to attack and take Ticonderoga, from which, after feeble
resistance, the enemy withdrew to Crown Point, and the whole region,
mapped out for his operations, was recovered, with but little loss on his

The French were now sadly crippled everywhere, except in the valley of
the St. Lawrence, and it remained for General Wolfe to achieve the final
victory. As soon as the river was navigable in the spring he proceeded
with a force of eight thousand men, and a fleet of forty-four vessels.
He arrived on the 27th of June at the Isle of Orleans, four miles below
Quebec, and began his operations vigorously. His camp was located on the
upper end of the island, and the fleet gave him immediate command of the
river. On the night of the 29th General Monckton was sent to plant a
battery on Point Levi, opposite the city, and was successful.

The lower town was soon reduced to ruins, and the upper much injured,
but the fortress seemed unharmed. The French knowing that the city could
not be stormed from the river side, had constructed three defences,
reaching five miles from the Montmorenci to the St. Charles, and in these
entrenchments the brave Montcalm, with ten or twelve thousand soldiers,
awaited the movement of his assailants. Anxious for battle, though
there were serious difficulties in the way of approaching the foe, it
was decided to risk an engagement by fording the Montmorenci when the
tide ran out. The attempt was made without success, and with the loss
of nearly five hundred men. Disappointments, fatigue and exposure threw
the English general into a fever that held him prisoner in the tent for
some days; and when convalescent he proposed another assault on the
lines of defence, but was in that overruled, and it was determined, if
possible, to gain possession of the Plains of Abraham in the rear of the
city, without passing the fortifications. After thorough examination a
place, afterward called Wolfe’s Cove, was found, where it was thought
possible to make the ascent. On the night appointed, everything being in
readiness, the English entered their transports, quietly dropped down to
the place, and with almost superhuman exertions ascended to the plain,
and the morning revealed them to the greatly astonished defenders of the
city, drawn up in battle array.

When Montcalm learned the fact so unexpected, he said: “They are now on
the weak side of this unfortunate city, and we must crush them before
noon.” With great haste he withdrew his army from the trenches and threw
them between the English and the city. The battle began with an hour’s
cannonade, and then the attempt to turn the English flank, but he was
driven back. The weakened ranks of the French wavered. Wolfe led his
charge in person, and was shot thrice, and survived but a short time.
Learning from an attendant that the enemy fled, he gave directions for
securing the fruits of the battle, and declared he was happy thus to die.
Montcalm also fell early in the battle, mortally wounded, and when told
by his surgeon that the end was near, said: “It is well—then I shall not
live to see Quebec surrendered.” The surrender took place a few days
after, and the last resistance was offered by the French at Montreal, but
it was hopeless and of short continuance. The remnants of their beaten
armies collected there, to the number of ten thousand, were surrendered
to General Amhurst, and all the French possessions in America were ceded
to the English. Liberal terms were granted, the rights of conscience
respected, and the ecclesiastical institutions and property of the
Catholics respected and protected.

    [End of Required Reading for May.]



    I feel the chiseling touch,
      And know that I shall stand,
    Finished and shapely as the work,
      Of the designer’s hand.
    Though cruel is the pain
      From His unceasing blows,
    I hold me, trustfully and still,
      What time “the Angel grows.”

    Through slowly passing years,
      With an unerring skill,
    His hand, with patient, tireless care,
      Is shaping to His will;
    That when I stand unveiled
      Before His glorious throne,
    No traces in me shall be found
      Of the unsightly stone.

    He sees what I _shall be_,
      Through all the rough disguise,
    And knows, at every stroke he gives,
      Some earthward clinging dies.
    Some harsh discordant part,
      Is rounded into grace;
    Some likeness of the pattern true
      Is fashioned in its place.

    Work on, oh, Master hand,
      I gladly yield to thee,
    Until within thy loftiest thought
      I stand complete and free;
    Thy glorious design
      I would not mar or break,
    I shall be satisfied I know,
      When perfected I wake.



For many generations the gift of oratory has been in the blood of the
Phillips family. The founder of the family in America, the Rev. George
Phillips, first minister of Watertown, Mass., is noted in New England
annals for his eloquence. “The irrefragable doctor” he was called by his
hearers, we learn from the pedantic Mather, so able was he in dispute,
and such readiness had he on all occasions to stand to his guns and to
maintain any statement he had once made. But there must have been another
strain of blood in Wendell Phillips, added to that in the veins of his
ancestor George, for Mather goes on to say that the earlier Puritan
was “very averse unto disputation until delivered thereto by extreme

The son of George Phillips, of Watertown, was the Rev. Samuel Phillips,
first minister of Rowley, so distinguished a preacher that it was said of
his father: “He would have been beyond compare, if he had not been the
father of Samuel.” This is Mather’s epitaph on the Rev. George Phillips.

The grandson of the first Phillips was another George, a minister like
his father and grandfather, who lived at Brookhaven, Long Island. “A good
man,” was the second Rev. George, but “thought to be too much addicted to
facetiousness and wit;” more dangerous qualities in those Puritan times
than nowadays, and suggesting, again, the Phillips of our day.

The great-grandson of the first George Phillips, nephew to the second,
was Samuel Phillips, for sixty years minister of Andover, and the father
of John and Samuel Phillips, the founders of the Andover and Exeter
academies. Strictly orthodox was the Rev. Samuel Phillips, as one may see
from his sermons; and the religious tone that he gave to the village of
Andover has lasted to this day. His many printed sermons are proof of the
popularity of his public speech, and the election sermon, at least, shows
that he was not afraid to deal with the living problems of the day.

His sons founded the two Phillips academies, John that at Exeter, and
the two together the academy at Andover. Samuel was as well a liberal
benefactor to the theological seminary at Andover. It would be fair to
say, that with one single exception, where there was perhaps insanity,
the family has been distinguished for public spirit, as well as for
eloquence. Two of the grandsons of the Rev. Samuel, Samuel and William,
were chosen lieutenant-governors of the commonwealth of Massachusetts.
Their second cousin, John Phillips, was the first mayor of Boston. Their
grandfathers had been brothers, the one Samuel, the Andover minister, and
the other John, a Boston merchant. The mother of this second John was
Margaret Wendell. She was Wendell Phillips’s grandmother, and from her
he had his Christian name. His mother was of another Puritan family. Her
maiden name was Walley.

John Phillips, father of Wendell, graduated at Harvard College in 1788,
and became a lawyer. He was afterward one of the trustees of the college,
and in 1809 was appointed a judge of common pleas. In 1822 Boston was
made a city, and John Phillips was chosen the first mayor. He died in
the next year of a trouble of the heart. His sudden death took place
when Wendell and his brother George were both scholars in the Boston
Latin School—the oldest school in America. At that time this school had
recently been revived, and set in new order, with great local reputation,
under Mr. Benjamin Apthorp Gould. It is said that the mayor, John
Phillips, once came into the school to examine it, and, almost of course,
had offered to him the seat of most dignity on the platform. This his
little boys thought a mistake in etiquette, considering that no one could
be of rank as high as the master. They did not hesitate then, more than
in later days, to express their disapprobation, and when their father
met them at table, told him they had been mortified to see him in that
chair. “Ah,” he said, “you were not more ashamed of me than I was of you.”

But this anecdote must only be taken to show that Wendell Phillips
at eleven years was not afraid of his father, and was not averse to
criticising what he thought mistaken. He took even distinguished rank
at school, and another school anecdote shows how early boys can judge
correctly of each other’s ability, for it is remembered that when he
first spoke before the assembled school, on Saturday, the first class—who
sat by themselves, and thought well of their own opinion—were not
displeased. Charles Chauncey Emerson, who was a crack scholar, one of
the very highest in repute, turned to George Stillman Hillard and said,
“That boy will make an orator.” The name of Charles Emerson will not be
familiar to all your readers, for he died young. But here he is still
remembered by the men of his time as the young man of most promise, who,
in those days, left Harvard College. They will not admit that his brother
Waldo Emerson has won any renown in the world, or rendered any service
which would not have come in the life of Charles, had it been spared to
this earth.

From this school, with a distinguished reputation among his fellows,
Wendell Phillips entered Harvard College in 1827. The college was
not then what it is now. Neither law nor divinity school was large,
and these were the only graduate schools at Cambridge. The college
proper, or the “seminary,” as President Quincy used to call it,
numbered about two hundred students, of whom the greater part were
from Massachusetts. A few southern lads, from distant plantation life,
struggled up into what, in those days of no railroads and of no coast
lines of steamers, was a foreign country. They were generally favorites;
there was no such discussion of slavery as to make their position in
the least uncomfortable, and, indeed, the general drift of sentiment
among the people around them was not in sympathy with Abolitionists
or abolitionism. Both these words, if spoken at all in those days in
New England, were generally spoken with scorn. After a genial and
affectionate administration, Dr. John Thornton Kirkland resigned the
presidency of the college in the year 1828. Wendell Phillips was then a
freshman. To succeed Dr. Kirkland, Josiah Quincy was appointed. He had
won his reputation by steady work in Congress, first as a Federalist, and
afterward as a watchful maintainer of northern rights. More lately he
had approved himself an admirable administrative officer as Mayor of the
city of Boston—the second chosen under its city charter. John Phillips,
the father of Wendell Phillips, had been his immediate successor in that
duty. The older Ware was professor of Divinity, Levi Hedge of Logic and
Metaphysics, Dr. J. S. Popkin of Greek, Dr. Sidney Willard of Hebrew,
John Farrar of Mathematics, Edward T. Channing of Rhetoric and Oratory,
and George Ticknor of the Modern Languages. A few of these names will be
remembered by general readers, though “’tis sixty years since” and more,
and I record them because I wish all biographers would tell more than
they are apt to do of the circumstances under which the mental powers of
their heroes were trained.

Several of Phillips’s classmates survive, and one of them, Mr. Francis
Gold Appleton, a gentleman whose wide American sympathies and sterling
public spirit have endeared him to the whole community in which he lives,
has kindly given to me some personal reminiscences of the young fellow’s
life there. Thirteen of his school companions entered college with him.
Other Boston boys came from the Round Hill school, and Exeter, so that
in a class of sixty there were at least twenty Boston boys. In a sense,
therefore, Phillips was not lonely there. But his classmates saw, or
fancied they saw, that at one time he was moody, and suffering from what
they called religious depression. They knew, even then—for boys know
almost everything of the abilities of their companions—that Phillips
had remarkable power in elocution. They chose him into the Porcellian
Club—which takes its name from the traditional roasting of a little pig
(Porcellus)—and of this club he became president. In other days the
Porcellians were thought to be specially Southern in their proclivities,
and this club used to rally almost all the Southern students. It is
therefore rather a queer incident in its history that Wendell Phillips
stands as a popular president. His college reputation was that of an
amiable and bright young man, with an especial gift for oratory. He took
his first degree in 1831—studied at the Law School, then under Professor
Greenleaf, and Judge Story—and took the degree of Bachelor of Laws in
1833. He then went into a lawyer’s office in Boston and entered at the
bar in 1834. He opened his modest office and waited for clients. But in
those days, perhaps in these days, even such a young man waits long. For
myself I think that the old dons of money or of business would rather
give such scraps of formal business as they have to some young stranger
from the country, who has no relatives in Boston, and whom nobody knows
there, than to confide private affairs to somebody they have known from
childhood, whose father, or uncle, or brother-in-law they meet at the
Saturday Club or the Wednesday Club. But Phillips did not flinch from
doing what anybody wanted him to do. It has been remembered that in the
illness of his brother he did the almost mechanical work of the clerk
of the Municipal Court. This means that he was brought into personal
relation with every criminal who was brought up there for trial and

But the skies were thickening, and there was not any danger that a young
man of spirit would long lack a chance if he chose to take it. It was
in October, 1835, that “a mob of gentlemen of property and standing”
broke up a meeting of the Women’s Anti-Slavery Society of Boston.
Phillips was an eye witness of the indignities with which Mr. Garrison
was then treated. He loyally threw in his fortunes with those of the
Abolitionists; and, as it proved, his chance came at a public meeting
called at Faneuil Hall.

At this meeting the small and unpopular set of Abolitionists was in a
measure reinforced by persons who had not been identified with them;
for it was a meeting in the interests of free speech. Lovejoy had been
killed by a mob in Illinois, and the people of Boston were called to
their historic Town Hall to remonstrate. The moderator selected was
Jonathan Phillips, a relative of Wendell’s, and a man deservedly of
leading position in Boston. He was rich, enterprising and wise. He was
a leader in philanthropic organization. He was a great friend of Dr.
William Ellery Channing, who said of him once, “I have had much more
from Mr. Phillips than he ever had from me;” this from a friend who
was saying that Phillips had derived great profit from Dr. Channing’s
preaching. Benjamin F. Hallett, a distinguished anti-Masonic leader,
moved the resolutions. Hillard, a young lawyer, sustained them, and the
event of the day—on the program—was a speech from Dr. Channing, whose
reputation as a man of letters and a leader in religious opinion was
at its height, and who was senior pastor of the most fashionable and
influential church in Boston. But the meeting was held in Faneuil Hall,
which, by a clause in the city charter, must be given for the use of any
fifty citizens who asked for it for a public purpose. Of course, at such
a meeting any citizen might be present. On this occasion the enemies
of the Abolitionists were on hand in force. When the fit moment came
for them to reply, James T. Austin, one of the political leaders of the
State, of Democratic antecedents, but now Attorney General of the State,
under the rule of the newly named Whig party, took the floor against the
resolutions proposed. It was clear enough that the hall was well filled
with marketmen and truckmen, and other laboring men, who, in those days,
all supposed that a “nigger” was the most despicable creature in the
world, excepting that an “Abolitionist” was worse. Austin never spared
invective, and he used it on this occasion to denounce Lovejoy and those
who abetted him.

I doubt if Phillips knew he was going to speak when he went to the
meeting. Indeed, it is quite sure, that Austin secured for him the
attention of the unfriendly assembly. But he had not spoken long before
he was sure of their audience.

“I thought this floor would yawn open before the gentleman and swallow
him up. I thought the pictured forms behind me here would step from their
frames in horror at his words.” These are Phillips’s phrases, which in
one form or another those men repeat who heard him.

The meeting was pitilessly opposed to him and his. After a fashion a
vote was obtained for all the resolutions of sympathy. But nobody cared
whether they passed or not. Nobody heard Phillips that day who did not
know that there was an orator in the town who could do much what he would
with any audience.

He spared nobody and no thing in his attack. He never did till the last
hour of his life. And it is right to say, that the people he opposed,
denounced and satirized, replied with the sneer so often lavished on
such men, “He has a devil and is mad, why do you hear him?” “Phillips’s
crazy talk” is the phrase you constantly find as you turn over private
or published letters of those times. None the less did people go to
hear him, and, as I said, he could do with an audience, friendly or
unfriendly, much what he would. He seemed to be—I think he was—quite
careless about preparation. If he was asked to speak for the cause,
he spoke. He thus had, very soon, the best possible training for his
business. If I am right, it is the only training worth much—namely,
constant practice. I have never, in forty years, varied from the opinion
I expressed the night I first heard him, that he was the best public
speaker we had in New England, as he was the best I had heard anywhere.
He had the double gift of language and of easy familiar gesture. He was
absolutely at his ease. He talked with his audience, played with them,
joked with them, reasoned with them, scolded them, ridiculed them,
soothed them, flattered them and compelled them, just as he chose. He
knew his audience through and through. He knew what speech to make
to them. He was never guilty of that ghastly folly which insists on
addressing to the audience of to-day the speech which pleased some other
audience a week ago.

I have no intention of writing his biography or an abridged history of
the time in which he was so active. I think he did not long remain at
the bar. I think it was as early as 1838 that he refused to take the
attorney’s oath of allegiance to the United States, without which he
could not practice in any United States Court. For the theory of the
extreme Abolitionists was that they must break up the Constitution of the
United States. But in practice very few of their adherents followed them
fully here, and many a man who cordially supported their newspapers and
their meetings, voted as he chose at the next election, or when the time
came went loyally into battle for the old flag. Nay, of Phillips himself
I remember this: I met him on the Sunday before Fort Sumter was fired
upon, and we walked half a mile together. He had brought up town the
last news from the bulletin about the preparations of the South Carolina
batteries. I had been on the spot, on Sullivan’s Island, and pointed out
some inconsistency in the narrative, saying, what I thought then, that I
believed the whole thing would turn out to be mere Carolina bluster. To
which he replied with great cordiality, “I am sure I hope so;” and from
that moment to the end of the war I think no one enjoyed the national
successes more thoroughly than he.

Side by side with the Anti-Slavery excitement, which every one connects
with his name, was the growth of what may fairly enough be called the
“Lyceum Movement.” In the beginning this was thought as pure a piece of
philanthropy as the other. Almost every public spirited man considered
it his duty to have one or more “Lectures” which he should deliver at
the call of his neighbors when they had a “Lyceum.” I have no doubt that
Phillips’s early lecturing was a bit of philanthropic effort of this
sort. But as things went on, enterprising committees began to raise the
price of their tickets, to send for distant lecturers and to pay them
enough to make it worth their while to come. Even college societies
and the providers for Commencement entertainments found it wise to
pay a handsome honorarium to their speakers, and I am afraid that the
element of philanthropy has long since disappeared from what is called
the “Lecture Platform.” Phillips had an ingenious way of uniting the
functions of a literary and of a political lecturer. No one was in more
demand than he for the regular work of the winter Lyceums. But it would
often happen that the timidity of a committee made them pause before they
would listen to his radicalism in a lecture. For such agents he was quite
ready. If people had scruples they must pay for them. His program was:
“For a literary lecture without politics, $100 and my expenses.” “For a
political lecture, nothing, and I pay my fares.”

He used to tell a story of his arrival at a western city where the
committee were divided, four to four, on the question whether they would
hear his lecture on the “Lost Arts” or a political speech. Perhaps he
would determine between them.

“Let us have both,” said Phillips. To which they eagerly assented. So
he delivered the “Lost Arts” first, innocent as a new rosebud of any
political bias. Then a recess was given to the audience, and all who
wished to go might go. But of course, after that beginning, no one went.
And so Phillips had another hour, and an audience for as many heresies as
he chose to utter.

It ought to be remembered that as soon as he had any leisure from his
work as an Anti-Slavery agitator, he gave his time and power, in the same
open-handed way, to the temperance cause. In all these late years the
friends of temperance reform have had no public man more ready to take up
their work for them than he.

The country has shown that it can duly honor such an agitator, whose own
conscience was always clear, even though no man could agree with him in
what he called opinions. The truth is, they were as often impulses as
convictions. But in the matter of slavery, of temperance, and of charity,
he had settled convictions, and lived on them without flinching. He was
utterly without thought of self.

The public has never known nor said enough of Mr. Phillips’s private
charities, and I can not wonder at it. It is impossible for any one
to speak fitly of them this side of the recording angel. Throughout
the world Mr. Phillips had a reputation as helper of the oppressed,
and with this reputation, the other, more dangerous to the comfort
of its possessor, that he cared nothing for popularity, and that he
acted from his own knowledge and will alone, and without regard to the
recommendations of anybody. Thus it was natural that every wanderer,
every outcast, of every color or nation, when he might find himself in
need in Boston went first to Mr. Phillips’s door, and that he should
find the door always open to him. He gave lavishly whenever he thought
he ought to give, not only of his time but of his money; exactly how
much no one but himself ever knew. His house became a sort of bureau of
charity, investigation and relief, so that whenever man, woman or child
was not known at the overseers of the poor, at the “Provident,” or at the
“Associated Charities,” it was the more certain that he was known at Mr.
Phillips’s. He gave his alms literally to all sorts and conditions of men.

That would be a very queer world—and it would be hard to say how it would
fare—which should be made up of Wendell Phillipses. But this may be
fairly said—that one such man in a community like that of New England,
renders essential service. In his case, while there were thousands
who hated him, other thousands loved him—and the thousands who loved,
lived much nearer to him, and knew him a thousand times better than the
thousands who hated.



Speech is, in a practical sense, more than the mere instrument of
thought. It is so far an essential part of the faculty or function of
“thinking,” that little beyond a simple recognition of the impressions
received through the sensations can be accomplished without the aid of
language—at least in one of its elementary forms. Thought and speech
are so connected, that it is impossible to separate them. It is not a
necessity that speech should be articulate and audible. It may be set
in any key, from the loudest voice-utterance to the mere self-conscious
conception of certain sounds, as when a person _thinks_ the pronunciation
of a word, clearly marking its peculiarities in his own mind, but in
a manner imperceptible to any one else. If the performance of this
act—pronouncing a word in thought—be closely examined, it will be found
that there is an impulse, as it were, to move the lips and tongue, but so
restrained, that commonly no obvious muscular action takes place. There
are exceptions to this limitation which not only prove the rule, but show
how intimately thoughts and actions are connected.

In sleep, during dreams, and in the case of some persons, especially
the aged and feeble-minded, when awake, the lips move with nearly
every thought, though no audible sound is emitted. When the restraint,
normally exercised, is less forcible, or the impulse stronger, the
thinker involuntarily speaks his thoughts; and comical stories are
told of persons who have betrayed their real sentiments inopportunely
by this process of thought-speaking. Faults in speech are, therefore,
likely to be due to defects in thought, the two faculties being mutually
dependent; or the reverse may be the case, and impediments and errors
of speech react mischievously on the mind. Much interest and importance
attach to the conclusion arrived at with respect to the real cause of the
hesitation or error which marks the utterance of any particular sufferer.

First, make quite sure that it is not ordinary confusion of thought,
consequent upon a slovenly habit of thinking or the miserable practice of
allowing thoughts to drift, which has produced the faltering or mistake
that occasions anxiety. Many persons permit their minds to become overrun
with tangled scrub, so that nothing short of the most acute or agile
powers of way-finding can carry a thought safely through the domain, and
then they complain of the difficulty of thought-driving! Clear away the
jungle that renders the mind impassable, and thought will no longer be
found to wander by circuitous paths, and too often be irrecoverably lost.
The only measure by which this self-improvement can be accomplished is
one of culture; the degree of labor required will vary from that of a
settler in the backwoods, who finds it necessary to clear and dig every
square yard of the land he would convert to useful purposes, to the
ordinary weeding and breaking the clods which may suffice to repair the
results of a single season of neglect. In any event, however great or
small the task may be, the cultivation must be accomplished, or this, the
most troublesome and inconvenient cause of speech-blundering, a weedy,
tangled, and lumpy state of mind can not be remedied. We are not now
concerned with faults of the motor apparatus or mechanism of the voice;
and, excluding these, it maybe asserted that, of all causes of hesitation
or error in speech which lie, so to say, deeper than the surface, the
neglect of self-control in thought is the most common and, in many
senses, the most mischievous.

If a person who has previously been an easy and fluent speaker begins
to hesitate in his utterance, there is generally reason for anxiety.
Supposing the general health to be good, and nothing specially notable
to have happened in the life of the individual which might have produced
what is commonly called a “shock” to the mind or the nervous system,
there is probably some physical or mental disorder in the background,
to which attention should be directed. If the cause be physical, the
attempt to speak will generally be accompanied by trembling or twitching
in the muscles of the mouth, the lips, the nose, or the jaw. Should any
such symptom be perceptible to friends, or self-detected, it will be
wise to seek medical advice without delay, because it may be produced
by conditions the most important, or comparatively trivial, and no one
except a skilled practitioner can determine from which of several sources
the agitation springs; whether it indicates mere weakness or serious

Commonly, when there is none of this trembling or twitching, and
sometimes even when these are present, the hesitation is mental. Either
the mind is too busy with a crowd of thoughts to maintain proper command
of the word-finding function, or that faculty is so enfeebled that it
seems incapable of any reasonable activity in the service of the will.
It is quick enough in the response to influences which have no right
to usurp control, but when the master-spirit of thought, the judgment
ruling by the will, issues a mandate, the faculty is powerless to obey.
This comes of a riotous or vicious habit of thinking. The mind-weakness
which results from the terrible error of mental dissipation, whatever
the direction in which the thoughts are permitted to disport themselves,
is one of the most perilous conditions of exhaustion into which the
faculties of a still sound brain can be allowed to sink. It is a state of
which the mind in danger is itself conscious long before any indication
becomes recognizable by others. Hesitation in speech is one of the
earliest external symptoms which indicate this malady, but when that
occurs, the weakening power has generally been in secret operation for a
length of time sufficient to accomplish serious mischief. It is not, as
a matter of fact, too late to mend matters; but the individual who has
permitted his mind to pass into this condition has incurred a great peril.

This is a point on which it is necessary to speak plainly. Habits of
musing, brooding, or conjuring up mental pictures and scenes in which
the thinker is himself an actor, and into which he gradually brings his
faculties of imagination, and even his sensations, are the overlooked,
the unconfessed, perhaps the unrecognized, causes of by far the larger
number of attacks of “insanity.” And; though it seems cruel to say
so, the great majority of poor creatures, especially the younger and
middle-aged persons, who with wrecked minds drag out weary years in
lunatic asylums have themselves to thank for the experience. Any one
of a score of existing causes may overbalance the mind or occasion the
outbreak and determine the particular form the mind-malady ultimately
assumes; but the predisposing cause which renders the disaster possible
and entails all the evil consequences is the morbid habit of allowing the
thoughts to wander uncontrolled, at first innocently, then in forbidden
paths, and finally wherever the haunting demon of the inner life, a man’s
worse nature, his evil self, may lure or drive them!

The habit of preoccupation which sometimes shows itself by hesitation in
speech is less dangerous than weakness, but it should not be neglected.
Having “too much to think about” is not so bad as having exhausted the
power of voluntary thought, but it is an evil. “Too much” does not always
mean more than the mind _ought_ to be able to receive and deal with.
It is quite as often too much for the defective discipline of thought
maintained, as really more than a due quantity for the mind engaged if
the business of thinking were properly conducted. There is a marked
tendency in modern education—and it increases each year—to neglect
the training of minds. The subjects which were principally useful for
purposes of mental development and exercise are being eliminated because
they do not commend themselves to the commercial instinct of the day as
producing marketable information. Greek, Latin, mathematics, and the
like, are not possessed of a high value in the mart of commerce or on
’Change, and they are therefore lightly estimated.

We are beginning to reap the fruit of this time-serving policy in
education, and it takes the form of a general break-down of young minds
when set to any duty which involves dealing with a crowd of thoughts at
once. The untrained and disorderly thinker can not choose his words, he
has “no time” to arrange them, and can seldom find them when wanted.
He is “thinking of something else.” It has come to be thought rather
clever to be “abstracted,” and “so engrossed,” “with many things to
think about!” These are the pitiful excuses offered by a generation of
incompetent and confused thinkers when their speech betrays them. A
clever talker will often bridge over the gap between two right words in
place of interposing a wrong one. It is amusing and, in a certain sense,
interesting to notice how admirably this is done by self-possessed though
confused speakers; but the evil of disorderly thought lurks behind, and
may be detected through the flimsy, though ingenious, artifice.

The remedy for a growing hesitancy in speech, when not the result of
serious mind-weakness—and the person affected is generally secretly
conscious of the cause—is a better method of thinking. The first effort
must be to preserve greater calmness; the second, to be more orderly
in thought. There is a process in thinking which is the counterpart of
dotting the _i_’s and putting in the stops in writing, or of knotting the
thread and “fastening off” securely in needlework. If this be neglected,
as it commonly is by what are called rapid—another word for careless,
reckless, or impetuous—thinkers, entanglement and confusion in thought,
showing themselves in hesitation and errors of speech, are inevitable.

Verbal blunders are generally due to confusions of thought, but sometimes
to disease. It is important to distinguish between the two varieties of
this fault. The former is a matter for self-improvement, the latter will
require medical aid. If the mistakes made seem to follow no particular
line of error—if they are, so to say, general or capricious, the
wrong words substituted for what it was wished to say being taken at
random, perhaps from some other sentence at the moment darting across
the mind—the “confusion” may be safely set down as one to be cured by
mind-discipline. If, on the contrary, particular words, previously
familiar and ready at hand, are forgotten, certain numbers dropped out of
memory, and a sort of method seems to determine the occurrence of faults
in speaking or writing, the matter may be more serious, and advice should
be sought. It is a curious feature of the early forms of speech-disorder
springing from physical sources—for example, incipient disease of the
brain—that particular elements of knowledge seem to be effaced, and
special processes of thought or reasoning can no longer be performed,
although the great mass of mind-work goes on unimpaired.

A world of trouble would be saved if, in all mental derangements, apart
from brain-disease, persons who feel things going amiss with them (and I
am convinced this premonition of mind-disorder is a common experience),
whether the sensation be one of “irritability” or of “confusion,” would
undertake of their own free motive, to cure the evil by subjecting the
consciousness to a regular course of training. The best plan is to
set the mind a daily task of reading, not too long, but sufficiently
difficult to give the thoughts full employment while they are engaged.
This should be performed at fixed hours. Perfect regularity is essential,
because the object is to restore the rhythm of the mind and brace it up
to higher tension. When, as in the class of cases we are considering,
hesitation and errors in speech are the characteristic symptoms of a
break-down or impaired vigor of mind, much good will often be done by
reading aloud for an hour or more daily to the family.

It is not only useless but harmful to read aloud when alone; the mind
conjures up an imaginary audience, and this habit of “conjuring up”
things is one of the short cuts to insanity which should be carefully
avoided, more particularly by those who are most expert in the
exercise—the highly imaginative. Another drawback consists in the fact
that when a person reads aloud, without a real audience to engross that
portion of the thoughts which will wander from the subject, the mind
becomes engaged with the sound of the voice through the faculty of
hearing; and this paves the way for other mischief. It is by gradually
substituting in fancy, and then mistaking, their own voices for those of
other beings that the weak and morbidly-minded become impressed with the
notion that they are honored or plagued, as the mood may determine, with
communications, super-or extra-natural—which are in truth the echoes of
their own imaginary utterances.

By reading aloud any healthy and improving work which is so interesting
as to engage the thoughts, the strained connections between thought
and speech will be relieved. Properly employed, this is one of the
most patent and effective of remedies for disorders of the faculty of
speech; but it is essential to success in the experiment of self-cure
that the book read should be of a nature to interest, and sufficiently
difficult to hold the attention. In some cases the exercise is rendered
more effectual by reading aloud in one language from a work written in
another—for example, a French book to an English audience. This gives
practice in the choice of words, and brings the memory into play, the two
faculties it is desired to develop and strengthen. Hesitation and errors
in speech are of great moment, view them as we may. In their less serious
forms they demand a vigorous effort for self-improvement; in their more
grave varieties they portend the existence of perils to brain and mind.




Although, as mentioned last month, the sun gives out such a vast amount
of heat and light, we must remember that these are sent out in all
directions, and that we receive comparatively a very small portion. The
best estimates make our part one twenty-three-hundred-millionths of the
whole. But this quantity is no trifling matter, and its effects are not
to be overlooked. Speaking of the general effect of the sun’s influence,
Prof. Lockyer puts it in this way: “The enormous engines which do the
heavy work of the world—the locomotives which take us so smoothly and
rapidly across a whole continent—the mail packets which bear us so safely
over the broad ocean—owe all their power to steam; and steam is produced
by heating water by coal. We all know that coal is the product of an
ancient vegetation; and vegetation is the direct effect of the sun’s
action. Hence without the sun’s action in former times, we should have
had no coal. The heavy work of the world is, therefore, indirectly done
by the sun. Now for the light work. Let us take man. To work, a man must
eat; does he eat beef? On what was the animal which supplied the beef
fed? On grass. Does he eat bread? Of what is bread made? Of the flour
of wheat and other grains. In these, and in all cases, we come back to
vegetation, which is the direct effect of the sun’s action. Here again,
then, we must confess that to the sun is due man’s power of work. In
fact, all the world’s work, with the trifling exception of tide-work,
is done by the sun; and man himself, prince or peasant, is but a little
engine, which merely directs the energy supplied by the sun.” The use of
the sun as a time-piece is perhaps more frequently thought of than any
other, since its value is constantly presenting itself. Each day, as noon
approaches, the question occurs, “How is the time?” and when possible,
the time of crossing the meridian is compared with that exhibited by the
clock. For this month, on the 1st, noon by the sun occurs at 11:57 a.
m. clock time; on the 15th, at 11:56 a. m.; on the 31st, at 11:57½ a. m.
Another method, though not very accurate, of determining time, is the
noting of the rising and setting of the sun. One difficulty here would
be the obtaining of a good horizon, such for example, as could be had at
sea. The following times answer very well for most parts of the United
States and Canada: On the 1st sun rises at 5:02 a. m. and sets at 6:52
p. m.; daybreak occurs at 4:08 a. m., and twilight ends at 8:46 p. m.;
on the 15th, sun rises at 4:48 a. m., sets at 7:05 p. m.; daybreak at
2:44 a. m., and end of twilight at 9:09 p. m.; and on the 31st, sun rises
at 4:37 a. m., and sets at 7:17 p. m.; daybreak occurs 2:24 a. m., and
twilight ends 9:30 p. m. During the month the days increase in length
some fifty minutes. On the 31st the sun reaches its highest elevation
above the horizon, which in latitude 41° 30′ north is 70° 33′, nearly.
As we are now moving away from the sun, its apparent diameter diminishes
from 31′ 48″ to 31′ 37″.


Presents the following changes: First quarter at 59 minutes past twelve
on the morning of the 2d; full moon on the 9th, at 10:59 p. m.; last
quarter on the 17th, at 11:46 in the evening; new moon on the 24th, at
5:28 p. m.; and first quarter again on the 31st, at 11:48 a. m. On the
31st she sets at 12:12 a. m.; on the 15th, rises at 11:25 p. m.; on the
31st, sets at 12:06 a. m. On the meridian, 1st at 5:56¼ p. m.; on the
15th, at 3:58 a. m.; on 30th, at 5:30 p. m. Farthest from the earth, 10th
at 7:24 p. m.; nearest the earth on 24th, at 1:36 p. m. Highest point
above the horizon on 26th, which in latitude 41° 30′ north, is 67° 17′;
and lowest on the 24th, 29° 45′.


Will be visible for a few evenings during the first of the month, setting
on the 1st at 8:33, one hour and forty minutes after the sun; on the
15th, sets at 7:20 p. m.; and on the 31st at 5:43 p. m. Its diameter
increases from 9.2″ on the 1st to 12″ on the 15th, and then diminishes
to 10.6″ on the 30th. On the 5th, about midnight, and again on the 30th
about 3:00 p. m., it is stationary. At 5:00 p. m. on the 17th it is at
its inferior conjunction, that is, on a line or nearly so, with the
earth and sun, and between these latter bodies. On the 24th, at 1:37 a.
m., it will be only one minute of arc south of the moon, but as both it
and the moon will at that hour be below our horizon, we can not see the
conjunction. On the same date it reaches its greatest distance (aphelion)
from the sun.


During this month (on the 2d about 5 p. m.) reaches its greatest eastern
elongation, and will then be 45° 33′ from the sun. One might suppose that
at this time the planet would appear to us the brightest; but this is not
the case. The surface seen, though a greater portion of the disk than
is visible thirty-two days later, is rendered less brilliant on account
of its greater distance, and hence we find that the period of greatest
brilliancy does not occur in this instance until the 3d of June. From
the 1st to the 30th the diameter of Venus increases from 23.6″ to 34.6″,
an increase of 11″, or about 50 per cent. It will set as follows: On the
1st, at 10:49; on the 15th, at 10:49; and on the 30th, at 10:40 p. m. On
the 27th, at 7:54 p. m., is 8° 7′ north of the moon.


The fourth planet in distance from the sun, and, next to Venus, the one
that comes nearest to the earth, has also to the latter some points of
resemblance. Not that it is like it in size; for in fact, it is not more
than about one-eighth as large; nor yet in the length of its year, which
is nearly twice as long as one of our years (about 687 of our days).
But it has about its equatorial regions, light and dark portions, which
are generally admitted to be continents and oceans, whose distribution
appears very much like that of the land and water on the earth’s surface.
About the poles also appear during the planet’s winter brilliant white
portions, which disappear during its summer. This is probably occasioned
by the fall of snow in winter, and its melting in the spring and
summer. Again, its time of revolution on its axis, which has been quite
satisfactorily determined, and, indeed, much more accurately than that
of any other planet, is shown to be 24 hours, 37 minutes, 23 seconds
very nearly, making its days and nights very much like our own. Its
seasons also resemble ours somewhat, though longer and subject to greater
extremes of heat and cold. The inclination of the equator of Mars to the
plane of its orbit is about 27°, or 3½° more than that of the earth;
and its year being nearly twice as long and its orbit more eccentric,
make the seasons in its northern hemisphere about as follows: Spring
191⅓ days, summer 181 days, autumn 149⅓, and winter 147 days (of the
planet). When nearest to us, its apparent diameter is about seven times
as great as when farthest away. These distances are in round numbers
35 and 247 millions of miles respectively. It appears brightest to us
of course, when in opposition, that is, when we are between it and the
sun, its distance from the earth at these periods varying from 35 to 62
millions of miles, making it seem four times as bright at the former as
at the latter distance. On account of the inclination of the equator
to the orbit, we can see 27° beyond the north pole at conjunction, and
27° beyond its south pole at opposition; hence astronomers are much
better acquainted with its southern than with its northern regions. It
is believed that Mars has not only land, water and snow, but also clouds
and mists. The land is generally reddish when the planet’s atmosphere is
clear; this is owing to the absorption of the atmosphere, as is the color
of the setting sun with us. The water appears of a greenish tinge. Of
this planet we have to report for this month, that it is decreasing in
interest. Its diameter diminishes from 7.8″ to 6.6″. On the 2d it sets at
1:34 a. m.; on the 16th, at 12:55 a. m.; and on the 31st, at 12:13 a. m.
On the 2d, at 9:01 a. m., it is 7° 9′ north of the moon; on the 5th, at
midnight, 90° east of the sun; on the 30th, at 3:20 p. m., is again in
conjunction with and 5° 50′ north of moon; and on the 31st, at 11:00 a.
m., is 58′ north of _Alpha Leonis_.


“The greatest of the planets,” retains his position as an evening star,
setting at the following times: On the 2d, at 12:34 a. m.; on the 15th,
at 11:45 p. m.; on the 30th, at 10:54 p. m. His motion during the month
is direct, and amounts to 4° 39′ 34″. His diameter diminishes 2.4″, being
34.4″ on the 1st, and 32″ on the 31st. He is in conjunction twice with
the moon; on the 1st, at 12:21 a. m., when he is 5° 58′, and on the 28th,
at 3:42 p. m., when he is 5° 49′ to the north of our satellite.


Makes this month a direct motion of four degrees and two seconds of arc,
a greater advance than he has made for several months. He rises after
daylight and sets on the 1st at 9:06 p. m., on the 15th at 8:19 p. m.,
and on the 30th at 7:29 p. m.


Has a mean distance from the sun of 1770 millions of miles, and makes one
revolution in 84.02 years. To find it readily it is necessary to know
its right ascension and declination, which for the 1st, 15th and 30th
are in order as follows: Right ascension 11h. 40m. 35.92s., declination,
2° 57′ 8.4″ north; right ascension, 11h. 39m. 36s., declination, 3° 3′
1.5″ north; right ascension, 11h. 39m. 11.54s., declination, 3° 4′ 58.3″
north. Will be evening star throughout the month, setting as follows: On
the 2d, at 3:09 a. m.; on the 16th, at 2:13 a. m.; and on the 31st, at
1:14 a. m. Its motion will be retrograde, amounting to 24′ 7.2″. Diameter
on 1st, 3.8″, and on the 31st, 3.6″. On the 5th at 10:33 a. m., 3° 29′
north of moon; and on 31st, at 9:00 a. m., stationary.


The “Far-away,” remains close to the sun, as can be seen by comparing
their times of rising and setting. The rising of Neptune occurs on the
1st, at 5:37 a. m.; on the 15th, at 4:43 a. m.; and on the 30th, at 3:47
a. m.; and the setting on the same dates in the same order at 7:31, 6:39
and 5:43 p. m.



Everybody knows, in general terms, how the English working classes amuse
themselves. Let us, however, set down the exact facts, so far as we can
get at them, and consider them. First, it must be remembered that the
workman of the present day possesses an accomplishment, or a weapon,
which was denied to his fathers—_he can read_. That possession ought
to open a boundless field; but it has not yet done so, for the simple
reason that we have entirely forgotten to give the working man anything
to read. This, if any, is a case in which the supply should have preceded
and created the demand. Books are dear; beside, if a man wants to buy
books, there is no one to guide him or tell him what he should get.
Suppose, for instance, a studious workingman anxious to teach himself
natural history, how is he to know the best, latest, and most trustworthy
books? And so for every branch of learning. Secondly, there are no
free libraries to speak of; I find in London one for Camden Town, one
for Bethnal Green, one for South London, one for Notting Hill, one for
Westminster, and one for the City; and this seems to exhaust the list.
It would be interesting to know the daily average of evening visitors
at these libraries. There are three millions of the working classes in
London; there is, therefore, one free library for every half million, or,
leaving out a whole three-fourths in order to allow for the children and
the old people and those who are wanted at home, there is one library
for every 125,000 people. The accommodation does not seem liberal, but
one has as yet heard no complaints of overcrowding. It may be said,
however, that the workman reads his paper regularly. That is quite true.
The paper which he most loves is red hot on politics; and its readers
are assumed to be politicians of the type which considers the millennium
only delayed by the existence of the Church, the House of Lords, and a
few other institutions. Yet our English workingman is not a firebrand,
and though he listens to an immense quantity of fiery oratory, and reads
endless fiery articles, he has the good sense to perceive that none of
the destructive measures recommended by his friends are likely to improve
his own wages or reduce the price of food. It is unfortunate that the
favorite and popular papers, which might instruct the people in so many
important matters—such as the growth, extent, and nature of the trades
by which they live, the meaning of the word Constitution, the history of
the British Empire, the rise and development of our liberties, and so
forth—teach little or nothing on these or any other points.

If the workman does not read, however, he talks. At present he talks for
the most part on the pavement and in public houses, but there is every
indication that we shall see before long a rapid growth of workmen’s
clubs—not the tea-and-coffee make-believes set up by the well meaning,
but honest, independent clubs, in every respect such as those in Pall
Mall, managed by the workmen themselves. Meantime, there is the public
house for a club, and perhaps the workman spends, night after night, more
than he should, upon beer. Let us remember, if he needs excuse, that his
employers have found him no better place and no better amusement than to
sit in a tavern, drink beer (generally in moderation), and talk and smoke

Another magnificent gift he has obtained of late years—the excursion
train and the cheap steamboat. For a small sum he can get far away
from the close and smoky town, to the seaside perhaps, but certainly
to the fields and country air; he can make of every fine Sunday in the
summer a holiday indeed. Again, for those who can not afford the country
excursion, there is now a park accessible from almost every quarter. And
I seriously recommend to all those who are inclined to take a gloomy view
concerning their fellow creatures, and the mischievous and dangerous
tendencies of the lower classes, to pay a visit to Battersea Park on any
Sunday evening in the summer.

As regards the workingman’s theatrical tastes, they lean, so far as they
go, to the melodrama; but as a matter of fact there are great masses of
working people who never go to the theater at all. Music halls there
are, certainly, and these provide shows more or less dramatic, and,
though they are not so numerous as might have been expected, they form
a considerable part of the amusements of the people; it is therefore a
thousand pities that among the “topical” songs, the breakdowns, and the
comic songs, room has never been found for part-songs or for music of
a quiet and somewhat better kind. The proprietors doubtless know their
audience, but wherever the Kyrle Society has given concerts to working
people they have succeeded in interesting them by music and songs of a
kind to which they are not accustomed in their music halls.

The theater, the music hall, the public house, the Sunday excursion, the
parks—these seem almost to exhaust the list of amusement. There are also,
however, the suburban gardens, such as North Woolwich and Rosherville,
where there are entertainments of all kinds, and dancing; there are the
tea-gardens all round London; there are such places of resort as Kew and
Hampton Court, Bushey, Burnham Beeches, Epping, Hainault and Rye House.
There are also the harmonic meetings, the free-and-easy evenings, and the
friendly leads at the public houses.

As regards the women, I declare that I have never been able to find
out anything at all concerning their amusements. Certainly one can see
a few of them any Sunday walking about in the lanes and in the fields
of northern London, with their lovers; in the evening they may also be
observed having tea in the tea-gardens. These, however, are the better
sort of girls; they are well dressed, and generally quiet in their
behavior. The domestic servants, for the most part, spend their “evening
out” in taking tea with other servants, whose evening is in. On the same
principle, an actor, when he has a holiday, goes to another theater; and
no doubt it must be interesting for a cook to observe the _differentiæ_,
the finer shades of difference, in the conduct of a kitchen. When women
are married and the cares of maternity set in, one does not see how they
can get any holiday or recreation at all; but I believe a good deal is
done for their amusement by the mothers’ meetings and other clerical
agencies. There is, however, below the shopgirls, the dressmakers, the
servants, and the working girls, whom the world, so to speak, knows,
a very large class of women whom the world does not know, and is not
anxious to know. They are the factory hands of London; you can see
them, if you wish, trooping out of the factories and places where they
work on any Saturday afternoon, and thus get them, so to speak, in the
lump. Their amusement seems to consist of nothing but walking about the
streets, two and three abreast, and they laugh and shout as they go so
noisily that they must needs be extraordinarily happy. These girls are,
I am told, for the most part so ignorant and helpless, that many of them
do not know even how to use a needle; they can not read, or if they can,
they never do; they carry the virtue of independence as far as they are
able; and insist on living by themselves, two sharing a single room;
nor will they brook the least interference with their freedom, even
from those who try to help them. Who are their friends, what becomes of
them in the end, why they all seem to be about eighteen years of age,
at what period of life they begin to get tired of walking up and down
the streets, who their sweethearts are, what are their thoughts, what
are their hopes—these are questions which no man can answer, because no
man could make them communicate their experiences and opinions. Perhaps
only a Bible-woman or two knows the history, and could tell it, of the
London factory girl. Their pay is said to be wretched, whatever work they
do; their food, I am told, is insufficient for young and hearty girls,
consisting generally of tea and bread or bread and butter for breakfast
and supper, and for dinner a lump of fried fish and a piece of bread.
What can be done? The proprietors of the factory will give no better
wages, the girls can not combine, and there is no one to help them. One
would not willingly add another to the “rights” of man or woman; but
surely, if there is such a thing at all as a “right,” it is that a day’s
labor shall earn enough to pay for sufficient food, for shelter, and for
clothes. As for the amusements of these girls, it is a thing which may
be considered when something has been done for their material condition.
The possibility of amusement only begins when we have reached the level
of the well-fed. Great Gaster will let no one enjoy play who is hungry.
Would it be possible, one asks in curiosity, to stop the noisy and
mirthless laughter of these girls with a hot supper of chops fresh from
the grill? Would they, if they were first well fed, incline their hearts
to rest, reflection, instruction, and a little music?

The cheap excursions, the school feasts, the concerts given for
the people, the increased brightness of religious services, the
bank holidays, the Saturday half holidays, all point to the gradual
recognition of the great natural law that men and women, as well as boys
and girls, must have play. At the present moment we have just arrived
at the stage of acknowledging this law; the next step will be that of
respecting it, and preparing to obey it; just now we are willing and
anxious that all should play; and it grieves us to see that in their
leisure hours the people do not play because they do not know how.

Compare, for instance, the young workman with the young gentleman—the
public schoolman, one of the kind who makes his life as “all round” as
he can, and learns and practices whatever his hand findeth to do. Or,
if you please, compare him with one of the better sort of young city
clerks; or, again, compare him with one of the lads who belong to the
classes now held in the building of the old Polytechnic; or with the
lads who are found every evening at the classes of the Birkbeck. First
of all, the young workman can not play any game at all; neither cricket,
football, tennis, racquets, fives, or any of the other games which the
young fellows in the class above him love so passionately; there are,
in fact, no places for him where these games can be played; for though
the boys may play cricket in Victoria Park, I do not understand that the
carpenters, shoemakers, or painters have got clubs and play there too.
There is no gymnasium for them, and so they never know the use of their
limbs; they can not row, though they have a splendid river to row upon;
they can not box, fence, wrestle, play single-stick, or shoot with the
rifle; they do not, as a rule, join the volunteer corps; they do not
run, leap, or practice athletics of any kind; they can not swim; they
can not sing in parts, unless, which is naturally rare, they belong to
a church choir; they can not play any kind of instrument—to be sure the
public school boy is generally groveling in the same shameful ignorance
of music. They never read. Think what it must be to be shut out entirely
from the world of history, philosophy, poetry, fiction, essays and
travels! Yet our working classes are thus practically excluded. Partly
they have done this for themselves, because they have never felt the
desire to read books; partly, as I said above, we have done it for
them, because we have never taken any steps to create the demand. Now
as regards these arts and accomplishments, the public schoolman and
the better class city clerk have the chance of learning some of them,
at least, and of practicing them both before and after they have left
school. What a poor creature would that young man seem who could do
none of these things! Yet the workingman has no chance of learning any.
There are no teachers for him; the schools for the small arts, the
accomplishments, and the graces of life are not open to him. In other
words, the public schoolman has gone through a mill of discipline out
of school as well as in. Law reigns in his sports as in his studies.
Whether he sits over his books or plays in the fields, he learns to be
obedient to law, order, and rule; he obeys, and expects to be obeyed;
it is not himself whom he must study to please; it is the whole body
of his fellows. And this discipline of self, much more useful than the
discipline of books, the young workman knows not. Worse than this, and
worst of all, not only is he unable to do any of these things, but he is
even ignorant of their uses and their pleasures, and has no desire to
learn any of them, and does not suspect at all that the possession of
these accomplishments would multiply the joys of life. He is content to
go on without them. Now contentment is the most mischievous of all the
virtues; if anything is to be done, any improvement is to be effected,
the wickedness of discontent must first be introduced.

Let us, if you please, brighten this gloomy picture by recognizing the
existence of the artisan who pursues knowledge for its own sake. There
are many of this kind. You may come across some of them botanizing,
collecting insects, moths and butterflies in the fields on Sundays;
others you will find reading works on astronomy, geometry, physics, or
electricity; they have not gone through the early training, and so they
often make blunders; but yet they are real students. One of them I knew
once who had taught himself Hebrew; another, who read so much about
coöperation, that he lifted himself clean out of the coöperative ranks,
and is now a master; another, and yet another and another, who read
perpetually, and meditate upon, books of political and social economy;
and there are thousands whose lives are made dignified for them, and
sacred, by the continual meditation on religious things. Let us make
every kind of allowance for these students of the working class; and let
us not forget, as well, the occasional appearance of those heaven-born
artists who are fain to play music or die, and presently get into
orchestras of one kind or another, and so leave the ranks of daily labor
and join the great clan or caste of musicians, who are a race or family
apart, and carry on their mystery from father to son.

But, as regards any place or institution where the people may learn or
practice or be taught the beauty and desirability of any of the commoner
amusements, arts, and accomplishments, there is not one, anywhere in
London. The Bethnal Green Museum certainly proposed unto itself, at
first, to “do something,” in a vague and uncertain way, for the people.
Nobody dared to say that it would be first of all necessary to make the
people discontented, because this would have been considered as flying in
the face of Providence; and there was, beside, a sort of nebulous hope,
not strong enough for a theory, that by dint of long gazing upon vases
and tapestry everybody would in time acquire a true feeling for art, and
begin to crave for culture. Many very beautiful things have, from time
to time, been sent there—pictures, collections, priceless vases; and I
am sure that those visitors who brought with them the sense of beauty
and feeling for artistic work which comes of culture, have carried away
memories and lessons which will last them for a lifetime. On the other
hand, to those who visit the Museum chiefly in order to see the people,
it has long been painfully evident that the folk who do not bring that
sense with them go away carrying nothing of it home with them. Nothing at
all. Those glass cases, those pictures, those big jugs, say no more to
the crowd than a cuneiform or a Hittite inscription. They have now, or
had quite recently, on exhibition, a collection of turnips and carrots
beautifully modeled in wax; it is perhaps hoped that the contemplation of
these precious but homely things may carry the people a step farther in
the direction of culture than pictures could effect. In fact, the Bethnal
Green Museum does no more to educate the people than the British Museum.
It is to them simply a collection of curious things which is sometimes
changed. It is cold and dumb. It is merely an unintelligent branch of
a department; and it will remain so, because whatever the collection
may be, a museum can teach nothing, unless there is some one to expound
the meaning of the things. Is it possible that, by any persuasion,
attraction, or teaching, the working-men of this country can be induced
to aim at those organized, highly skilled, and disciplined forms of
recreation which make up the better pleasure of life? Will they consent,
without hope of gain, to give the labor, patience and practice required
of every man who would become master of any art or accomplishment, or
even any game? There are men, one is happy to find, who think that it is
not only possible, but even easy, to effect this, and the thing is about
to be transferred from the region of theory to that of practice, by the
creation of the People’s Palace.

Let me say a few words as to what this palace may and may not do. In the
first place it can do nothing, absolutely nothing to relieve the great
fringe of starvation and misery which lies all about London, but more
especially at the East-end. People who are out of work and starving do
not want amusement, not even of the highest kind; still less do they want
university extension. Therefore, as regards the palace, let us forget
for awhile the miserable condition of the very poor who live in East
London; we are concerned only with the well fed, those who are in steady
work, the respectable artisans and _petits commis_, the artists in the
hundred little industries which are carried on in the East-end; those,
in fact, who have already acquired some power of enjoyment because they
are separated by a sensible distance from their hand-to-mouth brothers
and sisters, and are pretty certain to-day that they will have enough to
eat to-morrow. It is for these, and such as these, that the palace will
be established. It is to contain: (1) class rooms, where all kinds of
study can be carried on; (2) concert rooms; (3) conversation rooms; (4)
a gymnasium; (5) a library; and lastly, a winter garden. In other words,
it is to be an institution which will recognize the fact that for some
of those who have to work all day at, perhaps, uncongenial and tedious
labor, the best form of recreation may be study and intellectual effort;
while for others, that is to say for the great majority—music, reading,
tobacco, and rest will be desired. Let us be under no illusions as to
the supposed thirst for knowledge. Those who desire to learn are even in
youth always a minority. How many men do we know, among our own friends,
who have ever set themselves to learn anything since they left school?
It is a great mistake to suppose that the working man, any more than the
merchant man, or the clerk man, or the tradesman, is ardently desirous of
learning. But there will always be a few; and especially there are the
young who would fain, if they could, make a ladder of learning, and so,
as has ever been the goodly and godly custom in this realm of England,
mount unto higher things. The palace of the people would be incomplete
indeed if it gave no assistance to ambitious youths. Next to the classes
in literature and science come those in music and painting. There is no
reason whatever why the palace should not include an academy of music,
an academy of arts, and an academy of acting; in a few months after its
establishment it should have its own choir, its own orchestra, its own
concerts, its own opera, with a company formed of its own _alumni_.
And in a year or two it should have its own exhibition of paintings,
drawings, and sculpture. As regards the simpler amusements, there must
be rooms where the men can smoke, and others where the girls and women
can work, read, and talk; there must be a debating society for questions,
social and political, but especially the former.

As for the teaching of the classes, we must look for voluntary work
rather than to a great endowment. The history of the college in Great
Ormand Street shows how much may be done by unpaid labor, and I do not
think it too much to expect that the palace of the people may be started
by unpaid teachers in every branch of science and art; moreover, as
regards science, history and language, the University Extension Society
will probably find the staff. There must be, however, volunteers, women
as well as men, to teach singing, music, sewing, speaking, drawing,
painting, carving, modeling, and many other things. This kind of help
should only be wanted at the outset, because before long, all the art
departments ought to be conducted by ex-students who have become in
their turn teachers; they should be paid, but not on the West-end scale,
from fees—so that the schools may support themselves. Let us not _give_
more than is necessary; for every class and every course there should be
some kind of fee, though a liberal system of small scholarships should
encourage the students, and there should be the power of remitting
fees in certain cases. As for the difficulty of starting the classes,
I think that the assistance of board schoolmasters, foremen of works,
Sunday-schools, the political clubs and debating societies should be
invited; and that beside small scholarships, substantial prizes of
musical and mathematical instruments, books, artists’ materials, and so
forth, should be offered, with the glory of public exhibition and public
performances. After the first year there should be nothing exhibited in
the palace except work done in the classes, and no performances of music
or of plays should be given but by the students themselves.

There has been going on in Philadelphia for the last two years an
experiment, conducted by Mr. Charles Leland, whose sagacious and
active mind is as pleased to be engaged upon things practical as upon
the construction of humorous poems. He has founded, and now conducts
personally, an academy for the teaching of the minor arts; he gets shop
girls, work girls, factory girls, boys and young men of all classes
together, and he teaches them how to make things, pretty things, artistic
things. “Nothing,” he writes to me, “can describe the joy which fills a
poor girl’s mind when she finds that she, too, possesses and can exercise
a real accomplishment.” He takes them as ignorant, perhaps—but I have no
means of comparing—as the London factory girl, the girl of freedom, the
girl with the fringe—and he shows them how to do crewel work, fret work,
brass work; how to carve in wood; how to design; how to draw—he maintains
that it is possible to teach nearly every one to draw; how to make and
ornament leather work, boxes, rolls, and all kinds of pretty things in
leather. What has been done in Philadelphia amounts, in fact, to this:
That one man who loves his brother man is bringing purpose, brightness
and hope into thousands of lives previously made dismal by hard and
monotonous work; he has put new and higher thoughts into their heads; he
has introduced the discipline of methodical training; he has awakened in
them the sense of beauty. Such a man is nothing less than a benefactor to
humanity. Let us follow his example in the palace of the people.

I must go on, though there is so much to be said. I see before us, in the
immediate future, a vast university, whose home is in Mile End Road; but
it has affiliated colleges in all the suburbs, so that even poor, dismal,
uncared-for Hoxton shall no longer be neglected; the graduates of this
university are the men and women whose lives, now unlovely and dismal,
shall be made beautiful for them by their studies, and their heavy eyes
uplifted to meet the sunlight; the subjects of examination shall be,
first, the arts of every kind; so that unless a man have neither eyes to
see nor hand to work with, he may here find something or other which he
may learn to do; and next, the games, sports, and amusements with which
we cheat the weariness of leisure and court the joy of exercising brain
and wit and strength. From the crowded classrooms I hear already the
busy hum of those who learn and those who teach. Outside, in the street,
are those—a vast multitude, to be sure—who are too lazy and too sluggish
of brain to learn anything; but these, too, will flock into the palace
presently to sit, talk, and argue in the smoking rooms; to read in the
library; to see the students’ pictures upon the walls; to listen to the
students’ orchestra, discoursing such music as they have never dreamed of
before; to look on while Her Majesty’s Servants of the People’s Palace
perform a play, and to hear the bright-eyed girls sing madrigals.—_The
Contemporary Review._



The sarcasm that “Good Americans expect to go to Paris when they die,”
has lost its force. They have a City Beautiful of their own which more
than justifies the enthusiasm of those who dwell within her gates.
There are no tall houses that shut out the blue sky and the sunshine,
no narrow, filthy streets swarming with the children of the vicious and
starving, but everywhere clean, broad highways, decent abodes, and the
priceless blessing of a pure atmosphere. The smoke of factories does
not drop its dusky mantle over the smiling river and the church spires
glancing heavenward. Not even does the sound of a great traffic intrude
into the peaceful repose of this ideal city. Art schools, musical
conservatories, libraries, and various institutions of learning offer
every inducement for liberal culture at rates so cheap that it may almost
be said to be “without money and without price.” Into this community one
can not come without feeling its broadening and elevating influence.
Prejudices are obliterated, gentle toleration is followed by wide
charity, sectionalism dies, and to thoroughly understand and appreciate
these things makes a residence under the shadow of the dome a blessed
realization. But I should go on endlessly if permitted to dwell upon this
home of my heart; the historic Potomac touching the hem of her garments,
and the wooded heights of Georgetown forming a Rembrandt-like background,
are accessories of a picture to which no words, unless “touched with
fire,” could do justice. I have often thought that not even Genoa the
Superb, with its palaces and rich cathedrals rising high and yet higher
above its gulf of sapphire, and finally encircled by its olive-crowned
hills, was more beautiful.

If, as has often been said, America has no distinctive style of
architecture, at least the anomalous constructions of the Capital are
harmonious, artistic, and imposing. The hoary cities of the Old World
can only vie with her in her bold and lusty youth. The Smithsonian, that
temple of knowledge, the Treasury, custodian of countless millions, those
twin sisters, the Patent and Postoffice Departments, and the peerless
Capitol itself are all monuments of national power in which we have a
legitimate pride.

Washington is scarcely less the shrine of the Republic than is Mecca
to the followers of the prophet. Its fifty millions seem to ebb and
flow, like the tide of the restless sea, through its grand avenues, its
parks, its public buildings, ceaselessly, from January to December.
Perhaps, among these casual sight-seers, no place is so much visited
as the Postoffice Department, in a general way, and, if I may use the
expression, the Dead-Letter Office, specifically, which is the very
_sanctum sanctorum_ of written communications. It is characteristic of
human nature to stand with mere vague wonderment before any question or
occurrence that appears distant and impersonal. But anything that comes
in the shape of an everyday occurrence, that touches intimately social
and domestic relations arouses at once an acute interest. The Pagan
element thus selfishly asserts itself in this ready subordination of the
great problem of humanity to personal considerations. This may account
for the eager delight and interest always displayed by the Dead-Letter
Office pilgrims. And, on the other hand, it may be observed that those
who, officially speaking, possess a proprietary interest in defunct
epistles are akin to the dealers in other wares—they like to vaunt their

The gleaming pile of white marble, chaste, symmetrical, inviting, might
be likened, after an exploration of its contents, to many another
sepulcher—but I forbear a premature expression of opinion, and beg to
invite you, my readers, through the front door, which, like the gates
of mercy, stands ever wide open, and allow you to receive your own

Dry statistics, I have idly observed, are not usually relished by the
average knowledge-seeker, or shall I say even tolerated? But I shall
presume that all of mine will patiently grapple with my arithmetical
statements, which I promise shall not be complicated, and I also hope to
escape the incredulity which painfully embarrassed a modest gentleman
in this office, while making statements in regard to its workings to a
party of visitors. He said to these unbelievers, as they stood among
Uncle Sam’s mail bags, piled to the right and to the left of them,
watching the busy clerks assort their contents, that from twelve to
fifteen thousand letters were received upon every working day. This was
received with a depressing silence. Proceeding further, he added that
the mails were a means of transportation not only for letters, but for
clothes, books, jewelry, and almost every article of merchandise. At
this, a somewhat ironical smile was discernible. The gentleman was now
somewhat disconcerted, but determining to die by his colors nobly, he
seized upon an immense brogan lying upon an adjacent desk and exclaimed,
desperately: “This is a specimen—could not go forward to its destination
on account of being over weight—more than four pounds.” Here the auditors
smiled broadly (it was conjectured afterward that one of the ladies must
have been a Chicago belle and that, like Cinderella, she had lost her
slipper). “However,” continued the narrator, somewhat abashed, but not
wholly discomfited, “that is nothing compared to this,” showing an iron
hitching post! At this the supposed western belle sweetly and gravely
inquired, “Was the horse fastened to it, sir?”

To be exact, the precise number of letters at the Dead-Letter Office
during the fiscal year which ended July 1st, 1883, was 4,379,198.
The official report furnishes the following information: “Of these
3,346,357 were advertised and unclaimed at the offices to which they were
addressed; 78,865 were returned from hotels, because the departed guests
failed to leave a new address; 175,710 were insufficiently prepaid; 1,345
contained articles forbidden to be transported by the mails; 280,137 were
erroneously or illegibly addressed, while 11,979 bore no superscription
whatever. Of the domestic letters opened, 15,301 contained money
amounting to $32,647.23; 18,905 contained drafts, checks, money orders,
etc., to the value of $1,381,994.47; 66,137 enclosed postage stamps;
40,125, receipts, paid notes, and canceled obligations of all kinds, and
35,160, photographs.”

Compare this statement with the record of the office during Franklin’s
administration; one small, time-stained volume contains the history
of every valuable letter received, duly inscribed in the crabbed
hieroglyphics of the period. The contrast between the forlorn,
dilapidated, provincial little city of Alexandria, beloved of the Father
of his Country, to the Washington of to-day is not more forcible. Now
nearly one hundred employes are needed to perform the duties of the
office. A vast apartment, surrounded by a broad gallery, and seven
smaller rooms, beside the space allotted for storage in the basement, are
the quarters at present occupied by this division of the public service.

Everything is so systematized that an immediate answer can be returned to
the thousands of inquiries received during a year in reference to letters
or packages that have miscarried and been finally sent to the Dead-Letter

A large proportion of the money is restored to the senders, and the
balance is deposited in the Treasury to the credit of the Postoffice
Department. But despite every precaution, parcels of all descriptions
accumulate so rapidly that it has been found necessary to dispose of them
at public auction as often as once in two years.

The Museum contains a curious collection of articles which have not
been offered for sale. They are arranged upon shelves covered with
dark crimson cloth, and protected by glass cases. It is certainly a
heterogeneous assortment. A miniature mountain of minerals, many-colored
and gleaming, open bolls of cotton, a box filled with small gold
nuggets, and specimens of valuable woods are silent but eloquent
witnesses of our immense natural resources and still undeveloped wealth.
A bottle of imported cologne, carefully wrapped in herbs, probably just
as it was captured from a would-be smuggler, lies here, forever free from
both Custom House officer or dishonest speculator. A necklace wrought of
fish scales, so delicate that it seems as if it must have been designed
for a fairy princess, shows daintily against its dark background just
beneath the oddest, quaintest baby monkey that ever was seen, carved
from a peach stone! There are Indian pipes and tomahawks, a birch-bark
canoe and moccasins, and lava from the Modoc beds, darkly suggestive of
savage malice and treachery. A box heaped with the cocoons of the silk
worm keeps company with a bottle full of agates from the northern shores
of Lake Superior, reading cards for the blind, masses of wood fiber as
fine, white and strong as linen floss, birds’ eggs, Easter offerings,
and the rosaries of pious Sisters. The little folk who throng the Museum
pause in wondering delight before the array of dolls, pet “Jumbos” of
home manufacture, and even a greater wonder still, a bedstead, pillows,
covering, babies and all, made of sugar and chocolate!

Not even does this enumeration draw the line of limitation for the abuse
of our generous Uncle Sam. It is fortunate for his people that he is
patient under blows and as long-suffering as a camel, else an imperial
ukase would have probably long ere this interdicted even social and
business correspondence. In this he would have been quite justified,
since he can neither eat the cakes, raisins and fruits, use the tooth
brushes, nor take the medicine, with which his mails are burdened.

A pistol, half-cocked, and each chamber filled with a cartridge, was not
called for by the young lady to whom it was addressed, in a western city,
and it now reposes harmlessly beside a lock of hair and the autograph of
Charles Guiteau.

From some of our distant Territories there are specimens of pottery which
archæologists seem inclined to accept as evidences of a pre-historic

Quite apart, ensconced in an aristocratic quarter, are various articles
of jewelry, rings, watches, etc., and a costly crucifix of silver and
carnelian, in a glass-covered case, which was found in the postoffice at
Savannah, Ga., at the close of the war. But perhaps the saddest memento
to be seen here is a funeral wreath, woven after the homely fashion
of the German and French peasantry, of black and white beads and the
sunny hair of childhood commingled, whilst an inscription in the center
commemorates the death of “Ernest and Dorcas,” who have died within a few
days of each other.

However, it is only a step from the pathos of this mute appeal to one’s
sympathies to the grotesque and ridiculous.

Of course the Museum would not be complete if it did not contain sundry
sets of false teeth. Well, one day a gentleman and his wife stood before
these in rapt contemplation. She winked, and stepped upon his toes, and
nudged him sharply—and all in a quiet and conjugal manner—but to no
purpose; his confidential communications, made in a stage whisper, could
not be cut short. “That _is_ my set of teeth that I lost; I would know
them anywhere, same as I would know you, or my hat. I don’t want ’em now,
because I’ve got some more, and I don’t know how they got here, but I
would swear to my teeth.”

Chief among these curiosities may be mentioned the snakes. Now, these
snakes constitute a regular “big bonanza.” Letters, garments, live bees,
embroideries and etchings lose their interest in the presence of the
bottled serpents. A Brewers’ Convention was once held in this city,
and during its progress a Teutonic delegation gazed in open-mouthed
astonishment at their snakeships upon learning that they had arrived at
the Dead-Letter Office alive; and small wonder, for they are thirteen
in number, and range from the inoffensive looking junior members of the
family to ancient and loathsome monsters.

“Vat you say, dey come here ’live? how den you kill dem?”

“Why, they were carried to the Medical Museum and chloroformed, then
dropped into alcohol, which killed them, just as readily as it does men.”

The brewers turned from the snakes to the _raconteur_, and the least
taciturn thus commented:

“Mine friend, dis is von temperance speech. You didn’t look stout; come
down to our place and ve vill give you more beer den you can drink.”

Before leaving the Museum I must not neglect to mention the rare coins.
They represent the currency of almost every nationality, and many of
them are as valuable as they are curious. They have come from Sumatra,
Persia, China, and all over the civilized world. But the most remarkable,
and therefore the most precious of the entire collection is a Roman coin
bearing an inscription which declares it to have been in existence nearly
four hundred years before the Christian Era.

From the Foreign Branch of this office during the last year, 400,898
dead letters were returned unopened to their respective countries of
origin. This special work is presided over by a lady who is a remarkable
linguist, and the possessor of many other scholarly accomplishments which
peculiarly fit her for the position. Her skill in translating foreign
addresses, deciphering illegible superscriptions and supplying their
deficiencies is truly phenomenal.

Scarcely less interesting is the work of handling misdirected domestic
letters, also for the purpose of sending them forward unopened to their
proper destination. Of the 100,000 thus sent out last year, more than
ninety per cent. were delivered. These letters, it must be understood,
are _live_ letters, sent here directly from the mailing office, on
account of this deficiency or illegibility. An accurate and comprehensive
knowledge of geography and other general information are requisite for
the duties of this desk, as well as a sufficient knowledge of modern
languages to interpret the combinations of bad Italian, French and German
with worse English. For instance, an undomesticated Gaul will address a
letter to “Ste Traile,” or “St. Treasure,” Ill., instead of Centralia;
a Scandinavian writes Phœnix, “Sjfonix,” and a German with perfect
independence of American dictionaries spells Eagle Lake “Igel Lacht.”
Then again, Senatobia figures as “St. Toby;” Kankakee, as “Quinkequet
City,” and Bridgetown, N. J., as “Bruchstein, Geargei.” This epistolary
“Comedy of Errors” certainly leads one through perplexing labyrinths; as
when a letter intended for Mr. George D. Townsend, of Kilby St., Boston,
is addressed to Rilby St., Washington, D. C., or one intended for Hans
Jenssen, in far away Norway, stops short in direction at Novgerod or
Stavenger. If, as is frequently the case, the address consists merely of
a hotel, college, asylum, reform school, factory, or newspaper office,
street and number, without city or state, the clue is generally followed
successfully. Whatever may be involved in this work, whether cold
reasoning, analytical study, or felicitous intuition, it is accomplished
with satisfactory results, therefore it matters little to what it is

There are a few things (but not many) over which these “experts” become
slightly discouraged, as for instance an address like this:

“Please forward to the physician who was looking for a housekeeper in St.
Louis, last week; is a widower with two children; don’t know his name.”

Other specimens of wit and indefiniteness are not wanting, as in the

    “Bummer’s letter, shove it ahead;
     Dead broke, and nary a red.
     Postmaster, put this letter through,
     And when I get paid I’ll pay you.”


            “To George W. Knowles this letter is sent,
    To the town of Brighton, where the other one went;
    No matter who wrote it, a friend or a foe,
    To the State of New York, I hope it will go.”

A sordid young man writes from Albia, Iowa, to Sydney, Australia, upon
a postal card addressed, “To any good-looking girl, who is worth, say
£10,000, rank immaterial.” Upon the reverse side are set forth the
particulars of his intentions after this wise:

    “DEAR MISS:—Well, I have found you at last, thanks to the good
    postmaster, whose super excellent judgment, I am happy to assure
    you, is in perfect accord with my own. Now then, the object of
    dropping you this postal is to open a correspondence with you.
    Intentions, matrimonial. Satisfaction guaranteed. Write at once,
    enclosing stamp for photo.

                           “Yours, presumably,

                                                      “JOHN LOOPER.”

Sometime since several letters were received among the “misdirected,”
addressed to Zachary, Marshall Co., Ala. As no trace of such office
could be found, a circular of inquiry was sent to the postmaster at
Dodsonville, the county seat of Marshall, requesting him, if there was
such village, hamlet or settlement in his county, to ascertain its
location and inform the Department. His response was both prompt and
lucid, as a literal transcription will readily show:

    “Sirs i would say in answer to this letter that the settlement
    of Zachary is about five miles a little w of S in the Tennassee
    River valley Between Dodsonville and Henreyville the people of
    that Settlement is furnished with or get ther mail at Dodsonville
    and Swaringin Zachary has not been known as an office since the
    war it would furnish more people with mail to move Dry cove back
    3 miles to where it was first established when thos Mitchell was
    P M and discontinued the rout from Dodsonville to Cottenville and
    run it down the valley to Henreyville and reastablish Zachary but
    you can use your own pleasure about that

                              “yours truly

                                                     “J D Gross P M”

I have never ascertained whether the Department adopted Mr. Gross’s
suggestions. Gratuitous and intelligent information like this was
certainly entitled to respectful, if not favorable, consideration.

In the same category with this brilliant ornament of the postal service
might be placed the Londoner who addressed the Postmaster General for
information concerning his brother “Charles Egar Quinton, who had sailed
for America about nine years previously, with the intention of keeping a
public house, or an hotel, and had never been heard of since.” Even the
“experts” hung their heads in confusion as they pondered the whereabouts
of Mr. Quinton, confessing themselves vanquished, unless, indeed, the
Department would grant them six months’ leave, “a roving commission” and
expenses paid, in which case they would pledge themselves to return the
long-lost Charles, dead or alive, to his sorrowing relatives.

To these children of the government any ordinary work, such as
calculating an eclipse, taking an astronomical observation, tunneling the
Channel, or drawing up a Lasker resolution, would have been an easy and
delightful task, and promptly executed, but this search for an unknown
quantity still hidden among or long since eliminated from fifty millions
was a task too herculean for contemplation.

       *       *       *       *       *

I do not, for my own part, like the notion of keeping books cribbed and
coffined under glass. They are like friends; if they can not be used
freely, they are worth little. The dust will come, and finger-marks will
come. Well, let them—if only the finger-mark has given a thought-mark to
match it. I can not say but a little disarray of home-books is a good
sign of familiarity, and that sort of acquaintance which makes them
worshipful friends. Nay, I go farther than this, and would not give
a shuttle cock for a home-book which I might not annotate. No matter
what wealth is there already, our own little half-pence may be more
relished by home eyes, than the pile of gold which retains its unbroken
formality.—_From “Bound Together,” by Ik Marvel._



By Prof. J. TINGLEY, Ph.D.

There are stories that should never be allowed to grow old. There are
lives and characters whose memory should be forever kept green—whose
light and fervor should glow in the minds of men as steadily as the
unfading stars. While the Father of us all has given us but one perfect
model, but one example of manhood without blemish, yet, all through
the world’s history, remarkable types of men have been developed, so
distinct, so worthy, so far removed from the average plane of humanity
as to command the attention, the respect, and even the reverence of the
thoughtful of all time. They are constant reminders of the heights of
power and dignity to which the immortal soul may aspire. Familiarity
with the events of their lives—with the loftiness of their purposes—with
the warmth and passion of their thoughts—with the achievements of their
energy and wisdom—lifts us all up, inspires us with eager desire to be
like them in our devotion to truth and noble effort. No one will deny to
Louis Agassiz a prominent place among these immortals—these “names that
were not born to die.” So recently a living force among us, the echoes of
eulogy still linger with us. With many a reader of THE CHAUTAUQUAN his
name is doubtless a household word. Not for these, but for the younger
class of readers, we gather from our scrap book something about the
eminent naturalist, which they may not have met with elsewhere—something
perhaps that may awaken the desire to know more of him. It is to be
regretted that we have not yet a complete biography of so remarkable a
man. At the time of his death it was supposed that the most competent
hand for such a work would give it to the world at an early day—but it
has not yet appeared.

Short biographical sketches containing the leading events of his life,
and giving an account of the results of his labor and studies may be
found in the principal cyclopædias, and in many of the periodicals
issued soon after his death. But there are volumes of incident and
characteristic utterances which are scattered here and there—familiar
only to such friends and admirers as cherish every line and word that has
been written concerning him. Some of these we find in our scrap book.


A prominent trait in the character of Agassiz was his dislike of
ostentation. This is eminently illustrated in his virtual rejection of
all titles. He possessed all the honors that Universities and learned
societies could bestow, but made no use of them. On the title page of
his great works we find only “Louis Agassiz.” There was, however, one
title in which he did take pride—the only one he ever assumed. In his
last will he described himself as “Louis Agassiz, teacher.” An intimate
personal friend alluding to this, says that “he gloried in the title
of schoolmaster, preferring it to that of professor.” He deemed the
profession of teacher “the noblest of all professions, but included in
that category all good and great minds engaged in disseminating knowledge
or in increasing it.”

The desire to know something of his methods and ideas of teaching,
is often expressed. His methods were simple, but radically different
from prevailing methods. He despised recitations by rote from
text-books—allowed the use of books only for reference, and urged
the selection of such as were authoritative and the work of original
investigators. In teaching Natural History his leading purpose was to
stimulate and secure independent observation. A fine illustration of this
was given anonymously by one of his pupils, who subsequently became a
successful entomologist, in _Every Saturday_, in 1874, which we venture
to quote entire, as affording perhaps the best conception of his method:

“It was more than fifteen years ago that I entered the laboratory of
Professor Agassiz and told him I had enrolled my name in the scientific
school as a student of natural history. He asked me a few questions
about my object in coming, my antecedents generally, the mode in which
I afterward proposed to use the knowledge I might acquire, and finally,
whether I wished to study any special branch. To the latter I replied
that while I wished to be well grounded in all departments of zoölogy, I
purposed to devote myself specially to insects.

“‘When do you wish to begin?’ he asked.

“‘Now,’ I replied.

“This seemed to please him, and with an energetic ‘Very well,’ he reached
from a shelf a huge jar of specimens in yellow alcohol. ‘Take this fish,’
said he, ‘and look at it; we call it a Hæmulon; by and by I will ask what
you have seen.’

“With that he left me, but in a moment he returned with explicit
instructions as to the care of the object intrusted to me. ‘No man is
fit to be a naturalist,’ said he, ‘who does not know how to take care of

“I was to keep the fish before me in a tin tray, and occasionally moisten
the surface with alcohol from the jar, always taking care to replace
the stopper tightly. Those were not the days of ground glass stoppers
and elegantly shaped exhibition jars; all the old students will recall
the huge, neckless glass bottles with their leaky, wax-besmeared corks,
half eaten by insects and begrimed with cellar dust. Entomology was a
cleaner science than ichthyology, but the example of the Professor, who
had unhesitatingly plunged to the bottom of the jar to produce the fish,
was infectious, and though this alcohol had ‘a very ancient and fish-like
smell,’ I really dared not show any aversion within these sacred
precincts, for gazing at a fish did not commend itself to an ardent
entomologist. My friends at home, too, were annoyed when they discovered
that no amount of eau de cologne would drown the perfume which haunted
me like a shadow. In ten minutes I had seen all that could be seen in
that fish, and started in search of the Professor, who had, however, left
the museum; and when I returned, after lingering over some of the odd
animals stored in the upper department, my specimen was dry all over.
I dashed the fluid over the fish as if to resuscitate the beast from a
fainting fit, and looked with anxiety for a return of the normal sloppy
appearance. This little excitement over, nothing was to be done but
return to a steadfast gaze at my mute companion. Half an hour passed—an
hour—another hour; the fish began to look loathsome. I turned it over
and around; looked it in the face—ghastly; from behind, beneath, above,
sideways, at three-quarters view—just as ghastly. I was in despair; at
an early hour I concluded that lunch was necessary; so, with infinite
relief, the fish was carefully replaced in the jar, and for an hour I was

“On my return, I learned that Professor Agassiz had been at the museum,
but had gone and would not return for several hours. My fellow-students
were too busy to be disturbed by continued conversation. Slowly I drew
forth that hideous fish, and with a feeling of desperation again looked
at it. I might not use a magnifying glass; instruments of all kinds were
interdicted. My two hands, my two eyes, and the fish; it seemed a most
limited field. I pushed my finger down its throat to feel how sharp the
teeth were. I began to count the scales in the different rows until I
was convinced that that was nonsense. At last a happy thought struck
me—I would draw the fish—and now with surprise I began to discover new
features in the creature. Just then the Professor returned. ‘That is
right,’ said he; ‘a pencil is one of the best of eyes. I am glad to
notice, too, that you keep your specimen wet and your bottle corked.’

“With these encouraging words, he added: ‘Well, what is it like?’

“He listened attentively to my brief rehearsal of the structure of parts
whose names were still unknown to me; the fringed gill-arches and
movable operculum; the pores of the head, fleshy lips, and lidless eyes;
the lateral line, the spinous fins, and forked tail; the compressed and
arched body. When I had finished he waited as if expecting more, and
then, with an air of disappointment:

“‘You have not looked very carefully. Why,’ he continued more earnestly,
‘You haven’t even seen one of the most conspicuous features of the
animal, which is as plainly before your eyes as the fish itself; look
again, look again!’ and he left me to my misery.

“I was piqued; I was mortified. Still more of that wretched fish. But
now I set myself to work with a will, and discovered one new thing after
another, until I saw how just the Professor’s criticism had been. The
afternoon passed quickly, and when, towards its close, the Professor

“‘Do you see it yet?’

“‘No,’ I replied, ‘I am certain I do not—but I see how little I saw

“‘That is next best,’ said he earnestly, ‘but I won’t hear you now; put
away your fish and go home; perhaps you will be ready with a better
answer in the morning. I will examine you before you look at the fish.’

“This was disconcerting; not only must I think of my fish all night,
studying, without the object before me, what this unknown but most
visible feature might be; but also, without reviewing my new discoveries,
I must give an exact account of them the next day. I had a bad memory;
so I walked home by Charles River in a distracted state, with my two

“The cordial greeting from the Professor the next morning was reassuring;
here was a man who seemed to be quite as anxious as I, that I should see
for myself what he saw—‘Do you perhaps mean,’ I asked, ‘that the fish has
symmetrical sides with paired organs?’

“His thoroughly pleased ‘Of course, of course!’ repaid the wakeful hours
of the previous night. After he had discoursed most enthusiastically—as
he always did—upon the importance of this point, I ventured to ask what I
should do next. ‘Oh, look at your fish!’ he said, and left me again to my
own devices.

“In a little more than an hour he returned and heard my new catalogue.
‘That is good, that is good!’ he repeated; ‘but that is not all; go on;’
and so for three long days he placed that fish before my eyes, forbidding
me to look at anything else, or to use any artificial aid. ‘Look, look,
look,’ was his repeated injunction.

“This was the best entomological lesson I ever had—a lesson whose
influence has extended to the details of every subsequent study; a legacy
the Professor has left to me, as he has left it to many others, of
inestimable value, which we could not buy, with which we can not part.

“A year afterward, some of us were amusing ourselves with chalking
outlandish beasts upon the museum black-board. We drew prancing
star-fishes; frogs in mortal combat; hydra-headed worms; stately
craw-fishes, standing on their tails, bearing aloft umbrellas; and
grotesque fishes with gaping mouths and staring eyes.

“The Professor came in shortly after and was amused as any at our
experiments. He looked at the fishes. ‘Hæmulons, every one of them,’ he
said; ‘Mr. ⸺ drew them.’

“True; and to this day, if I attempt a fish, I can draw nothing but
Hæmulons. The fourth day a second fish of the same group was placed
beside the first, and I was bidden to point out the resemblances and
differences between the two; another and another followed, until the
entire family lay before me, and a whole legion of jars covered the table
and surrounding shelves; the odor had become a pleasant perfume; and
even now, the sight of an old, six-inch, worm-eaten cork brings fragrant

“The whole group of Hæmulons was thus brought in review; and, whether
engaged upon the dissection of the internal organs, the preparation and
examination of the bony framework, or the description of the various
parts, Agassiz’s training in the method of observing facts and their
orderly arrangement, was ever accompanied by the urgent exhortation not
to be content with them. ‘Facts are stupid things,’ he would say, ‘until
brought into connection with some general law.’

“At the end of eight months it was almost with reluctance that I left
these friends and turned to insects; but what I had gained by this
outside experience has been of greater value than years of later
investigation in my favorite groups.”

In Prof. Agassiz’s opening lecture to the Anderson School at Penikese
some notable sayings occur, a few of which are quoted in further
illustration of his ideas. “It is a great mistake to suppose that _any
one_ can teach the elements of a science. This is indeed the most
difficult part of instruction, and it requires the most mature teachers.”

“Not by a superficial familiarity with many things, but _by a thorough
knowledge of a few things_, does any one grow in mental strength and
vigor. De Candolle told me that he could teach all he knew with a dozen
plants. Unquestionably he could have done it better with so few than
with many, certainly for beginners. If a teacher does not require many
specimens, so they be well selected, neither should he seek for them far
and wide. _Let the pupil find in his daily walks the illustrations and
repeated evidence of what he has heard in the school room._ I think there
should be a little museum in every school room, some dozen specimens of
radiates, a few hundred shells, a hundred insects with some crustacea and
worms, a few fishes, birds and mammalia, enough to characterize every
class in the animal kingdom. Pupils should be encouraged to find their
own specimens, and taught to handle them. This training is of greater
value and wider application than it may seem. Delicacy of manipulation,
such as the higher kinds of investigation demand requires the whole
organization to be brought into harmony with the mental action. The whole
nervous system must be in subordination to the intellectual purpose. Even
the pulsation of the arteries must not disturb the steadiness of attitude
and gaze of the investigator.”

“The study of Nature is a mental struggle for the mastery of the external
world. If we do not consider it in this light we shall hardly succeed in
the highest aims of the naturalist. It is truly a struggle of man for an
intellectual assimilation of the thought of God.”


Another eminent trait in the character of Agassiz was his unselfish
devotion to his life-work; the development and dissemination of
scientific knowledge. Many anecdotes have been told in illustration of
this trait. Every one has read of his reply to a proposition to direct
his scientific efforts in a scheme for personal emolument: “_I can not
afford to waste my time in making money._” A sentiment perfectly natural
to him, but which struck every other mind as something so unique as to be
reckoned sublime.

When asked how he contrived to preserve his scientific independence
while living in a community which was generally hostile to all opinion
which clashed with its theological and political beliefs and passions,
he replied: “Why the reason is plain—I never was a quarter of a dollar
ahead in the world, and I never expect to be. When a man of science wants
money for himself, he may be compelled to subordinate science to public
opinion; when he wants money simply for the advancement of science, he
gets it somehow, because it is known that not a cent sticks in his own

At one time when his museum was in need of money, and he had applied to
the legislature of Massachusetts for an appropriation, two intelligent
legislators, evidently farmers, who were considering the propriety of
voting the sum required, were overheard: “I don’t know much,” said one,
“about the value of this museum as a means of education, but of one thing
I am certain, that if we give Agassiz the money he wants, _he_ will
not make a dollar by it; that’s in his favor.” The appropriation was
made—though probably no other man could have been similarly successful.


Perhaps the most appreciative analysis of Agassiz’s work and character
that has ever been written, appeared in _Harper’s Magazine_ for June,
1879. It was written by E. P. Whipple, his intimate friend for over
thirty years. In this most admirable article will be found a just
estimate of Agassiz’s religious views. The author says: “No justice can
be done to Agassiz which does not recognize the deep religiousness of his
nature.” Agassiz is represented as using the following words: “I will
frankly tell you that my experience in prolonged scientific investigation
convinces me that a belief in God—a God who is behind and within the
chaos of ungeneralized facts beyond the present vanishing points of human
knowledge—adds a wonderful stimulus to the man who attempts to penetrate
into the region of the unknown. For myself I may say that I now never
make the preparations for penetrating into some small province of nature
hitherto undiscovered without breathing a prayer to the Being who hides
his secrets from me only to allure me graciously on to the unfolding of
them. I sometimes hear preachers speak of the sad condition of men who
live without God in the world, but a scientist who lives without God in
the world seems to me worse off than ordinary men.”

The same author says: “Of one thing I am sure, he had a deep conviction,
as strong as that of Augustine, or Bernard, or Luther, or Edwards, or
Wesley, or Channing, that there were means of communication between the
Divine and the human mind.”


As a geologist the name of Agassiz will always be associated with what
is known in scientific parlance as “The Glacial Theory of Drift.” This
was first advanced by him, and by him was it triumphantly sustained. The
history of the growth and development of this important thought in his
mind, is worthy of attention—both because of its intrinsic interest and
importance and because it is an exhibition of the methods of research,
scientific insight and powers of generalization characteristic of Agassiz.

It is given here substantially as he gave it at the Anderson School at
Penikese. This theory proposes to account for the huge boulders that are
so profusely scattered over the surface of the continent north of the
40th parallel of latitude—and for all the gravel beds that are found
in the same localities, by assuming that during a comparatively recent
geological period the continents were covered with ice many thousand
feet in thickness, moving from the poles toward the equator—as glaciers
move down the Alps and other mountain regions, and doing the same kind
of work on a larger scale. This daring conception was received at first
by scientific men almost with contempt and derision—but is now generally

Glaciers are accumulations of ice, descending by gravity combined with
other forces and conditions, down mountain slopes, along valleys, from
snow-covered elevations. They are streams or rivers of ice varying in
depth from a few hundred to thousands of feet. They are fed by the snows
and frozen mist of regions above the limits of perpetual snow. They
stretch far below the limit of perpetual snow, because their masses are
too thick to be melted by the heat of the summer.

Some of them reach down to the very orchards and the grain fields and
the blooming gardens of the valley; remaining all summer long within a
few hundred feet of the homes and cultivated fields of the inhabitants.
They bear upon their bosom vast streams of stones and rocks that have
fallen from the mountain slopes or have been torn from their places by
the movement of the glaciers. These they carry to their termination
and deposit in the valleys. These accumulations of stones, often many
square miles in extent and hundreds of feet in thickness, are called
moraines. Glaciers are not confined to mountain lands. Their domain is
rather in the polar regions, where vast masses of ice accumulate and move
forward by the same laws and in obedience to the same forces that govern
the formation and movement of mountain glaciers. They produce similar
effects, only upon a far grander scale.

The summer of 1836 Agassiz passed at the foot of the Alps with his old
friend Charpentier, who was familiar with the geology of Switzerland
and had devoted a great deal of his time to the study of the glaciers.
Charpentier had been told by the shepherds of the Alps that the glaciers
had brought down the rocks that were scattered through the valleys. The
scientists had previously believed them to have been transported by
water. Venetz, a Swiss civil engineer, told him that the peasants were
right, and the scientists wrong. “Upon this hint we acted,” said Agassiz,
“and together we went to ascertain the facts.” Many of the leading
geologists of the time believed with Werner, of Freiburg, Saxony, that
the loose unstratified material upon the surface of the earth should be
referred to the Noachian deluge as a sufficient explanation. From this
belief these phenomena were called Diluvium, or drift. Others, with
Hutton and Playfair, of Edinburgh, maintained that all rocks were derived
in one way or another by the agency of heat. That great master, Leopold
von Buch, soon showed that both were right, in part. “Von Buch,” said
Agassiz, “was a wonderful man—one of the great original investigators—a
man of indomitable perseverance. He traveled all over Europe on foot,
to study its geology. I have known him to go from Berlin to Stockholm
for the sake of comparing a single fossil with one there—or to start to
St. Petersburg with only an extra pair of socks in his pocket.” Yet he
was a German nobleman, and was welcome at the Emperor’s court—though
an exceedingly modest and humble man. Geology owes its present form to
Leopold von Buch, and to no one else. He was a pupil of Werner, but had
discarded Werner’s errors. In his travels in Scandinavia he laid the
foundation of geology as now known and understood. He had noticed the
loose boulders all over the sides of the mountains, and in the valleys
of Switzerland, to the Jura. He explained them by assuming that formerly
there were large lakes high up in the Alps, that had broken their
barriers and rushed down the mountains, carrying every thing with them
and sweeping the materials over an extensive territory. This opinion was
received as final, and the matter rested. Agassiz upon investigation,
began to doubt, and soon satisfied himself that the boulders were in
positions in which they could not have been placed by water. Charpentier
and Venetz, from the hint of the Alpine shepherds, had concluded that all
the phenomena were produced by the Alpine glaciers. Agassiz agreed with
them only so far as the range of Switzerland was concerned. But there
were boulders outside of Switzerland, beyond its valleys and mountains,
that were of such materials as were not found in the Alps. Germany was
covered with them clear up to the shores of the Baltic. Agassiz had
observed them in France, and was told that boulders of the same kind
were abundant in Scandinavia. “Then,” said Agassiz, “_it dawned upon me
that there might once have been glaciers in countries where they are not
now found, and they might have extended much farther than any we know of

Surely this was a moment of inspiration—the first glimpse of the light
which has since become clear and perfect day. So Agassiz conceived the
idea of studying the glaciers, and went to work. In prosecuting his
investigations he passed nine successive summer vacations upon the
surface of the glaciers of the Alps, devoting his entire time to this one
object. During one season he slept seventy-one consecutive nights upon
the ice, under the stars. He said, “I studied glaciers to see how they
were made; to see how they worked; what they did, and what effects they
produced upon the countries where found. I was soon familiar with the
condition of the surfaces under a glacier. I saw that they are smoothed,
polished, grooved, scratched—as though a gigantic file had moved across
them. I compared their effects with those produced by the action of
water on rocks, in rivers, on the sea shore, in all sorts of places and
conditions, and I found that wherever water was at work the surface of
rocks was acted upon in a manner entirely different from that of ice. Ice
acts like a plane; water wears into ruts. Pebbles by the motion of water
are smoothed and rounded, but never polished. The effects are produced by
pounding and not by rubbing. But when ice moves over a solid surface the
moving mass between would be rolled, rubbed and polished. Scratches will
be made, rectilinear in direction, if the mass moves continuously in one
direction. The pebbles are found not only polished, but also themselves
scratched. In this way I learned to discriminate between loose pebbles
formed by water and those formed by ice. I next noticed that erratic
boulders were found to be always associated with scratched materials,
and lay over the surface, scratched. The materials were not stratified,
as were river deposits, but piled pell mell together. Satisfied with the
correctness of my observations in southern Europe, I asked myself whether
any other country, England, for example, in which there was no suspicion
of glaciers ever having existed, would exhibit the same phenomena. In
1840 I went to England with this idea in view.

“It was said, ‘Agassiz has gone to England on a glacier hunt,’ and I
was laughed at all over Europe. There were at that time many harsh
discussions going on between scientific men and others, and much
heart-burning among the scientists themselves. But all geologists were
satisfied, and agreed that the drift materials were all produced by the
agency of water. Leopold von Buch, the veteran, was the leader in this
opinion. So by my assertion that the drift had never been touched by
water, I had offended the great master, and I was only a boy, and had
only my convictions. _But I knew from my own investigations that I was
right_, and I fought my way, not by argument or prevailing influence, but
by evidence. In 1838, two years before my trip to England, I requested
Dr. Buckland, of Oxford, to come over and see me in Switzerland, and
allow me to show him the evidence of my convictions. Buckland was
Professor of Geology in Oxford University, author of the Bridgewater
treatise on geology, and afterward Dean of Westminster. He accepted my
invitation and became satisfied that the holders of the old opinions had
not seen all the facts—that the water theory, in short, was erroneous.
I found in him the first friend ready to investigate and explore. So
when I went to England in 1840 I readily induced him to accompany me in
my journey. In company with him I traveled over most of that country
and Scotland. The morning on which we approached the castle of the Duke
of Argyle is one I never shall forget, for as we looked from the top
of the coach upon the valley in which the castle lay, reminding me so
strongly of some of the familiar landscapes of Switzerland, I said to Dr.
Buckland: ‘Here we shall find our first indications of glaciers;’ _and
we actually had to ride over glacial moraines_ to reach the castle. We
traveled over nearly the whole of Great Britain, and I made a geological
map of the island to which, I think, not much has since been added.
Everywhere I found abundant evidence of glaciers, everywhere scratched
surfaces, covered with scratched boulders. Moraines piled up, and
elevations swept. _Then I did not hesitate to go beyond my facts, and
generalize_; and my generalization was this: As all mountain centers,
all high lands, constitute centers around which erratic boulders are
scattered, and as in that country, these mountain centers are now all
below the snow-line—that is, the line of perpetual snow—there must have
been a colder climate, _and glaciers must have existed upon mountains now
below the line of perpetual snow_. But this is true not only of England,
but also of other countries. All boulders come from their own mountain
centers, and similar phenomena are found in many parts of Europe, and on
the other continents. There are also still more telling facts. There are
spaces, now impassable, intervening between the drift boulders and their
origin, that must have been bridged over by ice. There are boulders in
Great Britain that must have come from Scandinavia across the North Sea.
Those which are spread over northern Germany also came from Scandinavia,
as is proven by the fossils they contain, and must therefore have crossed
the Baltic Sea. These and similar facts lead to a broader generalization.
_There was a time when the whole globe was very much colder than now,
when a great geological winter spread over the whole earth._ This period
I called the glacial period. It was anterior to our present state of
things, but subsequent to a period much warmer than now.” That the
age immediately preceding, which geology calls the Tertiary, was much
warmer, is proven by the fact that the remains of tropical animals are
scattered all over the American continent. Elephants, rhinoceroses,
tigers, camels, and many other tropical animals roamed over the northern
parts of the continent. They are all gone, and over their remains, and
covering the continent everywhere from Baffin’s Bay to Cape Horn, are the
erratic boulders and the drift. An examination of the drift phenomena of
North America led Agassiz to the conclusion that during this succeeding
geological winter our continent was covered by a sheet of ice many
thousands of feet—not less than a mile—in thickness.

Such is a brief account of the history of the inception and growth of
this now well known theory. From 1837 to 1840 no geologist was bold
enough to admit its truth; now no one is bold enough to deny it, except
in unimportant particulars. It has stood the test of years of violent
controversy. It stands now among the established facts of science. “In
some recent geological writings,” says Dr. Thomas Hill, “it is assumed
as a doctrine accepted from time immemorial, yet we all know that
forty-five years ago Agassiz was the only man who had ever peered into
the silent desert of that new thought.” Sir Roderick Murchison, the great
English geologist, once said of the glacial theory: “I have been for
twenty years opposing Agassiz’s views, and now I find that I have been
for twenty years opposing the truth.” The establishment of this theory
has a significance not thought of originally by its propounder. In one
of his lectures on Brazil he thus states the case: “If this doctrine
be true, you see at once how this intense cold must have modified the
surface of the globe, to the extent of excluding life from its surface—of
interrupting the normal course of the vital phenomena, and preparing the
surface of the earth for the new creation which now exists upon it. I
attach great importance in a philosophical point of view to the study
of this ice period; because, if demonstrated that such was once the
condition of our earth, it will follow that the doctrine of transmutation
of species, and of the descent of animals that live now, from those of
past days, is cut at the root by this winter, which put an end to all
living beings on the surface of the globe.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Archbishop Usher, when crossing the Channel from Ireland to England,
was wrecked on some part of the coast of Wales. After having reached
the shore, he made the best of his way to the house of a clergyman, who
resided not far from the spot on which he was cast. Without communicating
his exalted station, the archbishop introduced himself as a brother
clergyman in distress, and stated the particulars of his misfortune. The
Cambrian divine, suspecting his unknown visitor to be an impostor, gave
him no very courteous reception, and said: “I dare say, you can’t tell
me how many commandments there are?” “There are eleven,” replied the
archbishop, very meekly. “Repeat the eleventh,” rejoined the other, “and
I will relieve your distress.” “Then _you_ will put the commandment in
practice,” answered the primate: “A new commandment I give unto you, that
you love one another.”



It is my purpose in this paper to explain the duties of a nurse, and
above all to endeavor to influence those of my sisters who are asking
the old question, “What can I do?” to enter this field of usefulness,
and make honored and helpful places for themselves in the ranks of this
profession. It seems to me that the mission of the physician and nurse
is more closely allied than any other, to that of our Savior, who went
about doing good, who came not to be ministered unto but to minister,
who walked throughout Judea, Samaria and Galilee, laying his hand on the
poor, sick and oppressed, with its life and health-giving touch.

The Bellevue Hospital Training School in New York City is the pioneer,
being the first one established in the United States. It was commenced
as an experiment in 1873 with six nurses, and has succeeded so well as
to now accommodate sixty, who have the charge of fourteen wards. It is
the largest, and in many respects the best, offering a greater variety of
disease, and therefore giving the nurses more knowledge and experience in
the treatment of the various ills to which humanity is subjected. Soon
after the establishment of this school a similar one was started in St.
Catharines, Canada, by the late well-known Dr. Mack. He sent to England
for three trained nurses who took charge of the school at the General and
Marine Hospital. It was very small at first, but now accommodates fifteen
or twenty nurses. For a long time it was the only school in Canada, but
within the last few years one has been established in Toronto. The course
of training at the St. Catharines school is somewhat longer than in
others, viz.: Three months on probation, and a term of three years, with
a monthly salary and house and street uniform provided.

The school at the Massachusetts General Hospital in Boston is widely
known for its excellence, as also the Buffalo General Hospital School. In
San Francisco there is but one small school at the Women’s and Children’s
Hospital on Thirteenth Street. Indeed, it is the only one on the coast,
and finds employment but for six or eight nurses. It seems strange that
such an enterprising city as San Francisco should not take more decided
steps toward the establishment of a larger school, with more variety in
nursing. But it is a work that will grow and spread as the necessity for
skillful nursing becomes more apparent. In all these schools the term is
about the same, a month on probation, and a two years’ course, with a
monthly salary and house uniform, which is usually a seersucker dress,
long full white apron, and dainty white muslin or linen cap.

The training consists of lectures by the medical staff and
superintendent, on anatomy, physiology, hygiene, and the general
principles of nursing, the observation and recording of symptoms, the
diet of the sick, and the best methods of managing helpless patients.
Instruction is given in the wards on the dressing of wounds, the
application of blisters, fomentations, poultices, cups and leeches;
the use of catheters and administration of enemas, methods of applying
friction, bandaging, making beds, changing and drawing sheets, moving
patients and preventing bed-sores, and the application of trusses and
uterine appliances.

At the end of the term examinations are held, and the successful ones
receive their diplomas. Some choose to follow the vocation of private
nurses, others seek a position as head nurse in some institution, while
others are by their superior intelligence and education to become in
their turn superintendents of other training schools.

The qualifications necessary for a young woman to procure entrance
on probation are a sound constitution, no defects in either hearing
or sight, a common school education, and a good moral character.
Certificates of the above must be presented—that of health from a

Exceptions are sometimes made in the matter of sight and hearing, as
for instance, one nurse in the institution I was connected with, was
totally deaf in one ear; the other was perfectly well, however, and she
was a very successful nurse. There were several who were obliged to wear
glasses, but did not seem at all unfitted for their duties. But generally
the rules are strict, as must needs be, in order to keep up the good name
and reputation of a school.

Other qualifications are also indispensable in order to become a good
nurse, although they are not always specified in the demands. Gentleness
in manner, voice, touch and footstep is important. What is more annoying
than a sharp, impatient voice, heavy step and touch? The poor patient’s
nerves are all set on edge by such an attendant. I remember one poor
woman in my ward, wasted almost to a skeleton with consumption, who asked
me once while bathing her, what another nurse’s occupation had been
before entering the hospital. She said the nurse was kind-hearted enough,
but oh! so loud and hard and heavy about everything. I replied that I
believed she had worked on a farm in the old country. “I thought so,”
said the patient, “it seems as if she were more used to handling animals
than human beings; she bathes me like she was rubbing down a horse or
scrubbing the kitchen table.” And that is true of many. There is nothing
more soothing than a light, delicate, but firm touch in handling invalids.

Another thing to be cultivated is an even temper. Remember that an
invalid is hardly to be considered a responsible person, no more so
than a child, so bear all his whims and caprices with cheerfulness
and equanimity. A bright, cheerful, sunny nurse or doctor is often
better than medicine. I do not mean constant joking and laughing, but a
prevailing atmosphere of sunshine.

They are blessed indeed who are born with a bright, hopeful nature. But
it can be cultivated—I know from experience—by dwelling in constant
communion with Him who is the light of the world.

Another thing that Miss Nightingale lays great stress upon is the habit
of observation. A nurse should be quick to notice all changes in the
temperature, respiration and appetite of the patient, together with
numerous other changes and variations which can not here be mentioned. A
quick, observing nurse, is an invaluable aid to a physician. This faculty
is natural in a great many persons, and it may be cultivated.

In attending private cases the nurse must take great heed to her ways,
not to be too forward or talkative, and above all to guard sacredly all
family matters which may come under her observation.

The motto of the ancient Spartans at their public dinners, “No word
spoken here, goes out there” (the door), might well be adopted by her.
Of all things, a gossiping nurse is most odious, and she soon loses her

Here is the routine for one day at the hospital I was employed in: The
nurses rise at six, dress, and put their rooms in order, and hurry down
to breakfast, which is served at half-past six. At seven they are in
their wards, to relieve the night nurses. The first thing is to serve
breakfast; after that is cleared away comes the bathing of helpless
patients, and making the beds; then the long ward is swept twice from
top to bottom, and every thing picked up, dusted, and put straight.
Wounds are then dressed and medicines given out, and all is ready for
the doctor’s visit at ten. After that comes the milk or beef-tea lunch
for those who require it, and general waiting on and attending to the
various wants of the patients (which are always numerous, whether real
or fancied). Dinner is served in the ward at half-past twelve, and half
an hour later for the nurses. After dinner more medicines are given
out, and the time is filled with the general attendance, for of course
some patients need a great deal more care than others; fomentations
and poultices must be applied, the bed of a restless patient re-made,
a broken limb bathed and re-bandaged, etc. Supper comes at half-past
five, and after that the night work begins, making the beds smooth and
comfortable for the poor, tired bodies, giving out medicines, and putting
the wards straight for the house physician’s visit. The head nurse goes
from bed to bed with him, giving a report of each patient, that suitable
directions may be given the night nurse. At eight o’clock the nurses go
off duty, tired perhaps, but happy in the consciousness that they have
done their best. Every nurse has an hour off during the day, for rest or
exercise in the open air, with an afternoon once a week.

And now let me appeal to the female portion of the tens of thousands
of readers of THE CHAUTAUQUAN, at least to those of them who want a
vocation. Will you not take up this work? You will find a rich reward in
so doing, not only financially (though it is a paying business), but the
gladness and content you will feel in doing your share toward relieving
the suffering and distress in this world will amply repay you for the
hard and disagreeable part of your labor—for it has its disagreeable
side, I admit. No one has greater opportunities for doing good than
the loyal, consecrated Christian nurse. Just think of the many cups of
cold water that can be given, the sweet word of Scripture that can be
whispered in the ear of some sufferer, to prove a soft and comforting
pillow for his weary head. Think of the bread of life it will be your
privilege to break and distribute to the helpless and needy. Think of
the dying who can be pointed upward, and led to place their trust in Him
who is the Resurrection and the Life. If you have a talent for music,
it can be used to advantage in the hospital ward. There is no limit to
the opportunities you will find opening before you. We can not all be
Florence Nightingales or Sister Doras, but we can be our best selves.



“Woodstock” closed with the return of Charles the Second from long exile,
and his hearty reception _en route_ from the cliffs of Dover to London.
“Peveril of the Peak” opens with a mixed assembly of Presbyterians
and Cavaliers convened at Martindale Castle in honor of “The Blessed
Restoration of His most Sacred Majesty.”

As might be premised, the gathering is not entirely harmonious. By wise
foresight they are constrained to enter the castle by different gates,
and to take their repast in different rooms. In this prologue to the
story the reader notes the art with which Scott illustrates history.
“By different routes, and forming each a sort of a procession, as if
the adherents of each party were desirous of exhibiting its strength
and numbers, the two several factions approached the castle; and so
distinct did they appear in dress, aspect and manners, that it seemed as
if the revelers of a bridal party, and the sad attendants upon a funeral
solemnity, were moving toward the same point from different quarters. The
Puritan party consisted chiefly of the middling gentry, with others whom
industry or successful speculations in commerce or in mining had raised
into eminence—the persons who feel most umbrage from the over-shadowing
aristocracy, and are usually the most vehement in defense of what they
hold to be their rights. Their dress was in general studiously simple
and unostentatious, or only remarkable by the contradictory affectation
of extreme simplicity or carelessness. The dark color of their cloaks,
varying from absolute black to what was called sad-colored, their
steeple-crowned hats, with their broad shadowy brims, their long swords,
suspended by a simple strap around the loins, without shoulder-belt,
sword-knot, plate, buckles, or any of the other decorations with which
the Cavaliers loved to adorn their trusty rapiers—the shortness of their
hair, which made their ears appear of disproportioned size—above all the
stern and gloomy gravity of their looks, announced their belonging to
that class of enthusiasts, who, resolute and undismayed, had cast down
the former fabric of government, and who now regarded with somewhat more
than suspicion that which had been so unexpectedly substituted in its

The paragraph in which Scott portrays the Cavalier is none the less
graphic: “If the Puritan was affectedly plain in his dress, and
ridiculously precise in his manners, the Cavalier often carried his
love of ornament into tawdry finery, and his contempt of hypocricy into
licentious profligacy. Gay, gallant fellows, young and old, thronged
together toward the ancient castle. Feathers waved, lace glittered,
spears jingled, steeds caracoled; and here and there a petronel or pistol
was fired off by some one, who found his own natural talents for making
a noise inadequate to the dignity of the occasion. Boys halloo’d and
whooped, ‘Down with the Rump,’ and ‘Fie upon Oliver!’ The revelry of the
Cavaliers may be easily conceived, since it had the usual accompaniments
of singing, jesting, quaffing of healths, and playing of tunes, which
have in almost every age and quarter of the world been the accompaniments
of festive cheer. The enjoyments of the Puritans were of a different and
less noisy character. They neither sung, jested, heard music, nor drank
healths; and yet they seemed none the less, in their own phrase, to enjoy
the creature-comforts which the frailty of humanity rendered grateful to
their outward man.”

It seems almost marvelous that Scott, who loved rank and ancestral
dignity, could lay aside his prejudices and speak so eloquently and
fairly of the Puritan. His history of Napoleon is generally regarded
unfair and distorted; and it could hardly have been otherwise following
so closely upon the great triumph of Wellington; but we, as Americans and
descendants of those who gave up home and comfort to establish a free
government, have reason to feel grateful that the greatest novelist, or,
if that is objected to by any of our readers, the greatest historical
novelist that Britain has produced, was born and reared with an
unprejudiced mind.

It may seem strange to the reader of history to find the Cavalier and
the strict Presbyterian, so different in principle, now hand in hand in
policy; but the reader must remember that the party which brought Charles
to the block consisted of two factors, styled by the haughty Countess of
Derby with indignant sarcasm: “Varieties of the same monster, for the
Presbyterians hallooed while the others hunted, and bound the victims
whom the Independents massacred.” Misery according to Shakspere makes a
person acquainted with strange bedfellows; and the politics of those days
made England acquainted with strange coalitions. One choice only remained
to that distracted nation—Charles the Second or the rule of the army;
and to the common sense of discordant factions a solid government seemed
preferable to anarchy. To the sensible Presbyterian the divine right
of kings was better than the less divine right of petty leaders. The
Independents, so powerful under Cromwell, were weak under the government
of his son Richard. The people demanded a free Parliament, and a free
Parliament meant the restoration of the Stuarts. As Macaulay tersely puts
it: “A united army had long kept down a divided nation; but the nation
was now united and the army was divided.”

Scott, also, in passing, refers to the ejection of the Presbyterian
clergy, which took place on St. Bartholomew’s day, when two thousand
Presbyterian pastors were displaced and silenced throughout England;
even in church matters the rule held good—that the spoils belonged to
the victors: the great Baxter, Reynolds and Calamy refused bishoprics,
and many ministers declined deaneries, preferring starvation and a clear
conscience to the wealth and flattery of a corrupt court.

Five years pass by and we are transported with Julian Peveril, son of
the old knight, from the peaks of northern Derbyshire, which form the
water-shed of central England, to the picturesque island of Man, the
origin of whose name is still a mystery, whose ruins carry the visitor
back beyond the legends of King Arthur and the dominion of the Romans to
the dim twilight days of the Druids. To this strong sea-girded fortress
the brave Countess of Derby fled after the execution of her husband at
Bolton le Moor, and she has left in history a character for courage and
hardihood allied to cruelty, in the execution of Edward Christian, who
in her absence had yielded up the island to the Parliament forces. It is
here that the young Peveril dreams away his boyhood, sharing his studies
and recreations with the son of the Countess.

In this story of diverse characters, the two pillars, which might be said
to uphold the arch, under which the long procession of the narrative
passes, are the elder Peveril and his wealthy neighbor Bridgenorth.
Alice Bridgenorth was reared under the same roof with young Peveril;
and strange to say, in the difference arising between the elder Peveril
and Bridgenorth, she also is transported to the home of relatives in a
romantic glen of the island of Man. But the course of true love was not
destined even in this little island to run entirely smooth; for the old
spirit of Bridgenorth is awakened to restore England to the greatness
of the days of Cromwell. He endeavors to arouse the same zeal in young
Peveril; he had just returned from the south of France, and had many
stories to tell of the French Huguenots, who already began to sustain
those vexations, which a few years afterward were summed up by the
revocation of the edict of Nantz. He had been in Hungary, and spoke from
personal knowledge of the leaders of the great Protestant insurrection.
He talked also of Savoy, where those of the reformed religion still
suffered a cruel persecution. He had even visited America, more
especially he said: “The country of New England, into which our land has
shaken from her lap, as a drunkard flings from him his treasures, so much
that is precious in the eyes of God and of his children. There thousands
of our best and most godly men—such whose righteousness might come
between the Almighty and his wrath, and prevent the ruin of cities—are
content to be the inhabitants of the desert, rather encountering the
unenlightened savages, than stooping to extinguish, under the oppression
practiced in Britain, the light that is within their own minds. There I
remained for a time, during the wars which the colonies maintained with
Philip, a great Indian chief, or sachem as they were called, who seemed
a messenger sent from Satan to buffet them. His cruelty was great—his
dissimulation profound; and the skill and promptitude with which he
maintained a destructive and desultory warfare inflicted many dreadful
calamities on the settlement. I was by chance at a small village in
the woods, more than thirty miles from Boston, and in its situation
exceedingly lonely, and surrounded with thickets. It was on a Sabbath
morning, when we had assembled to take sweet counsel together in the
Lord’s house. Our temple was but constructed of wooden logs; but when
shall the chant of trained hirelings, or the sounding of tin and brass
tubes amid the aisles of a minster, arise so sweetly to heaven, as did
the psalm in which we united at once our voices and our hearts! An
excellent worthy, long the companion of my pilgrimage, had just begun to
wrestle in prayer, when a woman, with disordered looks and disheveled
hair, entered our chapel in a distracted manner, screaming incessantly,
‘The Indians! the Indians!’ In that land no man dares separate himself
from his means of defense, and whether in the city or in the field, in
the ploughed land or the forest, men keep beside them their weapons, as
did the Jews at the re-building of the temple. So we sallied forth with
our guns and our pikes, and heard the whoop of these incarnate devils
already in possession of a part of the town. It was pitiful to hear the
screams of women and children amid the report of guns and the whistling
of bullets, mixed with the ferocious yells of these savages. Several
houses in the upper part of the village were soon on fire. The smoke
which the wind drove against us gave great advantage to the enemy, who
fought, as it were invisible, and under cover, whilst we fell fast by
their unerring fire. In this state of confusion, and while we were about
to adopt the desperate project of evacuating the village, and, placing
the women and children in the center, of attempting a retreat to the
nearest settlement, it pleased heaven to send us unexpected assistance.
A tall man of a reverend appearance, whom no one of us had ever seen
before, suddenly was in the midst of us. His garments were of the skin
of the elk, and he wore sword and carried gun; I never saw anything more
august than his features, overshadowed by locks of gray hair, which
mingled with a long beard of the same color. ‘Men and brethren,’ he
said in a voice like that which turns back the flight, ‘why sink your
hearts? and why are you thus disquieted? Follow me, and you shall see
this day that there is a captain in Israel!’ He uttered a few brief but
distinct orders, in the tone of one who was accustomed to command; and
such was the influence of his appearance, his mien, his language, and
his presence of mind, that he was implicitly obeyed by men who had never
seen him until that moment. We were hastily divided into two bodies;
one of which maintained the defense of the village with more courage
than ever; while, under cover of the smoke, the stranger sallied forth
from the town, at the head of the other division of New England men, and
fetching a circuit, attacked the red warriors in the rear. The heathens
fled in confusion, abandoning the half-won village, and leaving behind
them such a number of the warriors, that the tribe hath never recovered
its loss. Never shall I forget the figure of our venerable leader,
when our men, and women and children of the village, rescued from the
tomahawk and scalping knife, stood crowded around him. ‘Not unto me be
the glory,’ he said, ‘I am but an implement, frail as yourselves, in the
hand of Him who is strong to deliver.’ I was nearest to him as he spoke;
we exchanged glances; it seemed to me that I recognized a noble friend
whom I had long since deemed in glory; but he gave me no time to speak,
had speech been prudent. Sinking on his knees, and signing us to obey
him, he poured forth a strong and energetic thanksgiving for the turning
back of the battle, which, pronounced with a voice loud and clear as a
war trumpet, thrilled through the joints and marrows of the hearers. I
have heard many an act of devotion in my life; but such a prayer as this,
uttered amid the dead and the dying, with a rich tone of mingled triumph
and adoration, was beyond them all—it was like the song of the inspired
prophetess who dwelt beneath the palm-tree between Ramah and Bethel. He
was silent; and for a brief space we remained with our faces bent to the
earth—no man daring to lift his head. At length we looked up, but our
deliverer was no longer amongst us, nor was he ever again seen in the
land which he had rescued.”

This beautiful story, true to fact, and so dramatically told, comes upon
the reader with a pleasant surprise, and I have quoted it at length not
only for its intrinsic beauty, but also as it commemorates a fact in the
early history of our country. That venerable man was Richard Whalley, one
of the great soldiers of England under Cromwell, and one of the judges
who condemned Charles to the block. After the restoration he fled to
Massachusetts, and was secreted in the house of the Rev. Mr. Russel at
Hadley. It will be remembered that three of the regicides fled to this
country—Dixwell, Goffe and Whalley. Dixwell is buried in New Haven in
the rear of Center church. Goffe and Whalley are buried in Hadley. It
is claimed by some that it was Goffe instead of Whalley who came to the
rescue of the village. Scott in his notes assigns the honor to Whalley.

Returning to our story we find that affairs of great moment on the part
of the Countess call the young Peveril to London. He finds his father and
mother arrested for supposed complicity in a Romish plot. We see the city
in great excitement, heated and inflamed by the villain Oates—an episode
which Scott weaves gracefully and naturally into the warp and woof of
his story. He draws a picture of Colonel Blood, who made the well-known
attempt on the crown-jewels, a bold, resolute man, who strange to say,
after many acts of violence, lived to enjoy a pension from the king. We
see the gay Rochester, still remembered for his celebrated epigrammatic
epitaph on Charles the Second, composed at the king’s request, but too
pungent, and too true to be relished.

    “Here lies our sovereign lord the king,
     Whose word no man relies on;
     He never said a foolish thing,
     And never did a wise one.”

We see the Duchess of Portsmouth, and many another lady of rank, who had
more regard for ancient titles than for ancestral virtues; we see George
Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, a man of princely fortune and excellent
talents, tossed about in a whirlpool of frivolous pleasures, whose
character the great Dryden embalmed in vigorous lines:

    “A man so various, that he seemed to be
     Not one, but all mankind’s epitome;
     Stiff in opinions—always in the wrong—
     Was everything by starts, but nothing long;
     Who in the course of one revolving moon,
     Was chemist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon.”

Through the imprisonment of Julian Peveril we are made acquainted with
the Tower and Newgate—a sad picture, but somewhat relieved by Scott’s
humor in the portrait that he gives us of the well-known doughty
dwarf, Sir Geoffrey Hudson; we see London given over to monopolies, to
stock-jobbing, and South Sea speculations; we attend a conventicle held
in a secret hall of the city, and trace a conspiracy designed to place
the Duke of Buckingham upon the throne; until our story, one of the
longest and most carefully prepared of the Waverley series, concludes
with a court scene in Whitehall, where the faithful love of Edith
Bridgenorth and Julian Peveril is announced to the satisfaction at least
of two individuals.

“Old Mortality,” our next volume, deals directly with the Covenanters
of Scotland. It will be remembered that Charles the Second, on a former
expedition into Scotland, before his restoration, had deliberately sworn
to support the Solemn League and Covenant. The Presbyterian Church, alive
to its own interests, sent an agent to General Monk, who had declared for
a free Parliament, and was on his way to London, holding as it were in
his hand the destiny of Britain. The agent sent by the Scottish Church
was James Sharpe, a man well educated, logical in mind and commanding in
character; but, false to his trust, he bartered his principles for power,
and received as the price of his infamy the title and office of Lord
Bishop of Saint Andrews, and Primate of Scotland. “The great stain” says
Scott, in his Miscellaneous Prose Works, “will always remain, that Sharpe
deserted and probably betrayed a cause which his brethren entrusted to
him. When he returned to Scotland, he pressed the acceptance of the See
of Saint Andrews upon Mr. Robert Douglas, affecting himself no ambition
for the prelacy. The stern Presbyterian saw into his secret soul, and,
when he had given his own positive rejection, demanded of Sharpe what
he would do if the offer was made to him? He hesitated. ‘I perceive,’
said Douglas, ‘you are clear—you will engage—you will be Primate of
Scotland; take it then,’ he added, laying his hand on his shoulder, ‘and
take the curse of God along with it.’ The subject would suit a painter.”
Subsequent history shows that the curse was fulfilled.

In the general joy attendant upon the restoration of Charles, the
Parliament thought that the people would submit to almost any indignity
or inconvenience. By a single sweeping resolution they annulled and
rescinded every statute and ordinance which had been made by those
holding supreme authority in Scotland since the commencement of the civil
wars; the whole Presbyterian Church government was destroyed, and the
Episcopal institutions, to which the nation had shown itself averse, were
rashly and precipitately established. Thousands of ministers, who, for
conscience sake, could not sign the Act of Conformity, were driven from
their pulpits. Mere boys and dissolute young men were hastily summoned
from schools and colleges to administer spiritual comfort to an indignant
people. The solemn league and covenant, which had been solemnly sworn to
by nobility, clergy and people, with weeping eyes and uplifted hands, ay,
sworn to by the King himself, was burned at the cross of Edinburgh by an
edict of Parliament. The Episcopal court severely punished all who left
their own parish church to attend private meetings known as conventicles.
A persecution like that of the early Christians at Rome was brought home
to the descendants of Knox and of Calvin. As the earlier Christians were
compelled to hold their meetings in caves and catacombs, so a persecuted
people, in the bright dawn of the Reformation, were compelled to fly to
the hills and heaths for a refuge, to lift up their banner in solitary
and mountain places in order to foil

    “A tyrant’s and a bigot’s laws.”

Such was the state of the country at the opening of our story in May,
1679. The west of Scotland is aroused. Archbishop Sharpe is murdered in
his carriage, by a party of men, of whom Balfour of Burley is the leader.
The battle of Loudon Hill is won by the Covenanters, who increase daily
in power until a force of six thousand men are assembled at Bothwell
Bridge. Engaged in discussing church polemics, they entirely neglect
the discipline necessary for success. Without leaders or guidance they
are routed by the Duke of Monmouth. Four hundred men are killed. Twelve
hundred prisoners are marched to Edinburgh, and imprisoned “like cattle
in a fold” in the Greyfriar’s churchyard. Several ministers are tortured
and executed, and many prisoners sent as slaves to the plantations. Henry
Morton, one of their leaders, as seen in the story, is exiled. Edith
Bellenden, one of the royal party, remains true to him. He returns, after
long years of absence and military honor, and readers of fiction can
readily guess how the story terminates without reading the postscript by
the author.

Such is the rude draft of this great romance, which Coleridge pronounces
the grandest of Scott’s novels. It is, in fact, a novel that can not
be well analyzed. We could speak of Lady Margaret Bellenden, who never
forgot that Charles the Second took breakfast with her on his way to meet
Cromwell at the field of Worcester; we could speak of the good natured
Major, brave, noble, and generous; of Cuddie and his mother; ay, of Guse
Gibbie, unfortunate in all fitting regimentals; of the miserly uncle of
Henry Morton; of the cannie waiting-maid of Edith, who felt safe in the
triumph of either side, as she had a lover in both armies. The reader
will laugh and weep at these characters as he meets them in the pages
of “Old Mortality.” But it is for us to refer merely to the historical
features about which these characters are grouped; to note the ruggedness
of Scotch character, destined to triumph at last, and bring victory
out of defeat; a character which, perhaps, “shows most to advantage in
adversity, when it seems akin to the native sycamore of their hills,
which scorns to be biased in its mode of growth, even by the influence of
the prevailing wind, but, shooting its branches with equal boldness in
every direction, shows no weather side to the storm, and may be broken,
but can never be bended.”

In considering the motives, the ambition, the enthusiasm, or fanaticism
of these men, we might stir up controversy. We know it was their
lofty purpose to convert all England to the Presbyterian faith; and,
whenever they were lifted to power, they were quite as arbitrary as the
Episcopacy. It was true of both parties that they suffered persecution
without learning mercy. Each side felt that, in pushing its own creed,
it was doing the Lord’s work; but in this we all delight to-day, that
both sides produced brave men, tenacious of their own rights, who
struggled on until in our own generation the opposing forces have been
adjusted, and out of chaos and confusion the different systems of faith
or theology move serenely and calmly in their own spheres around one
central and enduring light—the Creator and Father of all.

The Covenanters were indeed the connecting link between the two great
revolutions, which beheaded Charles the First and exiled James the
Second; and, whatever our prejudices, or “whatever may be thought of
the extravagance or narrow-minded bigotry of many of their tenets, it
is impossible to deny the praise of devoted courage to a few hundred
peasants, who, without leaders, without money, without any fixed plan of
action, and almost without arms, borne out only by their innate zeal, and
a detestation of the oppression of their rulers, ventured to declare open
war against an established government, supported by a regular army and
the whole force of three kingdoms.”

It is sometimes claimed that Scott is over partial to Claverhouse—that
he paints the man as a hero. If so he has poorly succeeded, for I have
yet to meet a reader of “Old Mortality” who is fascinated with the
portraiture of that cruel man. Scott makes him what history declares
him to be, a cool and calculating soldier, bitter and unrelenting, a
man without faith, and with no ambition save worldly glory. It rather
seems to me on the contrary, that Scott for the time lays aside his own
traditional sentiments as he reports the burning words of these Covenant
preachers, as they paint the desolation of the Church, describing her
“like Hagar watching the waning life of her infant amid the fountainless
desert.” His poetic nature seems moved by brave men repairing “to worship
the God of nature amid the fortresses of nature’s own construction.”

There are two dramatic scenes in the volume, which can not be overlooked
or forgotten: Burley in the cave, with his clasped Bible in one hand, and
his drawn sword in the other. “His figure, dimly ruddied by the light
of the red charcoal seems that of a fiend in the lurid atmosphere of
Pandemonium striving with an imaginary demon.” The other scene reveals
Henry Morton, overpowered, disarmed, bound hand and foot, facing a clock
which, at the hour of twelve, was to strike his doom. “Among pale-eyed
and ferocious zealots, whose hardened brows were soon to be bent, not
merely with indifference, but with triumph upon his execution—without
a friend to speak a kindly word, or give a look of either sympathy or
encouragement—awaiting till the sword destined to slay him crept out
of the scabbard gradually, as it were by straw-breadths, and condemned
to drink the bitterness of death drop by drop. His executioners, as he
gazed around him, seemed to alter their forms and features, like specters
in a feverish dream their figures became larger, and their faces more
disturbed; the walls seemed to drop with blood, and the light tick of
the clock thrilled on his ear with such loud, painful distinctness, as
if each sound were the prick of a bodkin inflicted on the naked nerve
of the organ.” The maniac preacher, in an attitude of frenzy, springs
upon a chair to push forward the fatal index; the party make ready their
weapons for immediate execution, when a noise like the rushing of a brook
over the pebbles, or the soughing of wind among the branches stays the
executioners; it was the galloping of horse, the door is burst open, and
Henry Morton is saved.

       *       *       *       *       *

Men seem neither to understand their riches nor their strength—of the
former they believe much more than they should; of the latter much less.
Self-reliance and self-denial will teach a man to drink out of his own
cistern, and eat his own sweet bread, and to learn and labor truly to
get his living, and carefully to expend the good things committed to his


Translated from the French for THE CHAUTAUQUAN.

Among the many interesting charitable institutions of Paris there is none
more noteworthy than the private asylum for the blind conducted by the
Sisters of St. Paul. This work was begun in 1850, by a woman of great
piety, energy and sense, Anne Bergunion. Two blind girls were confided to
her care. She proved to be remarkably adapted to training the peculiar
characters which the nature of this affliction almost invariably causes.
Gradually there grew up a large institution under her supervision. A
writer in a late number of the _Revue des deux Mondes_ has given an
exhaustive account of the work. The details are most interesting and
suggestive. After describing the home of the Sisters and their work, he
says: “They have reserved the least comfortable part of the building for
themselves, and have given over to the blind the large rooms where the
circulation is free, and there is opportunity for exercise. Passing from
the convent into the asylum for the blind, I entered the workshop. Twenty
workingwomen, whose ages ranged from twenty-five to fifty, started up
at the sound of strange footsteps. The sight was pitiful; the faces and
eyes seemed expressionless. There was nothing to warm up their terrible
pallor, and in their attitude there was a restless attention, as if they
were troubled by a presence which they could not define nor understand.

“There is great difference between the different forms of blindness.
There are eyes that have been paralyzed, which appear living, but yet
are dead. They show neither joy nor sorrow, but remain fixed. A blind
person does not move the eye when questioned, but by an unconscious
gesture turns the ear to the speaker. Others are projecting, and seem
almost bursting from their watery eyelids; they look like those marbles
of whitish glass with which the children play; others again are almost
invisible, showing only an inflamed line between the nearly closed
eyelids. With some the lids are immovable; others continually flutter,
like the wings of a frightened bird.

“I saw no coquettishness in the arrangement of the hair, in the pose
of the head or the body. Shut up in darkness, they are ignorant of the
resources of feminine graces; hearing and touch teach them nothing of
them. Their tidiness is extreme, however. If well taught, a blind person
can not endure on his garments a particle of dust or drop of water; it
wounds his sensitive touch.

“The most of the inmates were born blind, or at least became blind so
young that they have no remembrance of the light. For them the sun is
bright, not because it shines, but because it is warm. There are some
among them who have been made completely blind by an accident or a
criminal action. Here is one whose eyes seem to have been torn out, and
eyelids to have closed over the void. When she was quite a little girl,
she owned a tame finch; at night it slept in its cage, but all day it
was at the side of its young mistress, now on her head, again on her
shoulders; it drank from the same glass with her and took the food from
her lips. One day the eyes of the child attracted it; it picked at them
and destroyed the sight. There is another who had a pet chicken. She had
been accustomed to taking it in her little arms, rocking it, cuddling it,
adoring it; they played together until suddenly, one day, the chicken,
dashing itself against the face of the child, tore out both its eyes.

“I have noticed among the inmates a woman whose eyes are white; a faint
shade marks the outline of the iris. She seems to be about fifty years
old; her complexion is sallow, and above her prominent forehead the brown
hair is traced by silver; her mouth has a sad, almost bitter expression;
her form is thin, and her bony fingers move very swiftly as she knits.
When twenty-three years old she was sought in marriage by a young man
for whom she did not care. He insisted, she refused. One evening he came
to see her with a gun on his shoulder, and demanded: “Will you marry me?
Yes, or no.” “No,” she replied. He drew his weapon and fired. The entire
charge hit the upper part of her face. When they had picked her up and
wiped away the blood, they saw that she was blind, and hopelessly so.
Before the court the fellow did not lie. “It is her own fault. I will
marry her all the same, if she is willing.” The poor girl did not think
it best to give her hand, when asked in this way. She found the Sisters
of St. Paul, and has been with them for twenty-five years.

“It seemed very silent to me in the work-room. I am sorry for it.
Conversation is as necessary to the blind as light for those who see;
to them silence is night, noise is light. This is so true that in the
Institution for Blind Young People, the black cell, the cell in which
unruly members are confined as a punishment, is one where no sound is
heard. I believe that conversation should always be allowed. The blind
find an inspiration in it which gives zest to their work.

“Music is their great passion, and some excel in it; the ear is most
sensitive; at a sound in the least out of tune their foreheads will
contract painfully. A woman sang for me here. She was about thirty-five
years old, with pale face and fine features. She sang a fandango intended
to be gay, but which was very mournful, coming from her discolored lips.
Her voice was true but weak and worn. The poor girl is a worn-out artist.
She had been dragged from city to city; had “done” the watering places
and springs, had given concerts, and never touched the proceeds. When
she had ruined her voice the manager had abandoned her. The poor child,
hungry and cold, sought the St. Paul Asylum. She has a shelter here while
she lives. She knits, sings, and, perhaps, sighs for the time when she
heard the crowd clap after she had sung her piece.

“A blind Sister, with one who has her sight, looks after the workshop.
There is but one kind of work here—knitting; it seems to have become
mechanical; they knit without thinking, as one breathes without knowing
it. Four of the young girls sang a quartette for us, but they knit all
the time without ceasing; the blind Sister beat time with her head, but
continued to knit; the women in the shop turned toward the singers,
listened, and knit. The blind Sisters teach this work. It takes about
six weeks to make a skillful knitter, and initiate her into all the
mysteries. They earn very little money in this way, however. The wool
and patterns are furnished by the contractor, and for the knitting of a
pair of child’s socks they will pay but a few cents. It takes a skillful
knitter at least four hours to do the work, and then the work must be
finished off by some one who sees, the buttons put on, the buttonholes
made, and the ornaments attached. In spite of the great industry of the
workers the shop earns in this way only about 1,300 francs per year. The
great curse which burdens the blind, above all blind women, is that they
can not earn a livelihood. It is safe to say that were it not for the
Sisters of St. Paul all the persons whom I saw there would have died of
hunger. There has been an effort made to find a trade for blind women
by which they could at least earn their bread; it has not succeeded.
The affliction is so heavy that it seems to paralyze their energies.
One trade which seems peculiarly suitable for them, which is learned
quickly and requires only a little attention, is that of making lines for
fishing, and the like; the tools needed are not costly, and the trade is
easy. Many of the blind practice it, and some are very skillful; yet, by
the busiest day’s work, they can not earn more than fifteen cents. It is
ridiculous to think of furnishing food, clothing and lodgings, on this
sum. There has been a great deal of ingenuity spent in trying to teach
them trades which require great skill; tact, however, can never take the
place of sight. This fact has been forgotten by those who have tried to
profit by the services of the blind, rather than put the means of earning
their daily bread into their hands. An attempt was made to teach them
to turn articles, but the results were curious rather than useful. The
trade which they are taught should be as easy as possible; the method
should be simple, the tools few and easily handled. Knitting is the model
work for them.

“Passing from the work-room we enter the children’s department. There are
three classes, corresponding to the ages of the pupils: the intermediate,
primary, and the school for the very young. Every one is blind, and as
in the work-room, they knit, or rather learn to knit in the intervals
between their lessons and play. I find that the same methods for teaching
reading and writing are used as are common in institutions for the blind.
The instruments for writing are the point, the tablet, and the guide
invented by Louis Brille. This system satisfies the intellectual needs
of the blind, but does not permit them to enter into communication with
persons who have not studied the system. In this system each letter
of the alphabet, each figure, each punctuation mark forms in relief a
certain number of points. By pressing the ends of the fingers over the
projecting points of these letters a blind person will read as rapidly
as a person who sees will read the printed volume. Often I have seen
the blind follow the lines of one of these books with his left hand,
while with his right he reproduced it on M. Brille’s apparatus. A blind
man named Foucant invented a very ingenious instrument composed of ten
blunt points fastened in an iron triangle, and furnished with a spring.
The instrument is mounted on a guide whose ten ends move in the groove
of a frame. The apparatus moves on the guide from left to right, as in
writing, and the guide moves up and down to mark the lines. The base of
six points are placed in juxtaposition, and rest on a sheet of lead, the
black surface of which is applied to a sheet of white paper; by striking
the head of the point there is obtained a black point. By this means
Roman letters are formed, each letter being composed of several points;
in one word I counted fifty-eight. By this instrument some of the blind
write very rapidly, and it is very valuable to them, as it gives them an
opportunity to correspond with those who see; but this writing, clear as
it is, has one great drawback; the blind can not read it. The impression
produced by the stroke of the point is too feeble to be perceptible to
the most delicate touch. After this invention, there still remained the
problem of giving the blind a method of writing which could be read by
them and by those who see. I believe that the problem has been solved.
Count Jay de Beaufort has invented a very simple system. Abandoning
the methods of Brille and Foucant, the Roman letters and the English
writing, he has adopted a kind of heavy sloping style of writing which
resembles the round hand, and is written wrong side to, like engravers’
and lithographers’ work. A little time and attention enables the pupil
to master this style. A sheet of paper, which is at the same time solid
and soft, is placed on a frame containing a tablet which is marked with
deep, straight and longitudinal furrows. By these furrows a straight line
is obtained, and the distance between them determines the height of the
letters. A light cloth covers the tablet. When the paper is placed on the
frame and over the cloth, a letter made on it will of course be raised.
That is, the layer of cloth underneath the paper causes each mark to
indent the paper without breaking it. With a point or style the letters
are traced on the paper. When the page is detached and turned over, the
raised letters appear, recognizable to the eyes, and to the touch of the
finger. The blind greatly appreciate this system, which is superior to
all that have been invented for them, for it is the only one which puts
into their hands a sure means of communication with those who see. Count
Jay de Beaufort kindly gives lessons at the Institution for Blind Young
People, and among the Sisters of St. Paul has trained several teachers,
who in their turn are instructing their pupils.

“The pupils that I saw in the children’s classes are not yet large
enough to be set at Beaufort’s system. The studies taught there resemble
those in all primary schools: Reading, writing, numbers, history and
geography. They omit sewing, which is too difficult, and embroidery,
which is impossible. Very often they have lessons in composition to teach
them to unravel their thoughts and express them with precision, a thing
which is difficult for those who see, but which must be very painful
for the blind. I wished at one time to assure myself of the degree of
advancement in the intermediate class, where the girls were from fourteen
to sixteen years old, and I asked the three most advanced pupils to
write an essay on a given subject—a walk into the country. Of course the
subject was interesting only as it was being written on by the blind, and
I hoped to find some expressions which would denote the peculiar feelings
which they experienced. But, no; their instruction had come from those
who could see, and they employed the language of their teachers, not even
modifying it to fit their infirmity. The three essays were very little
different in form. They all described a trip which they had taken to
the suburbs of Paris. “It was a beautiful morning of spring time.” “It
was a beautiful morning in the month of May,” was the general tone; but
I shrugged my shoulders in impatience when I read: “What a delightful
prospect met our view.” It made me think of a composition prepared by a
deaf mute in which he spoke of “The symphony of the song of the birds,
and the musical murmur of crystalline springs.” In their desire to
appropriate feelings which they can not understand, these poor people try
to reproduce a language which to them can mean nothing.

“There is much that is strange about the dreams of the blind. I was
struck with this while talking with some young people in the Institute
for the Blind. They told me complacently of what they “saw” in their
dreams. I was puzzled to know whether the dream of a blind person was
like that of one who could see. I have found that the blind who have had
their sight up to the age of reason, for a long time preserve the dreams
of the time when they could see, as if the stored-up images reproduced
themselves in the night. Little by little these images grow feeble,
become dull, confused, and end by disappearing after fifteen or twenty
years of blindness. As for those who are born blind, their dreams are in
black. I convinced myself of this at Saint Paul, where I often talked
with three blind Sisters, who were very intelligent. They explained to me
that the phenomena of their dreams were borrowed from the sense of touch
and hearing, and never from sight.”



    “Ah, once more,” I cried, “ye stars, ye waters,
     On my heart your mighty charm renew;
     Still, still let me, as I gaze upon you,
     Feel my soul becoming vast like you!”

     From the intense, clear, star-sown vault of heaven,
     Over the lit sea’s unquiet way,
     In the rustling night-air came the answer:
    “Wouldst thou _be_ as these are? _Live_ as they.

    “Unaffrighted by the silence round them,
     Undistracted by the sights they see,
     These demand not that the things without them
     Yield them love, amusement, sympathy.

    “And with joy the stars perform their shining,
     And the sea its long moon-silver’d roll;
     For self-poised they live, nor pine with noting
     All the fever of some differing soul.

    “Bounded by themselves, and unregardful
     In what state God’s other works may be,
     In their own tasks all their powers pouring,
     These attain the mighty life you see.”



I have no sympathy at all with those ladies who are seeking to promote
coöperative housekeeping—in other words, to abolish the institution
of the home. There may be, indeed, specially gifted women—artists,
musicians, literary women—whom I could imagine finding it an interruption
to their pursuits to take charge of a house. But, strange to say, though
I have had a pretty large acquaintance with many of the most eminent
of such women, I have almost invariably found them particularly proud
of their housekeeping, and clever at the performance of all household
duties, not excepting the ordering of “judicious” dinners. Not to make
personal remarks on living friends, I will remind you that the greatest
woman mathematician of any age, Mary Somerville, was renowned for her
good housekeeping, and, I can add from my own knowledge, was an excellent
judge of a well-dressed _déjeuner_; while Madame de Staël, driven by
Napoleon from her home, went about Europe, as it was said, “preceded by
her reputation and followed by her cook.”

Rather, I suspect, it is not higher genius, but feeble inability to
cope with the problems of domestic government, which generally inspires
the women who wish to abdicate their little household thrones. Some
sympathy may be given to them, but I should be exceedingly sorry to see
many women catching up the cry and following their leading to the dismal
_disfranchisement_ of the home—the practical homelessness of American
boarding-houses or Continental _pensions_. I think for a woman to fail to
make and keep a happy home is to be a “failure” in a truer sense than to
have failed to catch a husband.

The making of a true home is really our peculiar and inalienable right—a
right which no man can take from us; for a man can no more make a home
than a drone can make a hive. He can build a castle or a palace; but—poor
creature!—be he wise as Solomon and rich as Crœsus, he can not turn it
into a home. No masculine mortal can do that. It is a woman, and only
a woman—a woman all by herself, if she likes, and without any man to
help her—who can turn a house into a home. Woe to the wretched man who
disputes her monopoly, and thinks, because he can arrange a club, he can
make a home! Nemesis overtakes him in his old bachelorhood, when a home
becomes the supreme ideal of his desires; and we see him—him who scorned
the home-making of a _lady_—obliged to put up with the oppression of his
cook or the cruelty of his nurse!

In the first place, if home be our kingdom, it must be our joy and
privilege to convert that domain, as quickly and as perfectly as we may,
into a little province of the Kingdom of God; for remember that we may
look on all our duties in this cheering and beautiful light—first, to set
up God’s Kingdom in our own hearts, making them pure and true and loving,
and then to make our homes little provinces of the same kingdom, and,
lastly, to try to extend that kingdom through the world—the empire of
Justice, Truth and Love. We are entirely responsible for our own souls,
and very greatly responsible for those of all the dwellers in our homes;
and, in a lesser way, we are answerable for each widening circle beyond
us. How shall we set about making our homes provinces of the Divine

1. Nobody must be morally the worse for living under our roof, if we
can possibly help it. It is the _minimum_ of our duties to make sure
that temptations to misconduct or intemperance are not left in any one’s
way, or bad feelings suffered to grow up, or habits of moroseness or
domineering formed, or quarrels kept hot, as if they were toasts before
the kitchen fire. As much as possible, on the contrary, everybody must
be helped to be better—not made better by act of the drawing-room,
remember—that is impossible—but _helped_ to be better. The way to do
this, I apprehend, is neither very much to scold, or exhort, or insist
on people going to church whether they like it or not, or reading family
prayers (excellent though that practice may be), but rather to spread
through the house such an atmosphere of frank confidence and kindliness
with servants, and of love and trust with children and relations, that
bad feelings and doings will really have no place, no temptation, and, if
they intrude, will soon die out.

One such point out of many I may cite as specially concerning us women.
Is it not absurd for a lady who spends hundreds of pounds and thousands
of hours on her toilet, and takes evident pleasure in attracting
admiration in fashionable raiment not always perfectly decent, to turn
and lecture poor Mary Ann, her housemaid, on sobriety in attire, and set
forth to her the peril and folly of flowers in her bonnet? The mistress
who dresses modestly and sensibly may reasonably hope in time that her
servants will dress modestly and sensibly likewise; but certainly they
will not do so while she exhibits to their foolish young eyes the example
of extravagance and folly.

2. Next to the _virtue_ of those who live in our homes, their _happiness_
should occupy us. In the first place, no creature under our roof should
ever be miserable, if we can prevent it. In how many otherwise happy
homes is there not one such miserable being? Sometimes, it is the
sufferers’ own fault; their minds are warped and despairful, and our
utmost efforts perhaps can only cheer them a little. But much oftener
there is to be found in a large household some poor creature who has
fallen, through no fault, into the miserable position of the family
_butt_—the object of ill-natured and unfeeling jests and rude speeches,
the last person to be given any pleasure, and the first person to be
made to suffer any privation or ill-temper. Sometimes, it is a poor
governess or tutor; sometimes, an old aunt or poor relation; now and
then, but rarely in these days, a stupid servant; most often of all, a
child, who is, perhaps, a step-child or nephew or niece of the mistress
of the house, or, alas! her own child, only deformed in some way, or
deficient in intellect. Then, the hapless, frightened creature, afraid of
punishment, looks with furtive glances at the frowning faces about it,
tries to escape by some little transparent deception, and only incurs
the heavier penalty of falsehood and the name of a liar; and so the evil
goes on growing day by day. It is astonishing and horrible to witness
how the deep-seated, frightful human passion, which I have elsewhere
named _heteropathy_, develops itself in such circumstances—the sight of
suffering and down-trodden misery exciting not pity, but the reverse—a
sort of cruel _aversion_ in the bystanders, till the whole household
sometimes joins in hating the poor, helpless, and isolated victim.

My friends, if you ever see anything approaching to this in your homes,
for God’s sake, set your faces like a flint against it! If you dislike
and mistrust the poor victim yourself, as you probably will do at first,
never mind! Take my word for it, the first thing to be done in the
Kingdom of God is to do _justice_ to all—to secure that no creature,
however mean or even loathsome, should be treated with injustice. If you
are, as I am supposing, mistress of the house, stop this persecution
with a high hand; and if you have been in any way to blame in it, if
it be _your_ dislike which you see thus reflected in the faces of your
dependants, repent your great fault, and make amends to your victim. If
you are not mistress, only a guest perhaps, or a humble friend, even then
you can and ought to do much; you can look grave and pained whenever the
butt is laughed at and jeered; and you can deliberately fix your eyes on
him or her with sympathy, and treat him with respect. Even these little
tokens of condemnation of what is going on will have (you may be sure)
a startling effect on those whose custom it has become to treat the
poor soul with contempt; and they will probably be angry with you for
exhibiting them. You will never have borne resentment for a better cause.

Nor is it only human beings who are thus made too often household
victims. You must all know houses where some unlucky animal—a cat or
dog—beginning by being the object of somebody’s senseless antipathy,
becomes the general _souffre-douleur_ of masters and servants. The dog
or cat (especially if it happens to be cherished by the human victim) is
spoken to so roughly, driven out of every room, and perhaps punished for
all sorts of offences it has never committed, that the animal assumes
a downcast, sneaking aspect, which inevitably produces fresh and fresh
_heteropathy_. You attempt, perhaps, to give it a little pat of sympathy,
and the poor frightened beast snaps at you, expecting a blow, or runs
off to hide under a sofa. Mistresses of homes, don’t let there be a dog
or a cat or a donkey or any other creature, in or about your homes,
which shrinks when a man or woman approaches it. And here I may add
that, without thus specially victimizing the animals through dislike, a
household frequently makes the life of some poor brute one long martyrdom
through neglect. The responsibility for this neglect lies primarily with
the mistress of the house. She must not only direct her servants, but
_see that her directions be carried out_, in the way of affording water
and food and needful exercise. A pretty “Kingdom of Heaven” some houses
would be, if the poor brutes could speak—houses, possibly, with prayers
going on twice a day, and grace said carefully before long, luxurious
meals, and all the time the children’s birds and rabbits left untended in
foul cages, without fresh food; mice thrown out of the traps on the fire,
aged or diseased cats or superfluous puppies given to boys to destroy
in any way their cruel invention may suggest, fowls for the consumption
of the house carelessly and barbarously killed; and, worst of all, the
poor house-dog, perhaps some loving-hearted little Skye or noble old
mastiff or retriever, condemned for life to the penalties which we should
think too severe for the worst of malefactors; chained up by the neck
through all the long, bright summer days, under a burning sun, with its
water-trough unfilled for days, or through the winter’s frost in some
dark, sunless corner, freezing with cold and in agonies of rheumatism
for want of straw or the chance of warming itself at a fire or by a run
in the snow. And all this as a reward for the poor brute’s fidelity!
When this kind of thing goes on for a certain time, of course the dog
becomes horribly diseased. His longing to bound over the fresh grass,
expressed so affectingly by his leaps and bounds when we approach his
miserable dungeon, is not merely a longing for his natural pleasure, but
for that which is indispensable to his health—namely, exercise and the
power to eat grass; and, if refused, he very soon falls into disease;
his beautiful coat becomes mangy and red; he is irritable, and becomes
revolting to everybody, and the nurse cries to the children, who were his
only friends and visitors, “Don’t go near that dog!”

I say it deliberately, the mistress of a house in whose yard a dog is
thus kept like a _forçat_—only worse treated than any murderer is treated
in Italy—is guilty of a _very great sin_; and till she has taken care
that the dog has his daily exercise and water, and that the cat and the
fowls and every other sentient creature under her roof is well and kindly
treated, she may as well, for shame’s sake, give up thinking she is
fulfilling her duties by reading prayers and subscribing to missions.

I assume that the master of the house, where there is one, will, as
usual, look after the stable department. Where there is no master, or
he does not interfere, the mistress is surely responsible for humane
treatment of the horses, if she keep any. Further, I think every lady is
bound to insist that any horse which draws her shall be free from the
misery of a bearing-rein. She ought not to allow her vanity and ambition
to be fashionable to induce her to connive at her coachman’s laziness and

When the mistress of a house has done all she can to _prevent the
suffering_, mental or physical, of any creature, human or infra-human,
under her roof, there remains still a delightful field for her ability
in actually _giving pleasure_. We all know that life is made up chiefly
of little pleasures and little pains, and how many of the former are in
the power of the mistress of a house to provide, it is almost impossible
to calculate. But let any clever woman simply take it to heart to make
everybody about her _as happy as she can_, and the result I believe will
always be wonderful. Let her see that, so far as possible, they have the
rooms they like best, the little articles of furniture and ornament they
prefer. Let her order meals with a careful forethought for their tastes
and for the necessities of their health, seeing that every one has what
he desires, and making him feel, however humble in position, that his
tastes have been remembered. Let her not disdain to pay such attention
to the position of the chairs and sofas of the family dwelling-rooms as
that every individual may be comfortably placed, and feel that he or she
has not been left out in the cold. And, after all these cares, let her
try not so much to make her rooms splendid and æsthetically admirable
as to make them thoroughly habitable and comfortable for those who are
to occupy them; regarding their comfort rather than her own æsthetic
gratification. A drawing-room bright and clean, sweet with flowers in
summer or with dried rose leaves in winter, with tables at which the
inmates may occupy themselves, and easy chairs wherever they are wanted,
and plenty of soft light and warmth, or else of coolness adapted to the
weather—this sort of room belongs more properly to a woman who seeks to
make her house a province of the Kingdom of _Heaven_ than one which might
be exhibited at South Kensington as having belonged to the Kingdom of
_Queen Anne_!

Then, for the moral atmosphere of the house, which depends so immensely
on the tone of the mistress, I will venture to make one recommendation.
Let it be as gay as ever she can make it. There are numbers of excellent
women—the salt of the earth—who seem absolutely oppressed with their
consciences, as if they were congested livers. They are in a constant
state of anxiety and care; and perhaps, with the addition of feeble
health, find it difficult to get through their duties except in a certain
lachrymose and dolorous fashion. Houses where these women reign seem
always under a cloud, with rain impending. Now, I conceive that good and
even high animal spirits are among the most blessed of possessions—actual
wings to bear us up over the dusty or muddy roads of life; and I think
that to keep up the spirits of a household is not only indefinitely to
add to its happiness, but also to make all duties comparatively light and
easy. Thus, however naturally depressed a mistress may be, I think she
ought to struggle to be cheerful, and to take pains never to quench the
blessed spirits of her children or guests. All of us who live long in
great cities get into a sort of subdued-cheerfulness tone. We are neither
very sad nor very glad.

One word in concluding these remarks on woman’s duties as a _Hausfrau_.
If we can not perform these well, if we are not orderly enough,
clear-headed enough, powerful enough, in short, to fulfil this immemorial
function of our sex well and thoroughly, it is somewhat foolish of us to
press to be allowed to share in the great housekeeping of the State. My
beloved and honored friend, Theodore Parker, argued for the admission
of women to the full rights of citizenship and share in government, on
the express grounds that few women keep house so badly or with such
wastefulness as Chancelors of the Exchequer keep the State, and womanly
genius for organization applied to the affairs of the nation would be
extremely economical and beneficial. But, if we can not keep our houses
and manage our servants, this argument, I am afraid, will be turned the
other way; and we shall be told that, _not_ having used our one talent,
it is quite out of question to give us ten. Having shown ourselves
incapable in little things, nobody in their senses will trust us with
great ones.



Adjutant General’s Office, War Department.

Lest the term “military prisoner” should mislead some reader whose
recollection of the events of the late civil war, or of the stories
concerning the treatment of prisoners brings to mind the captured
soldier and his hardships and sufferings, it should be stated that a
“prisoner of war” and a “military prisoner” sustain entirely different
relations to the authority they serve. The former is a prisoner because
of capture and detention by an enemy. The latter is a prisoner undergoing
discipline or punishment because of some misdemeanor or crime committed
against military law or regulations. In the greatest number of cases the
offense is simply an _absence without leave_, now called _desertion_,
which is the act of one who wilfully absents himself from his proper
command with the intention not to return to it again. A military prisoner
may be called a convict, and he may be a criminal, but either name is
inappropriate in its ordinary sense. It is true the prisoner has been
convicted of an offense against a law, but if a single example may be
used to illustrate the majority, his offense has not been prompted
by a vicious disposition or an evil nature. His guilt is not such as
necessarily indicates degraded impulses or base endowments, hence it
is manifest that a well defined line of separation may easily be drawn
between the military prisoner and the one who may properly be called a
criminal or a convict. The reason is also manifest why the institution
where he is to be detained for punishment should be one especially set
apart for his class.

It has been stated that the majority of military prisoners have been
guilty of the one crime of desertion. The fact is the number will
reach eighty-five or ninety out of every hundred. It is proper in
this connection to refer to some of the causes or supposed causes for
the commission of so serious a crime which, if it could be entirely
prevented, would reduce the number of “military prisoners” to an
exceedingly small percentage of those who now suffer penalty for a crime
committed without criminal intent.

The number of men who applied during the last year for enlistment in the
military service of United States was nearly thirty thousand. Of the
number applying only about one-third were found qualified. The other
two-thirds were rejected on account of disqualifications either legal,
moral, social, mental, or physical. About one-twelfth of those rejected
were boys under the age of twenty-one years. About the same proportion
were foreigners who had not sufficient knowledge of the English language
to enable them to learn their duties. Now, if the standard for acceptance
be ever so high it can not reach absolute perfection, for there are
disabilities or disqualifications which it is impossible to discover,
particularly under the effort which is apt to be made by the applicant
to conceal his defects, until time and conduct develop them. Manifest
defects there are in all who are rejected, yet some, in the natural order
of things must come very near the standard, some again, who reach the
standard and are accepted, have so little margin upon which they succeed
that they are separated a very little from those who are rejected.

The motives are various which induce men in time of peace to relinquish
the privileges enjoyed as civilians, to give up their freedom of movement
and their right of choice in all things which aid in making up the sum of
their liberties, and to voluntarily enter into an agreement obligating
themselves for a term of years to render any service that may be ordered
by proper authority and accept such remuneration and privileges as may
be given them by the same authority, and they are perhaps impossible to
enumerate, but it is known that many seek the service for a livelihood,
others out of a desire for adventure, others to escape some threatened
penalty or impending difficulty likely to result from the commission
of some crime or misdemeanor. Very few enter the first time with any
intention of making a profession so poorly paid their own, and none, it
may be, have a good idea of what they are to encounter. They are met at
the outset with lessons which teach them subordination to a commander
rather than to a duty. They find that food and clothing are measured to
them by a rule which makes no discrimination between them, and the one
with great expectations is under no better care than the one of smallest
desires. They receive treatment at the hands of petty officers which they
choose to believe is cause for resentment. They incur sharp rebuke for
some error or delinquency and seeking redress in their own way, as for an
injury, they learn that “what in the captain is but a choleric word, in
the soldier is flat blasphemy.”

Recollections of home, and repentance for the hasty act which separated
them from it, and many other reasons, both real and imaginary, make them
feel that they must escape from contact with the source of so many woes,
and without designing to commit any crime they become “deserters.” It
must be admitted that the responsibility rests upon the individual as
the cause is primarily in him, and his surrounding circumstances are
only secondary, but there is no act called “crime” around which so many
mitigating circumstances may be found. We must view the matter as a
disease, the conditions for which are favorable in a service into which
men are hurried without any instruction in its duties. The _skeleton_
army, of which so much is required, demands the rapid replenishing of
new flesh to take the place of the old that has yielded to the disease
itself. The important question to follow is, what is the remedy and how
is it applied? A preventive has been sought with care and diligence, but
none has been found. A remedy then is the only recourse, and this must
be applied in the shape of discipline or punishment for the offender. If
he is of an inquiring turn of mind he may learn first of all that there
is an exact measure of value attached to him as a deserter, and that for
his capture and delivery to the military authorities the sum of thirty
dollars will be paid in full liquidation of the service.

A few words concerning the instrumentalities through which the “military
prisoner” receives his punishment will not be out of place. There are
three—more correctly four—kinds of tribunals before which a soldier
may be brought to answer for his misdeeds, and to receive judgment and
sentence. The first to be mentioned is the “field officer’s court,” which
can be appointed only in time of war. This court is one officer, either
a colonel, lieutenant-colonel, or major of a regiment, who is detailed
by order of a superior officer of the same regiment, or the commander of
a brigade, division or corps. The officer so detailed is counsel, jury
and judge, and may try the case of any soldier of his own regiment for
an offense not capital, and impose sentence. The next in order are the
“regimental” and the “garrison” court-martial, differing so little except
in the source of appointment, that they need no separate description.
They are composed of three officers, and may try and sentence any cases
not capital. The authority of these courts with respect to the sentences
they may impose is so limited that ordinarily only petty offenses are
brought before them, but because of the form of punishment usually
imposed the results are anything but beneficial, and it is a question
whether it would not be better to wink at the offense than to sensibly
degrade the offender and aid him in developing a disposition to repeat
breaches of discipline until stronger hands are laid upon him. The last
to be mentioned is the “general court-martial,” the appointment of which
may be made by the general commanding the army, by the general commanding
a military department, or in certain cases by the President of the United

The system of the military courts which have been mentioned is no doubt
as carefully arranged as can be and contemplates as full recognition of
the individual rights of the soldier as can be obtained before a civil
court under civil law for a civilian. The selection of the officers to
compose the courts is a matter of discretion in the authority appointing
them, governed only by the exigencies of the service, but after their
appointment they are under no restrictions with reference to the extent
of the sentences which they shall impose in the cases of soldiers
whom they find guilty of desertion, except that in time of peace the
death penalty can not be inflicted, and in nearly all other cases the
law declares that the punishment shall be such “as a court-martial
may direct.” The result of this has been and still is a variation
in the degrees of punishment for the same offense which defies any
calculation outside the theory of chances. None can foresee or measure
the considerations or influences which shall give to any case, the
circumstances of which can not be just like those of an other case, its
quality or quantity of punishment. Probably the disposition to administer
severe discipline with the expectation that a pruning by the reviewing
authority and a mitigation by the executive authority will most likely
follow, is the most common cause of inequality in punishments. The remedy
for the evil in the law which fixes no limit must be sought in other
legislation, but the possibility of a remedy in a special prison system,
and a separate prison for military prisoners drew attention to the duty
of providing an institution where inequalities might be removed.

June 30, 1871, a board of officers was appointed of the Secretary of
War to investigate the subject of army prisons. The report of this
board was transmitted to Congress by the honorable Secretary of War
January 16, 1872, with a draft of a bill for consideration. The closing
sentence of the letter of transmittal reads as follows: “It is of the
utmost importance to the efficiency of our army that a thorough and
practical system of punishment and military discipline be established,
and experience has proven that the one now in use is wholly inadequate
to meet the end desired.” After due consideration the Committee on
Military Affairs of the House of Representatives made a favorable report
to the House May 7, 1872, in which, after mentioning certain facts
concerning 384 military prisoners then distributed in the penitentiaries
of eleven states, and the guard-houses of thirty-two military posts,
these words occur: “Many of these prisoners have been guilty of crimes
against military law, and not involving any moral turpitude. They are
cast into prison with the basest characters and punished with ‘those
stained by every crime known to the law.’ Your committee feel convinced
that this can not be done without injury to the prisoner whose offense
may have been affected with but slight moral obliquity. To prevent this
unnecessary contamination we think a separate prison should be provided.”
This was followed within a year by the passage of an act which was
approved by the President and became a law March 3, 1873, “to provide for
the establishment of a military prison, and for its government.”

The law required that the prison should be established on Rock Island,
Illinois, an island in the Mississippi of about 1,000 acres, and about
180 miles west of Chicago. It is now entirely devoted to the purposes
of an extensive government arsenal. It also required the appointment of
a board of commissioners, to consist of three officers of the army and
two persons from civil life,[B] who were to adopt a plan for a prison
building and to frame regulations for the prison. Its provisions required
frequent inspections—twice each year by the Secretary of War and the
board of commissioners, and four times a year by one of the inspectors
of the army (monthly inspections are also made by the principal medical
officer in the Department of the Missouri), all of which were intended
to be, and are, so many safeguards against any neglect or failure in the
proper and humane treatment of the prisoners. The law also provided for
mitigations of sentence for good conduct and industry, for the care
of the health and physical wants of prisoners. It gave the privilege
of using newspapers and books, and of writing letters to friends, and
directed that they be furnished decent clothing on discharge from the
prison. The location was afterward changed from Rock Island, Illinois,
to Fort Leavenworth, Kansas. This change was authorized by an act of
Congress approved May 21, 1874, which placed the prison where it is now
situated, on the west bank of the Missouri river, about thirty miles
north of Kansas City, Mo., and three miles from the city of Leavenworth,

To trace the history of the prison through the first decade of its
existence would be more tedious than interesting. Its progress has
been similar to that of all other new institutions of this country
which are destined to become permanent. The obstacles in the way of its
establishment have not been trifling, and amongst those whose duties
brought them to take part in its affairs, not all have been favorable
to the system undertaken, particularly with reference to the idea of
utilizing the labor of the prisoners for the benefit of the army.
Prudence and zeal on the part of the commissioners of the prison and the
commandant have overcome all difficulties, and if there are to-day any
remaining objections of the kind indicated, they are not proclaimed.

The officers of the prison are a commandant, an executive, an adjutant,
a commissary, a chaplain, and a surgeon. The guard comprises two
officers and one hundred men. Within an enclosure of about five acres,
surrounded by a stone wall averaging in height about 18 feet, surmounted
at intervals of from two hundred to three hundred feet with brick watch
towers, are located the offices, the hospital, the chapel, the library,
the dormitories, the workshops and the store-houses of the prison. The
buildings, except the hospital, are of stone or brick, and upon all
of the new buildings, as well as the wall, the work has been done by

The great features of the institution are quiet and decorum under a kind
but absolutely firm administration. Its chief object is the reformation
of its inmates, to which end the efforts of the authorities are
constantly directed.

The labor of the prisoners is devoted to the manufacture of wagons,
harness, shoes, boots, clothing, chairs, brooms and brushes, solely for
army supplies and prison uses; to the manufacture of doors and windows
and their frames, and to the cultivation of a large farm to obtain
produce for the prison; also to the incidental work connected with the
prison in its buildings and repairs and sanitary condition. During the
eight working hours of each day except Sundays and holidays the hum of
machinery and the arrival of material and departure of manufactured
articles give the place the appearance of a large manufactory, and a tour
through the busy workshops may be made with scarcely a sight of anything
in dress or appearance to tell of the character of the place as a penal
institution. The greater number of prisoners being under sentence for
terms of two years (the sentences are equalized as far as possible by
executive orders, after the arrival of the men at the prison), the system
under which they are brought gives them knowledge in some mechanical
pursuit, trains them in habits of cleanliness, regularity, and sobriety,
and subjects them to wholesome discipline which, in that length of time,
must work a “correction of life and manners” as far as any human rule
can govern the matter. A Christian minister fills the office of chaplain
and devotes his entire time to the secular and religious instruction
of the prisoners. A library of 1,300 volumes is open to the use of the
prisoners, from which they obtain books for reading in leisure hours. As
an indication of their tastes the kind of books read may be divided by
the hundred into—light literature 56, magazines 25, biography 6, history
4, miscellany 4, travels and science each 3, religious 2.

Since the establishment of the prison more than thirty-two hundred men
have been received, and the average number constantly present is five
hundred. An abatement of five days for each month of good conduct is
allowed, and only thirty-seven have failed to obtain their liberty
prior to the expiration of their full terms. Only twenty-two deaths
have occurred, showing that even under the disadvantages always present
in prisons, and with the class of men found there, it is possible to
reduce the ill effects of prison life upon the physical system to almost
nothing. Punishment for bad conduct in the prison is in harmony with the
purposes of the prison, and in most cases the abatement above mentioned
forms a credit account against which the prisoners are careful not to
permit debits to be entered. On discharge from prison each prisoner
receives a suit of clothing and five dollars, and, if his conduct has
been good, a certificate which may enable him again to enter the service
as a soldier, if he so desires.

It is not an idle boast to say that the military prison system embodies
more than the good features of other systems, and in holding reformation
above punishment, providing food, clothing, treatment and surroundings
with as little of the stamp of _prison_ upon them as possible, placing
the control in the hands of officers thoroughly acquainted with the
service from which the prisoners come and the influences which bring
them under discipline, shutting out all the evils of the _contract
system_ under which prisoners are hired out as beasts of burden to toil
for money which they do not receive, and finally offering them the
confidence placed only in men intrusted with honorable public service,
the military authorities have found the method which shall inflict a
penalty sufficient for the offense and yet develop that sense in the
prisoner which will, as another self, acknowledge for him that at the end
of his term he has not paid that penalty in full and is not at liberty
to incur another. He will also feel that he has received something from
society and good government which demands from him as a willing subject
and copartner with all other good citizens of the commonwealth a more
careful restraint, which must be self-imposed until a correct observance
of all special obligations and a true attitude in all social relations
shall become a matter of natural desire.

[B] The places of the civilian commissioners were discontinued by act of
June 22, 1874.

C. L. S. C. WORK.


“Addison Day”—Thursday, May 1.

“Special Sunday”—May 11.

       *       *       *       *       *

All communications descriptive of local circles and their work should be
sent directly to Dr. T. L. Flood, editor of THE CHAUTAUQUAN, Meadville,
Pa. The organization, name, postoffice address, and names of officers of
local circles should be reported to Miss K. F. Kimball, Plainfield, N. J.

       *       *       *       *       *

The item in this column for April, concerning the badge of the C. L.
S. C. furnished by Mr. Henry Hart, has been misunderstood. A regular
official badge of the C. L. S. C. has never yet been adopted, nor is it
likely that such badge will be chosen for some time to come. The badge
prepared by Mr. Henry Hart has been highly approved by many members,
and is widely used. I very much like it, and am glad to know that our
members like to wear it. Mr. Hart, being an enthusiastic member of the
C. L. S. C., has advertised the badge widely, and generously proposed to
give the C. L. S. C. a percentage on the sales. There could have been
no selfishness in Mr. Hart’s motive in this proposal, and, in declining
to receive such percentage, I did not reflect upon him in the slightest
degree. He is an amiable, trustworthy, generous-hearted and honorable
member of the C. L. S. C., and it will be a long time before another
badge will be proposed as a substitute for his. Send to Mr. Henry Hart,
Atlanta, Ga., for a C. L. S. C. badge.

       *       *       *       *       *

New students of the C. L. S. C. beginning with 1884-’85 will devote the
most of the year to Greek History and Literature. The “Brief History of
Greece,” the “Preparatory Greek Course in English,” the “College Greek
Course in English,” and Readings in THE CHAUTAUQUAN concerning Greek
Mythology and Ancient Greek Life, will make the first year of the new
class a “Greek Year.” Members of the classes of ’85, ’86, and ’87, having
read the Greek History and the Preparatory Greek Course in English, will
be required to read only the College Greek Course in English and the
Required Readings in THE CHAUTAUQUAN.

       *       *       *       *       *

In addition to the Readings in Greek History and Literature, we shall
have Readings in Physical Science, in Chemistry, in Zoölogy, etc. Several
admirable features will enter into the new year’s course.

       *       *       *       *       *

Let me exhort members of the class of ’84 to be ready for the “Opening of
the Gate,” August 19, at Chautauqua, or for the “Recognition Services” at
Framingham, Lakeside, Island Park, Monona Lake, Monteagle, and elsewhere.

       *       *       *       *       *

President Seelye, of Amherst College, is to deliver the annual address on
the occasion of the “Recognition” of the class of ’84 at Framingham, Mass.

       *       *       *       *       *

Counselor Wm. Cleaver Wilkinson will probably deliver the address on
Commencement Day at Chautauqua, August 19.

       *       *       *       *       *

Members of the class of 1884 are not required to read the “Hall in the
Grove,” the “Outline Study of Man,” and “Hints for Home Reading,” but
will receive a seal for the reading of the “Hall in the Grove,” “Hints
for Home Reading,” and “Home-College Series” of tracts, price five cents
each, as follows: No. 1, Thomas Carlyle; No. 2, William Wordsworth; No.
4, Henry W. Longfellow; No. 8, Washington Irving; No. 13, George Herbert;
No. 17, Joseph Addison; No. 18, Edmund Spenser; No. 21, William Hickling
Prescott; No. 23, William Shakspere; No. 26, John Milton. These can be
obtained of Phillips & Hunt, 805 Broadway, N. Y. City, or of Walden &
Stowe, Cincinnati, O., or Chicago, Ill.

       *       *       *       *       *

If, since joining the Circle, one has had to study certain books in order
to prepare for a teacher’s certificate, and then takes up one of the
special courses in which some of these books are required, will it be
necessary to re-read them? Answer: No.

       *       *       *       *       *

Where are we to put the White and White Crystal Seals after we get the
blank spaces on the base of the pyramid on the diploma filled up? There
are only seven spaces at the bottom, and where, after these are filled,
will we put the two extra ones we receive each year? Answer: On the
spaces of the pyramid. White Seals as well as special may go on the

       *       *       *       *       *

Will a special course in mathematics be added to the list? Answer: There
will be such a course before long.

       *       *       *       *       *

Members of Pacific Branch of the class of 1884 are not required to read
Bushnell’s “Character of Christ,” as announced in the superintendent’s
address sent out last autumn.

       *       *       *       *       *

The paragraph quoted from Green, in “Pictures from English History,” pp.
289-290, should appear under the heading “Edward I.,” page 287, instead
of as pertaining to “Edward III.”

       *       *       *       *       *

“My religion is very simple,” said Napoleon to Monge. “I look at this
universe so vast, so complex, so magnificent, and I say to myself that
it can not be the work of chance, but the work, however intended, of an
unknown omnipotent being, as superior to man as the universe is superior
to the finest machines of human invention.” Search the philosophers
and you will not find a stronger or more decisive argument. But this
truth is too succinct for man. He wishes to know respecting himself and
respecting his future destiny a crowd of secrets which the universe does
not disclose.


The Chautauqua University is a provision for the higher education of
persons who, not being able to leave their homes for college, are willing
to give much time and labor to the prosecution of college studies at
home, by correspondence under the direction of superior professors.

The curriculum is as comprehensive as that of any college in England or
America. The memoranda and final written examination are sufficient to
test the pupil’s work, attainment, and power.

Pupils may take up one or more departments, spending what time they
please upon each, passing the examinations whenever they are ready.

As each course is finished to the satisfaction of the professor a
certificate to that effect will be given, and when a required number of
certificates is in the possession of the student, he will be entitled to
a diploma and a degree.

The University has nothing to do with the C. L. S. C., which is but as an
outer court to the temple itself.

The following departments have already been organized:


German—Dr. J. H. Worman.

French—Prof. A. Lalande.

Spanish—Dr. J. H. Worman.


Anglo-Saxon—Prof. W. D. MacClintock.


Greek—Henry Lummis, A. M.

New Testament Greek—A. A. Wright, A. M.

Latin—E. S. Shumway, A. M.

Hebrew—W. R. Harper, Ph. D.


Mathematics—D. H. Moore, A. B.

It will be the aim of the Mathematical Department to aid students in
pursuing thoroughly the regular college mathematical course, and thereby
in getting the peculiar mental drill derived from the study of pure
mathematics and in acquiring a facility in its practical application.
Requirements for entrance:

_Higher Arithmetic._—Including the Metric system.

_Algebra._—The equivalent of Loomis’ Algebra, chapters i-xx, or in other
treatises everything with the exception of Logarithms and the Theory of

_Geometry._—The equivalent of Chauvenet’s Geometry, Books i-iii, or other
works up to the discussion of the areas of figures, with _exercises_
illustrative of the principles of the text; such as are appended to
Chauvenet, Todhunter’s Euclid, Davies’ Legendre, etc. A readiness in the
proof of such theorems, and in the accurate solution of such problems
with rule and dividers is necessary.



_Algebra._—Logarithms, Theory of Equations.

_Geometry._—Plane Geometry finished.


_Geometry._—Solid and Spherical.

_Trigonometry._—Plane, Analytical and Spherical.


_Trigonometry._—Applications to Mensuration, Surveying and Navigation.

_Analytical Geometry._

       *       *       *       *       *

Although it is humiliating to confess, yet I do confess that cleanliness
and order are not matters of instinct; they are matters of education, and
like most things—mathematics and classics—you must cultivate a taste for
them.—_Lord Beaconsfield._


MAY, 1884.

The Required Readings for May are: “Pictures from English History” to
chapter xxi, page 139; Chautauqua Text-Books No. 4, English History, and
No. 23, English Literature; and the Required Readings in THE CHAUTAUQUAN.

       *       *       *       *       *

_First Week_ (ending May 8).—1. “Pictures from English History,” from
page 9 to “Dunstan,” page 41.

2. Readings in Roman History in THE CHAUTAUQUAN.

3. Sunday Readings for May 4 in THE CHAUTAUQUAN.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Second Week_ (ending May 16).—1. “Pictures from English History,” from
page 41 to “The Assassination of Archbishop Becket,” page 75.

2. Readings in Commercial Law in THE CHAUTAUQUAN.

3. Sunday Readings for May 11 in THE CHAUTAUQUAN.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Third Week_ (ending May 23).—1. “Pictures from English History,” from
page 75 to “Bannockburn,” page 107.

2. Readings in Art in THE CHAUTAUQUAN.

3. Sunday Readings for May 18 in THE CHAUTAUQUAN.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Fourth Week_ (ending May 30).—1. “Pictures from English History,” from
page 107 to “The Battle of Agincourt,” page 139.

2. Readings in United States History and American Literature in THE

3. Sunday Readings for May 25 in THE CHAUTAUQUAN.


The budget of Local Circle letters which strew our table so thickly each
month brings us from the scattered and lonely members many a bit of
pathos, of failing courage or of hard experience that makes us long for
a few moments of personal greeting in which to wish them good cheer and
good courage. There are numberless lonely readers who feel as an Illinois
friend who writes us: “I have no outside encouragement. And when I come
home from the school room I am too tired and sleepy to read anything
except a newspaper or story. In the morning I have my school work to do,
and the children’s lessons to look over, so that I have become almost
discouraged, and have about decided to give up the course.” There is
many a one who can say with one of our friends: “I have never _seen_ a
Chautauquan except myself,” or who is like one of our =Texas= school
teachers: “Hard worked and lonely, with no one with whom to exchange
views, and no stimulus from a local circle.”

Much discouragement results from poverty. There are many brave, willing
men and women whose hard struggle to support themselves and those
dependent upon them make it very difficult for them to obtain even the
books for the C. L. S. C. One friend writes us from =Texas=: “Our great
drawback is lack of funds with which to purchase books. To cite my own
case as an example: I support my aged parents, my young sister (who is
studying at the State Normal School this year), and myself, all on a
salary of fifty dollars per month. Of course my first duty is to keep
myself supplied with educational literature, being a teacher. And when
the end of each month comes there is little of my salary left with which
to purchase C. L. S. C. books. I am determined, however, to finish the
course _some time_—if not in 1886, then in 1896.”

It often happens that the time of a reader is so constantly occupied by
work that it is only by tireless energy that the reading can be done.
In a cheery =Ohio= letter we have found a specimen of determination in
the face of such difficulties, which makes us friends at once with the
writer. “I have heartily enjoyed the studies, and am only sorry that I
have not been more successful in my efforts to get others interested. I
have no intention of severing my connection with the Circle, but shall
read on until every vacant space on my diploma has its appropriate seal.
Like many others, I pursue my studies under difficulties. Having no
one to look to for support I am obliged by my own labor, not only to
maintain myself, but assist in taking care of my widowed mother. All
day, and during the busy season until late in the evening, I am confined
to my place at the cashier’s desk in a large retail dry goods store. No
chance to read, and not much to think of anything except my work. I go
home at night too weary in body and brain to do anything but rest up for
next day’s work. Then again, during dull seasons there are times when I
can have a book or paper at the store, and occasionally read a few pages,
consequently my progress is rather irregular.”

The cheerless, dreary distance that separates some of our friends from
all the conveniences which railroads, telegraph and telephone offer,
brings its peculiar trials. From the =Great North Woods of Michigan= a
letter tells how THE CHAUTAUQUAN finds its way to the writer by being
carried from a postoffice by a “tote” team for twenty-four miles; how
it often comes wet, torn and crumpled by the carelessness of a careless
teamster, but it always gets there, and is received eagerly. It is the
only magazine which goes into those parts, and is looked upon by the
ignorant woodsmen as something almost beyond their conception, as a
majority of them can not read or write, and many can not spell their own
names. The writer adds: “In a few weeks I shall leave the forest, as
lumbering has commenced to wane for this year, but when I shall think
of my life in the wilderness among bears, deer and wolves, I shall be
reminded of the C. L. S. C. as the oasis in the path of my living in the

A similar case is that of a lady who writes from =Norway House, Winnipeg,
Manitoba=: “You know in our isolated home we are almost shut out from
the outside world, and have but little communication with it. We receive
and send letters between three or four times during the year. Our last
packet came in in September, and now we hope in a few days to receive
our winter packet.” And from =Rosser, Manitoba=, a letter comes from the
prairie home of a brother and sister who are reading alone because, as
they say: “It is impossible for us to form a local circle here, as we
are comparatively alone. We are not at all discouraged, though without
lectures or inspiration of any kind, excepting such as we receive from
the perusal of THE CHAUTAUQUAN. But sometimes we feel a little isolated,
as regards our connection with the C. L. S. C., away out here in the
Northwest, and would like to draw a little nearer the Circle.”

It may seem to some that true intellectual culture is not within the
reach of persons so hampered by circumstances. There is a true and
strong paragraph in Hamerton’s “Intellectual Life” which may be a help
to the discouraged: “Intellectual life is really within the reach of
every one who earnestly desires it.… The essence of intellectual living
does not reside in extent of science or in perfection of expression,
but in a constant preference for higher thoughts over lower thoughts,
and this preference may be the habit of a mind which has not any very
considerable amount of information.… Intellectual living is not so much
an accomplishment as a state or condition of the mind in which it seeks
earnestly for the highest and purest truth. It is the continual exercise
of a firmly noble choice between the larger truth and the lesser, between
that which is perfectly just and that which falls a little short of
justice.” Such life is within the reach of us all, and that it is within
our reach, whatever be our discouragements, it is the aim of our Circle
to prove.

_The_ day of February in the C. L. S. C. calendar was, of course,
Longfellow’s Day. It is long over now, but if we read our letters aright,
the mirth and pleasure of the time will gladly be recalled. There are so
many reports that we can only glance at them, though the ring of each
one is so genuine an expression of a royal good time that we would like
to give them _in toto_. =Rutland, Vt.=, has three Chautauqua literary
circles in successful operation, the eldest having already completed
a two years’ course. At the invitation of Alpha chapter, the three
circles met for the observance of the poet Longfellow’s birthday. The
entertainment was a great success. The =Hockawanna, Conn.=, circle
gave a pleasant entertainment to their friends on the occasion; this
circle is very prosperous, their excellent “order of exercises” for
their weekly meetings has one item which each circle should adopt—the
“social” which follows the literary work. At =Havana, N. Y.=, the circle
is not, they say, as strong numerically as some of their neighbors, but
in enthusiasm it is a giant. The Longfellow Memorial Day was observed
by the circle with exercises whose sentiments, they write us, “Varied
from the most classical passage of the ‘_Morituri Salutamus_’ to ‘Mr.
Finney had a turnip, and it grew, and it grew,’” etc. A pretty device
of the supper with which they closed their evening is new to us: Within
each napkin was found a souvenir card, adorned with sentiments from
Longfellow, which were read aloud, amid much mirth as well as pleasure.
Excellent programs have been forwarded us of the exercises held by the
circles of =Granville, N. Y.=, =Angelica, N. Y.=, and =Henrietta, N.
Y.= The local paper of =Phillipsburg, N. J.=, contains an interesting
account of the memorial evening there, and speaks some kindly words
about the influence the reading is exerting. The “Frances E. Willard
Circle,” of =Philadelphia=, enjoyed, as they write, an evening which was
a thorough success. Dainty cards, bearing their well arranged program,
and an invitation to be present, reached us. If they were samples of
the management of the “Memorial,” it must have been a fine success. The
=Elizabeth, Pa.=, local circle was honored with a full account of their
Longfellow evening in a local paper. This class numbers over a score of
deeply interested members; of it the paper sent us says: “This society’s
aims and advantages are not properly appreciated in the community, or
it would be besieged with applications for membership.” In =Charleston,
West Va.=, a delightful two hours were spent over music, essays and
recitations. One of the pleasantest features was an article by Lyman
Whiting, D.D., now of Cambridge, Mass., formerly an honored member of
their circle, giving an account of a visit just made to Longfellow’s
home, and accompanied by an autograph of the poet, and a leaf from his
favorite olive tree. Our thanks are due to the Alpha circle of =Atlanta,
Ga.=, and the Philomathean, of =Sabina, O.=, for programs of their
evenings with the poet, and our hearty congratulations to the members of
the circle at =Belding, Mich.=, who are so elated, as no doubt they have
reason to be, over the success of their first public entertainment. A
very interesting feature of the memorial at =Plymouth, Indiana=, was the
music. The song, “The Light of Stars,” and the translation “Beware,” were
set to music by one of the members, Mr. G. O. Work, a blind gentleman,
a graduate of the asylum for the blind, at Indianapolis. The circle at
=Roscoe, Ill.=, gave a public entertainment in honor of the day, which
was largely attended. This circle has made admirable progress this year,
increasing from twelve to twenty-six. Among their number is a lady nearly
eighty-nine years old, who does all the reading, and enjoys it.

At =Waupun, Wis.=, the C. L. S. C. is now in its fifth year. The interest
is increasing, the circle numbering fourteen members, all ladies, four
of whom have graduated in the Chautauqua course, but still continue to
meet with the circle, encouraging it by their presence and interest in
the Chautauqua work. They held a social and literary entertainment on
February 26, which was very enjoyable.

Where there are two or more circles in a town, of course the best and
most social way is to unite. At =La Crosse, Wis.=, the Alpha and Athene
had a union meeting of this kind on Longfellow’s Day, and at =Des Moines,
Iowa=, the _six_ Chautauqua circles of the city, with their friends,
spent the afternoon of the 27th together, and carried out a fine program.
This city has a population of 35,000. It has two German clubs, a large
and flourishing French club, several Shakspere clubs and many musical
societies. With all these it has six Chautauqua classes, the Alpha, the
branch Alpha, the Sycamore Street, the Rebecca, the Methodist Episcopal,
the North Hill; all organized in October, 1882; the Vincent, organized
October, 1883. Is there anywhere an equal to this?

=Burlington, Iowa=, prepared a special program for the evening of their
Longfellow memorial, and write us that it was the most enjoyable occasion
of the winter. The prosperous class of twenty-two at =Wyandotte, Kansas=,
and the one at =Hiawatha=, also remembered the day. This latter circle
divides itself into two divisions for ordinary occasions, each having its
president; for all special services they join their forces. The first
and only Longfellow debate that we met with in examining the reports was
in the program which we received of the union meeting of the =Omaha=
and =Council Bluffs= circles. It was no doubt the spice so needful in
any literary program, and, perhaps, took the place of “Mr. Finney and
his turnip.” The subject was: “_Resolved_, That the Excelsior Youth was
a Crank.” The last item comes from the Pacific coast, from the _Daily
Democrat_, of =Santa Rosa, Cal.=: “The Chautauqua Literary and Social
Club has had an existence in this city for over three years, and now
numbers over twenty members, who determined to observe Longfellow’s
anniversary in a becoming manner. About one hundred invitations were
issued, and we guess all were accepted. The hall never presented a
prettier appearance than on that night, and we believe that no audience
was ever better pleased or more agreeably entertained than those who were
fortunate enough to receive invitations to be present on that occasion.”

Two villages on the shores of the beautiful =Casco Bay, Me.=, have
united for work, and send us cheering words of their prosperity. They
have followed the invaluable plan of supplementing certain branches in
the course by additional readings; adopting United States History as
their “special,” they have devoted three months to “Barnes’ History
of the United States,” a text book used in their public schools. In
connection with this study they have had readings each evening from
“Bryant’s Popular History of the United States,” on the most interesting
topics. We have seen this idea carried out most successfully in a little
circle of fifteen in =Meadville, Pa.=, the home of THE CHAUTAUQUAN. The
class decided to spend their time on Art, following as an outline the
art readings in the course, Lübke, the Britannica, and the new series
of English “Handbooks of Art” have become their right-hand men, while
books of travels, stray waifs of description in novels, old newspaper
pictures, Soule’s photographs, anything and everything obtainable are
used to strengthen their impression and help them to get clear ideas of
temples, statues and pictures. Of course all the readings have been done,
but nothing has been taken up in the circle except art. This “Casco Bay
Circle” has a method of “keeping up the interest,” which has never failed
to be attractive since the time of our great-grandfathers’ spelling
schools. They divided their circle into two sides. The same sides are
kept each evening, and at the end of the year the defeated side, the
one that has failed to answer the most questions, is to furnish a treat
to the victorious one. The secretary adds: “We find that this plan adds
very much to the interest of the circle, and that the lessons are more
carefully prepared. By request of the president, no text book is taken to
any regular meeting of the circle. The teacher being the only one that
has a text book, the attention of the class is secured, and more benefit
is derived from the meetings in every way.”

From Vermont two circles report, one from =Burlington=, with a membership
of fifteen, and another from =Cambridge=.

From =Windsor, Ct.=, they write us: “We have a circle here numbering
about fifteen, and composed of the best talent our town can boast of.”
And from =Deep River=, of the same state, the “Ivy Branch” of the C.
L. S. C. is reported, “loyal and hopeful, with growing enthusiasm,
attachments and interest.”

One of the most thorough and practical methods of extending the
influence of the C. L. S. C. is to bring it before the young people of
high schools, who are just forming reading habits, and are particularly
in need of being directed to the best books. The Pallas Circle, of
=Wareham, Mass.=, have hit upon a splendid idea. Upon Longfellow’s Day
they sent the following invitation to their exercises: “Compliments of
the Pallas Circle, C. L. S. C., for Wednesday evening, February 27, to
meet the graduating class of the Wareham High School.” Such an invitation
would commend itself at once to the young people, and undoubtedly
increase the circle.

Two new circles, each of eighteen members, have reported from
Massachusetts this month; one from =Jamaica Plains=, and another from
=Haverhill=. Also from =Providence, R. I.=, the Whittier Circle has
come to join the ranks. The wonderful growth of the class of ’87 in
New England, is no doubt largely due to the energetic work of the
organization which was made at Framingham last summer. The president
of this New England branch of class ’87 informs us that he has ready
for mailing a circular of suggestions, according to a vote taken at
Framingham last summer. Any New England member of class ’87 who has not
received a copy of the same, may apply to Rev. George Benedict, Hanson,
Plymouth Co., Mass.

From =New York City= we hear of a circle with a membership of fourteen
young ladies, which has been in existence since October, 1882. It is
known as the “Alden” local circle, and has as an emblem “the Pansy.”

The C. L. S. C. Alumni, of =Pittsburgh, Pa.=, by its constitution,
provides for three entertainments each year, viz.: A banquet for its
members, a lecture, and a public meeting, the speakers being members of
the Alumni. The first year’s course was a success in every particular,
notably the lecture by Bishop Henry W. Warren, D. D., which was delivered
to a very large and highly appreciative audience. Of this year the
secretary writes: “So far we have been grandly successful, in spite
of wind and storm. Such was the miserable weather of January that we
were filled with fears for the success of Dr. Vincent’s lecture on the
4th of February. As the day drew near, the weather became worse and
worse. Pittsburgh, you know, has the reputation of getting up the most
miserable weather on the continent, but this winter she has quite outdone
her former self. The fourth could not have been more unpromising for
an audience, the rivers being at flood height, and still raining and
pouring. What was our surprise when we drove to the church to find an
audience of five hundred or more, waiting for the distinguished lecturer.
Such a surprise was magical in its effect upon the Doctor, for he
lectured as he never lectured before—at least so thought his delighted
audience. His theme was ‘Among the Heights.’ The lecture was not only a
success, but a triumph, placing the lecturer in the front ranks of the
giant minds now upon the platform the lecture field. Neither rain or
howling storm can keep a Pittsburgh audience at home, when Rev. J. H.
Vincent, D. D., is the lecturer.”

On Sabbath, February 10, Dr. Vincent was in Washington, where the
Chautauqua Vesper Services were held at his suggestion. They write us
that as usual “he made many converts.”

One of the members of the =Wheeling, W. Va.=, circle enthusiastically
writes: “Our circle here has never been so large as it is this winter. We
were so pleased with the work of last winter that we kept up our meetings
all summer, studying American Literature. In this way we gained many new

Perhaps there is nowhere a circle more to be congratulated on its leader
than the one at =Akron, O.= That the members heartily appreciate this,
too, we can plainly tell from the report which we have lately received.
The writer asks: “Have you heard with what success our circle in Akron
is being conducted? Were we to tell you the name of our president, that
would suffice any Chautauquan mind _why_ we succeed. The president
of Chautauqua, Lewis Miller, is our president. What do we do at our
meetings? There is no routine, but everything for variety and interest.
One evening Dr. Vincent was with us and gave his grand lecture, ‘Parlor
Talk.’ Mrs. Clement Smith, on ‘Literature and Reformation,’ occupied
one evening. Two evenings were spent with stereopticon views (furnished
by our president), the descriptions being given, and points of interest
pointed out, and historical accounts given by a citizen who has traveled
in Europe extensively. One evening was devoted entirely to Italy’s
capital, St. Peter’s Church being described. Then one of our resident
architects talked to us on ‘Architecture,’ with illustrations. Several
evenings were given to literature. Our president is soon to give us a
paper on ‘Political Economy.’”

In a letter from an Illinois lady we find a most enthusiastic notice of
the circle at =McLeansboro, Ill.= She says: “There may be larger and more
intelligent circles, but I am sure none more enthusiastic.”

In the City of =Eau Claire, Wisconsin=, there is a housekeepers’ circle,
which has been named the “Alpha,” as three or four other classes have
been organized in the city. It is composed entirely of busy housekeepers,
who of all people, perhaps, find it the hardest work to control
their time, but they write that for the sake of the inspiration and
encouragement which they find their studies give to their daily duties,
they are willing to make any sacrifice of pleasure or convenience.

=Strawberry Point, Iowa=, has a circle of six members, which reports a
growing appreciation of the course, and at =Humboldt, Iowa=, there is a
circle which, though small, can claim a distinction which is certainly
very rare: among its members are a little boy of ten years, and his
grandmother, aged eighty.

=Jefferson, Texas=, formed a C. L. S. C. class in 1880. An active
membership of twenty is now in existence there, and the work is zealously

It is impossible for us to insert all the reports which have reached us
at this writing, but in order of date they will be used. We sometimes
receive letters complaining that reports have been sent but not used.
Every report sent to THE CHAUTAUQUAN will be used, but, of course, the
first coming must be first served.

The following circles were noticed in THE CHAUTAUQUAN for 1882-3, but not
reported to the Plainfield office. No names being given, we have no means
of reaching these circles, and will be very glad if any one will send the
names of the officers for 1882-3 or 1883-4 to the office of the C. L. S.
C., Plainfield, New Jersey: Clancey, Montana Territory; Flint, Michigan;
Friendship, New York: Gloucester, Mass.; Ketchum, Idaho Territory; Little
Prairie Ronde, Mich.; Muskegon, Mich.; Magnolia, Mass.; McKeesport,
Pa.; Manston, Wis.; New Alexandria, Pa.; North Leeds, Wis.; Picton,
Ont., Canada; Pana, Ill.; Portland, Conn.; Phillipsburg, Pa.; Portland,
Oregon; Rockbottom, Mass.; Stroudsburg, Pa.; South Marshfield, Mass.;
Springville, N. Y.; West Haverhill, Mass.; Westfield, Mass.

The following have been reported to THE CHAUTAUQUAN _this_ year, 1883-4,
but not to the Plainfield office: Baltimore, Md., “Eutaw Circle;”*
Brazil, Ind., “Philomathean;” Elkhorn, Wis., “Mutual Improvement
Society;”* Gillmor, Pa.; Greenville, S. C.; Imlay City, Mich.; La Crosse,
Wis.; Milwaukee, Wis., “Bay View;”* Metropolis, Ill.; Memphis, Tenn.,
“The Southern Circle;”* Mattoon, Ill.; New Bedford, Mass., “Philomaths;”*
Picton, Ont., Canada; Osceola, Iowa, two circles; Ravenna, Ohio,
“Royal;”* St. Charles, Iowa; Troy, N. Y., “Beman Park Circle;”* Vallejo,
Cal.; West Brattleboro, Vermont, “Pansy;”* West Haverhill, Mass.; West
Brattleboro, Vermont, “Vincent Circle;”* Wareham, Mass., “The Pallas

Circles from the places marked (*) have been reported, but not under the
names given above, and as in some cases there are several circles in the
same town we do not know to which the names belong.


We were much pleased to receive a full account of the C. L. S. C. work in
=Canada=, from Mr. Lewis C. Peake, the secretary of the famous Toronto
Central Circle. We feel quite sure that everyone will be glad to find
full reports from Canada in this number. In no former year has so much
interest been displayed in the work of the Circle north of the lakes as
in the present, although so little has appeared in the columns of THE
CHAUTAUQUAN. The Canadian edition of the _Popular Education Circular_
was distributed lavishly in every province of the Dominion, and in
Newfoundland and Bermuda, resulting in the enrollment of about five
hundred members into the class of 1887. We have good reason also to know
that there has been a corresponding development of interest on the part
of members of the earlier classes. Without doubt the year 1883-4 may be
regarded as one of healthy progress. This will, I think, be more apparent
if the work done at a few points should be considered separately.

At =Toronto= the Circle has acquired a firm footing. It has come to stay.
The missionary work of last year has borne fruit in the formation of
four new circles, three of them by distinct request, and as a result of
meetings then held.

The campaign for this season opened in September, when the writer
delivered an address to the members of the Y. M. C. A., following it
up by forming a circle there and then, composed of young men of the
association. This circle has met regularly twice a month during the
winter, and is doing its part in developing the literary side of the
character of the members. Another circle has been formed at the West
End Branch Y. M. C. A., which has displayed a large amount of zeal in
the study. The other two circles were formed—one by Mr. J. L. Hughes,
and the other without any outside help. There are two other circles,
the Metropolitan, which retains its character of the banner circle, of
whose members I hope to see a goodly number in the graduating class at
Chautauqua next August, and the Erskine Church Circle, which has lately
lost its beautiful home by fire. The Central Circle meetings have been
regularly held each month under the presidency of Mr. E. Gurney, Jr., to
whose efforts much of the success in Toronto is due, and both attendance
and interest are on the increase, the numbers generally ranging from 150
to 200 members and friends.

The October meeting was a popular one, with addresses upon the general
work by the Revs. G. M. Milligan, B.A., and B. D. Thomas, D.D., with the
president. In November and December Mr. W. Houston, M.A., Librarian of
the Provincial Legislature, treated the subject of Greek History in a
most familiar and attractive manner. In our January meeting we had the
rare treat of a lecture by Prof. Ramsey Wright, of Toronto University,
on “Moulds and their allies,” a branch of vegetable biology which he
illustrated by a series of fine diagrams. In February the circle was
favored with one of the most useful and practical lectures of the entire
series on “The growth of the New Testament,” by the Rev. G. Cochran, D.
D., in which he traced the successive stages by which the books of the
New Testament gradually grew into their present harmonious whole. Our
March meeting was addressed by Mr. J. L. Hughes, public school inspector,
upon the topic, “Physical Manhood,” on which subject the lecturer is
exceptionally well qualified to discourse at any time. In addition to
these special lectures, a Round-Table conference is held each evening,
when subjects of practical importance are discussed and reports received
from the several local circles. We find no difficulty now in securing
the assistance of the very best men, specialists in their several
departments. The age of suspicion has passed, and now the best people of
all classes recognize the invaluable work of the Circle, and are ready
to help it forward. Picton has one of the model circles, containing
about thirty members, comprising some of the most intelligent and best
educated persons in the town. The circle has grown gradually since 1880,
and has been already represented at Chautauqua two seasons. One of the
members, Miss Bristol, is the Canadian secretary of the Class of 1887.

=Dundas.=—This circle is the result of a visit to Chautauqua last year by
Rev. R. W. Woodsworth, the president, and is composed entirely of members
of the Class of 1887, of whom I have bright hopes.

=London.=—A large circle has been formed here in connection with the
Y. M. C. A., with a membership of about forty of both sexes, nearly
all of whom are members of the class of 1887. =Thorold= had the honor
of furnishing two members of the graduating class of 1882. Until this
year, however, no circle organization was effected, and even at the
organization few fully grasped the real advantage to the town of this
method of encouraging study. This ignorance is being gradually overcome
with the expected results. Careful observation, with hints from THE
CHAUTAUQUAN, are enabling the members to excite interest among those
who yet remain outside. Milton and Longfellow days were successfully
celebrated. This circle numbers thirty-five members, regular and local.
The president expects that most of the cadets will next October be
enrolled as full members. At the Provincial Sunday-school Convention,
held last October in Cobourg, Mr. Hughes and the writer took the
opportunity to bring the plan of the C. L. S. C. before the delegates,
and many became interested in it, some of whom have since become members;
among those was Dr. C. V. Emory, of =Galt=, who upon his return home,
immediately set to work and organized a circle, which numbers sixteen
full members, and gives promise that the number will soon be doubled.
=Brantford= has a goodly number of members of the several classes.
A circle of eleven members of the class of 1887 has been formed in
connection with the Congregational Church, the pastor of which is
president. The circle meets fortnightly at the residences of the members.

=Montreal.=—Here, at last, the C. L. S. C. has taken root, and a live
circle of fifty members has been formed, chiefly through the efforts of
the Rev. Dr. Potts, who is its president. The course is much admired,
and as the working of the circle is being better understood, and its
objects grasped, many, at first only slightly interested, are becoming
enthusiastic admirers of the scheme. In no place has the Circle obtained
a more representative membership than here.

=Halifax, N. S.=—A very promising circle has been formed in connection
with the Grafton Street Methodist Church. Mr. C. H. Longard (1884), the
president, says: “We are starting under very favorable auspices, and
I feel sure it will prove to be a great success, both educational and
social.” =Fredericton, N. B.=—Two circles meet here. Fredericton Circle
No. 1, comprising sixteen members, meets weekly at the homes of the
members, all of whom are very much interested in the work. Another circle
composed wholly of new members has been formed, and arrangements are
being made for monthly union meetings.

=Carbonear, Newfoundland.=—Down here by the sea we have one member who
remained for two years the solitary representative of the C. L. S. C.
A circle has however been formed this year, consisting of eight full
members, with a few local ones, and we confidently expect the circle to
extend to other parts of the island, indeed the extension has already

Other circles are in successful operation in =Orillia=, =Wyoming=,
=Brampton=, =St. Thomas=, =Paisley=, =Lindray=, =Peterboro=,
=Kemptville=, =Bedford=, =Lacolle=, =St. John, N. B.=, =Charlottetown=,
and many other points, of which neither my time nor your space will
permit me now to write. The few reports given above may be taken as
representing the whole. Our Canadian people are not usually hasty in
adopting new ideas, but when they have found a good thing they know how
to appreciate it.




1. Q. When and under whom was the first invasion of Great Britain made by
the Romans? A. In 55 B. C., under Julius Cæsar.

2. Q. How long afterward was Great Britain finally abandoned by the
Romans? A. About five hundred years afterward.

3. Q. Before this period what people from the east of the Mediterranean
had traded with the islanders? A. The Phœnicians.

4. Q. What was the character of the islanders when first known to the
Phœnicians and Romans? A. They were savages, going almost naked, or only
dressed in the rough skins of beasts, and staining their bodies with
colored earths and the juices of plants.

5. Q. Into how many tribes were the ancient Britons divided? A. Into
thirty or forty tribes, each commanded by its own king, and were
constantly fighting with one another.

6. Q. What was the strange and terrible religion of the Britons called?
A. The religion of the Druids.

7. Q. What sacrifice is it certain that the Druidical ceremonies
included? A. The sacrifice of human beings.

8. Q. What did the Druids build? A. Great temples and altars open to the
sky, fragments of some of which are yet remaining.

9. Q. Which is the most extraordinary of these erections? A. Stonehenge,
on Salisbury Plain, in Wiltshire.

10. Q. What are the names of six prominent Romans that came to Britain
during the Roman occupancy? A. Aulus Plautus, Suetonius, Agricola,
Hadrian, Severus and Caracalla.

11. Q. What are the names of three leaders of the Britons who opposed
the efforts of the Romans in their efforts to subdue the islanders? A.
Cassivellaunus, Caractacus, and Boadicea.

12. Q. By whom was a wall built across the north of Britain, and for what
purpose? A. First by the Emperor Hadrian, of earth, and afterward rebuilt
of stone by the Emperor Severus, to protect Britain from the Picts and

13. Q. After the departure of the Romans, from whom did the Britons ask
help to repel the invasions of the Picts and Scots? A. The Angles and
Saxons from North Germany.

14. Q. After defeating the Picts and Scots what conquest did the Angles
and Saxons then attempt? A. That of Britain itself.

15. Q. What two brother chieftains were leaders of the early invasions of
the Saxons? A. Hengist and Horsa.

16. Q. What name is especially famous among those who resisted the
Saxons? A. That of King Arthur.

17. Q. What was the religion of the Saxon conquerors of Britain? A.

18. Q. About the year 600 A. D. who were sent by Pope Gregory to England
as missionaries? A. St. Augustine and forty monks.

19. Q. What Pagan king became a convert to the Christian faith, through
the labors of these missionaries? A. Ethelbert, the king of Kent.

20. Q. On the Christmas after the baptism of the king, how many of the
people, is it related, followed his example? A. Ten thousand.

21. Q. Who first united the seven Saxon kingdoms called the Heptarchy
into one kingdom called England? A. Egbert of Essex, in 827.

22. Q. How long did the Saxon line, beginning with Egbert, govern
England? A. For 190 years.

23. Q. Who was the most eminent among the kings of this line? A. Alfred
the Great.

24. Q. What enemy of England did King Alfred finally subdue? A. The Danes.

25. Q. How did King Alfred attempt to improve the condition of the
people? A. By wise laws, schools, and books, which he either translated,
or caused to be translated, from Greek and Latin.

26. Q. During the reign of Athelstane, grandson of Alfred the Great, what
abbot obtained prominence, and was really the ruler of England during the
continuance of the greater part of the Saxon line? A. Dunstan.

27. Q. What line of kings succeeded the Saxon? A. The Danish line.

28. Q. How long did the Danish line hold control? A. Twenty-four years.

29. Q. What three kings reigned during the continuance of the Danish
line? A. Canute, and his two sons, Harold Harefoot and Hardicanute.

30. Q. After the death of Hardicanute, for how long a time Was the Saxon
line restored? A. Twenty-five years.

31. Q. What conquest of England was made in 1066? A. The Norman conquest,
by William the Conqueror.

32. Q. By what great battle was the contest between the Normans and the
Saxons for the possession of England decided? A. The battle of Hastings,
October 14, 1066.

33. Q. What does Lord Macaulay say in regard to this Norman conquest? A.
The subjugation of a nation by a nation has seldom, even in Asia, been
more complete.

34. Q. How did William divide the land of conquered England? A. In fiefs
among his barons, and gave all chief places in church and government to

35. Q. Who succeeded William the Conqueror to the throne of England? A.
His second son, William Rufus.

36. Q. What was the most remarkable event during his reign? A. The first

37. Q. What zealous missionary went through Italy and France preaching
the Crusade? A. Peter the Hermit.

38. Q. What action did Pope Urban II. take in regard to the Crusade? A.
From a lofty scaffold in the market place of Clermont he preached the
Crusade to assembled thousands.

39. Q. Under what leaders, and to what number, did the first body of
Crusaders set out for the Holy Land? A. One hundred thousand under the
leadership of Peter the Hermit and Walter the Penniless.

40. Q. What became of the remnant of this number that reached the Asiatic
side of the Bosphorus? A. They were finally routed and cut to pieces by
the Turks.

41. Q. Under what commander did the regular army of the Crusaders at
length approach Asia? A. Godfrey of Bouillon, Hugh of Vermandois,
Robert of Normandy, Robert of Flanders, Stephen of Chartres, Raymond of
Toulouse, Bohemond, and Tancred.

42. Q. How long was it after Pope Urban had preached the Crusade at
Clermont that Jerusalem fell, the Holy Sepulcher was free? A. More than
three years.

43. Q. What does Charles Knight say was the tendency of the Crusades? A.
To elevate the character of European life, and to prepare the way for the
ultimate triumph of mental freedom and equal government.

44. Q. Who ascended the throne as successor of William Rufus in the year
1100? A. His brother, Henry I.

45. Q. To whom did Henry will the crown? A. His daughter, Matilda.

46. Q. Upon the death of Henry who attempted to seize upon the throne? A.
Stephen, a grandson of William the Conqueror.

47. Q. To what did this lead? A. To civil wars between the adherents of
Matilda and Stephen.

48. Q. After ten years of civil warfare what was the result of the
contest? A. Matilda fled to the continent and Stephen was acknowledged

49. Q. With the death of Stephen what line ceased to hold the crown? A.
The Norman line.

50. Q. Who was the successor of Stephen? A. Henry II., the son of Matilda.

51. Q. Of what line was he the first sovereign? A. The Plantagenet line.

52. Q. How long did the Plantagenet line continue to hold the crown? A.
Two hundred and forty-five years.

53. Q. Whom did Henry make Archbishop of Canterbury? A. Thomas à Becket.

54. Q. Concerning what did the king and Archbishop Becket have a
prolonged contention? A. Concerning church and state authority.

55. Q. How was this contention ended? A. By the assassination of Becket
at the altar of his own cathedral.

56. Q. What did Henry do to divert public attention from himself as
instigator of the assassination of Becket? A. He underwent penance and
was scourged at the tomb of Becket.

57. Q. Who was the successor of Henry II.? A. Richard I., called Richard
Cœur de Lion.

58. Q. Soon after his accession to the throne in what enterprise did
Richard take part? A. The Crusades.

59. Q. With what other prominent leaders was Richard accompanied on the
third Crusade? A. Philip of France, and the Duke of Austria.

60. Q. What mediæval institution was at its height during the reign of
Richard? A. Chivalry.

61. Q. Who succeeded Richard to the throne? A. His brother John.

62. Q. What two men were at this time prominent in their efforts to
establish the fact that a king should rule in England by law instead of
by force, or rule not at all? A. Stephen Langton, the Archbishop, and
William, Earl of Pembroke.

63. Q. What great document regarded as the foundation of English liberty
did the barons force John to sign? A. Magna Charta.

64. Q. When and where was Magna Charta signed? A. At Runnymede in 1215.

65. Q. What was the result of John’s contentions with the Pope? A. His
kingdom was laid under an interdict, and John himself was excommunicated.

66. Q. What invasion of England was attempted during the reign of John?
A. A French invasion, at the instance of the Pope, to dethrone John the

67. Q. What put an end to the French invasion? A. The sudden death of

68. Q. Who succeeded him on the throne? A. His son, Henry III.

69. Q. Who was the great leader of the barons during the reign of Henry
III.? A. Earl Simon de Montfort.

70. Q. What was the result of an encounter between the king’s forces and
the barons at Lewes? A. The barons were victorious, and the king, and his
son Prince Edward, were taken prisoners.

71. Q. For what was the parliament summoned by Earl Simon noted? A. As
being the first one in which the citizens had part as well as the nobles
and bishops.

72. Q. In what battle were the forces of Montfort signally defeated and
the Earl slain? A. The battle of Evesham.

73. Q. Who succeeded Henry III. to the crown? A. His son, Edward I.

74. Q. What part was conquered and annexed to England during his reign?
A. Wales.

75. Q. What title was given to the oldest son of king Edward which has
since been retained by the oldest son of the reigning sovereign? A. The
Prince of Wales.

76. Q. In the midst of what attempted conquest did king Edward die? A.
The attempted conquest of Scotland.

77. Q. Who succeeded Edward I. to the throne? A. His son, Edward II.

78. Q. Who was the leader of the Scots? A. Robert Bruce.

79. Q. How did the attempt of Edward II. to complete the conquest of
Scotland result? A. He was overwhelmingly defeated at the battle of
Bannockburn, and abandoned the enterprise.

80. Q. By what right did Edward III., the successor of Edward II., make
claim to the French crown? A. The right of his mother, a sister to the
deceased king of France, there being no surviving male descendant in the
direct line.

81. Q. Of what was this the beginning? A. The Hundred Years’ War between
England and France.

82. Q. In what battle did Edward gain a decisive victory over the French?
A. The battle of Cressy.

83. Q. What son of the king greatly distinguished himself in this battle?
A. His oldest son, a youth of sixteen, known as the Black Prince.

84. Q. With what did King Edward follow up this victory? A. The siege and
capture of Calais.

85. Q. In what other battle did the French suffer a memorable defeat at
the hands of the English during the reign of Edward III.? A. The battle
of Poitiers.

86. Q. Who were taken prisoners by the Black Prince at this battle? A.
The French king John and his son.

87. Q. Who succeeded Edward III. on the throne? A. His grandson, Richard

88. Q. What rising of the people took place in the early part of his
reign? A. The peasant revolt.

89. Q. Who was the leader of the peasants in this revolt? A. Wat Tyler.

90. Q. How was the revolt ended? A. By the death of Tyler and the promise
of the king to grant what the peasants asked.

91. Q. By whom was Richard dethroned? A. By his uncle Henry of Lancaster,
or Henry IV.

92. Q. What line ended with the dethronement of Richard II.? A. The
Plantagenet line.

93. Q. What House began to reign with the accession of Henry IV.? A. The
House of Lancaster.

94. Q. How long did the House of Lancaster continue to hold the throne,
and what sovereigns reigned during the time? A. It continued sixty-two
years, embracing the reigns of the three Henries, IV., V. and VI.

95. Q. During the reigns of Henry IV. and Henry V. the members of
what religious sect were persecuted with great vindictiveness? A. The
Lollards, several being burned at the stake.

96. Q. What prominent supporter of the Lollards was made a victim of this
persecution? A. Sir John Oldcastle, called Lord Cobham.

97. Q. What invasion did Henry V. renew? A. The invasion of France.

98. Q. What noted battle was fought in France during this invasion? A.
The battle of Agincourt.

99. Q. What was the result of this battle? A. The complete defeat of the

100. Q. What were the important features of the treaty of Troyes that
followed? A. The French king acknowledged Henry as heir in succession to
the French crown, and gave him his daughter in marriage.

       *       *       *       *       *

Good health is a great pre-requisite of successful or happy living. To
live worthily or happily, to accomplish much for one’s self or others,
when suffering from pain and disease, is attended with difficulty. Dr.
Johnson used to say that “Every man is a rascal when he is sick.” And
very much of the peevishness, irritability, capriciousness and impatience
seen in men and women has its root in bodily illness. The very morals
suffer from disease of the body.—_Mary A. Livermore._


Season of 1884.


_The House of the Lord._


The Temple on Mount Moriah was the result of long growth. 1. It began
with _the Altar_, erected of loose stones wherever the patriarchs
journeyed, and bearing its bloody sacrifice as a prefiguration of Christ.
2. Next came _the Tabernacle_, a movable tent, designed for a nomadic
people, and symbolizing God’s dwelling-place among his people. 3. When
the Tabernacle was fixed at Shiloh, a more substantial structure, by
degrees, took the place of the tent, surrounded by rooms in which the
priests lived, and standing in an open court. 4. This, in the age of
David and Solomon, furnished the ground plan for the Temple on Mount

There were three temples. 1. _Solomon’s Temple_, dedicated 1000 B. C.,
and destroyed by Nebuchadnezzar, 587 B. C. 2. _Zerubbabel’s Temple_,
begun by the Jews on the return from captivity, B. C. 536, and completed
in 20 years. 3. _Herod’s Temple_, begun 30 B. C., as the second temple
was in a ruinous condition, but not fully completed until 65 A. D., five
years before its final destruction by Titus. The latter is the one to be
briefly described in this lesson. It consisted of several courts and an
interior building. The dimensions named below are not precise, as the
length of the cubit and the thickness of the walls are uncertain.

I. _The Court of the Gentiles_ was an open plaza, or quadrangle, not
square, but of about 1000 feet on each side. It was surrounded by a
high wall, and entered by six gates, of which three were on the west,
toward the city, and one on each of the other sides. On the eastern side
extended a double colonnade, Solomon’s Porch, and on the south another,
Herod’s Porch. As this was not regarded a sacred place, it was considered
no sacrilege to have a _market_ upon its marble floor, especially for the
sale of animals for sacrifice.

II. On the northwestern part of the Court was the _chel_, or sacred
enclosure, a raised platform 8 feet high, surrounded by a fence, within
which no Gentile could enter. Its outer dimensions were about 630 by 300
feet. It was entered by nine gates, four each on the north and south, and
one on the east. Upon the platform of the chel rose an inner wall 40 feet
high and 600 by 250 feet in dimensions.

III. The space enclosed by this lofty inner wall was divided into two
sections, of which the eastern was a square of about 230 feet, called the
_Court of the Women_, on account of a gallery for women around it. It had
four gates, of which the one on the east was probably the Gate Beautiful.
In its four corners were rooms, used for different purposes connected
with the services; and upon its walls were boxes for the gifts of the
worshipers, from which it was often called “the Treasury.”

IV. _The Court of Israel_ occupied the western part of the enclosure,
and was about 320 by 230 feet in size. Another court stood inside of it,
so that it was simply a narrow platform 16 feet wide, from which male
worshipers could view the sacrifices. In the southeastern corner was the
hall in which the Sanhedrim met, and where Stephen stood on trial. In the
wall around this court were rooms used for storage, for baking bread, for
treasuries, etc. This court was entered by seven gates, on the north and
south each three, and one on the east.

V. _The Court of the Priests_ was a raised platform inside the Court of
Israel, and separated from it by a low rail. It was 275 by 200 feet in
size. Upon it stood the altar, the laver, and the Temple building.

VI. _The Temple_ itself was the only covered building on the mountain. It
consisted of a lofty vestibule, having a front 120 feet high; a series
of rooms three stories high for the priests, and within these the house
of God, divided into two rooms, the Holy Place and the Holy of Holies,
separated by a veil. The outer room was 30 by 60 feet in size, the inner
30 feet square and of the same height. In the Holy Place stood the table
for the show-bread, the golden candlestick (properly a lamp-stand), and
the golden altar of incense. In the Holy of Holies there was no ark in
the New Testament period, but only a stone upon which the high-priest
laid the censer when he entered the room, on but one day in the year, the
great Day of Atonement.

Notice, that each department of the Temple stood at a different
elevation. Thus the platform of the chel was 8 feet above the pavement of
the Gentile’s Court; the floor of the Women’s Court was 3 feet higher;
that of the Court of Israel was 10 feet higher still; the Court of the
Priests 3 feet above that of Israel; and the floor of the house was 8
feet above the Court of the Priests. Thus there was a constant ascent to
the one entering the Temple.



_Attention._—This is a Latin word of very decisive meaning; “a
stretching of something toward something.” A bow strained is a literal
illustration. In common acceptation it is limited to mental conditions.
The dictionaries define it as “a steady exertion of the mind.”
Without attention there can be no teaching. In Sunday-school teaching
the _something stretched_ must be the pupil’s mind; the _objective
something_, the truth to be taught.

There are two kinds of attention: (1) Voluntary, and (2) Involuntary.
Voluntary attention is born of ignorance and of desire to know, and
places confidence in the power of the person to whom it yields itself to
satisfy that desire.

Illustration: My little child sees my hand upon the door-knob; sees the
door open, and my egress. Next day, pursuing his desire, his hand seeks
the knob, but the door does not open. He comes to me with his difficulty.
I slowly turn the knob. He watches. He gives attention. It was born of
ignorance; of desire to know; and of confidence in me. It was voluntary;
and it will end when the necessity for it ends.

2. Involuntary attention. This is of two kinds—(1) _Compelled_; (2)
_Won_. The galley slave under a master’s eye illustrates the first.
Another is furnished by a violin string, when strained. It is attent,
it answers the thought in the soul of the musician who draws the bow
upon it. But the bow was resined and the string strained by the artist’s
hand. He created the attention. It was involuntary; nay, more; it was
compelled. Such attention ends when the compulsion ends. I do not want
such from my pupils.

2. That which is won; and which involuntary at first soon becomes
voluntary. This is the attention which results in teaching and learning.

The duration of attention, voluntary or involuntary, must always depend
on certain conditions:

1. Conditions of Circumstance. (_a_) The place must be suitable; (_b_)
the time must be opportune; (_c_) the ventilation good; (_d_) the
temperature agreeable. These are necessary elements in the effort of
holding attention. But though these things be all unfavorable, their
disadvantages may be overcome, if there is no lack in the second class of
conditions, namely:

2. Conditions of Personality. By this I mean my personality as teacher.
These conditions are (_a_) that of attractive power that will draw the
pupil toward me; (_b_) that of magnetism that will hold the pupil fast to
me; (_c_) that of enthusiasm that will fire my pupil with zeal for work;
(_d_) that of self-withdrawal; (_e_) that which transfers attention from
myself to my subject. If I have these personal elements in my teaching, I
shall get attention and hold it. If I have not, I must cultivate them.

3. Conditions of Knowledge. These are three. I must know _my subject_,
_myself_, and _my pupil_. A knowledge of the subject, involves a
knowledge of methods. And here is the critical test with a teacher.

Notice some of the methods essential: (_a_) The use of illustrations
apt and interesting; (_b_) the use of questions full of surprises and
wise devices; (_c_) the use of elliptical readings between teacher and
pupil; (_d_) the use of concert recitations in low tones by pupils; (_e_)
the use of inter-questions, each pupil asking a question in turn of his
fellow-pupil, and each also of the teacher; (_f_) the use of pictures,
maps, and objects.



A mob in Cincinnati, involving the loss of many lives and much property
in a three days’ reign of terror, has added another to a long list
of warnings that the criminal administration of this country needs a
thorough-going reform. The popular indignation which expressed itself
at Cincinnati has been growing slowly into steady strength for thirty
years and more. About 1845, gangs of horse thieves in northern Illinois
were broken up—the law having failed—by regulators composed of the best
citizens, who summarily hanged the thieves. About ten years later this
history was repeated in Cedar and Linn counties, Iowa. These are two
incidents among many of like type. Most readers know the history of the
vigilance committee in San Francisco. The criminal administration having
utterly failed, the best citizens organized themselves outside of the
law and by vigorous and summary punishment restored the supremacy of the
law. The mobbing of the “Dukes jury” at Uniontown is a still fresh event.
In New York City, a few years ago, a citizen was brutally murdered in a
public place, and the murderer, when arrested, said: “Hanging is played
out.” The remark roused public feeling and refreshed the courage of
the courts so that for some time hanging became the certain punishment
of wilful murder. But in New York City, it is the press which really
administers criminal law—by compelling the courts to do their duty. In
the Cincinnati case, the last of a series of miscarriages of justice was
the convicting of manslaughter in a case where wilful and mean-motived
murder had been proved. The judge commented harshly upon the verdict. A
public meeting listened to appropriately animated addresses, and passed
strong resolutions of condemnation of the jury in that case, and of
the criminal administration of the city. The excitable elements of the
audience broke up there to reorganize in an assault on the jail. They
were joined by a baser element, and a reign of terror followed.

The criminal system of the entire country is defective. It is not a
terror to evil-doers. It tortures the conscience and the self respect of
honest men. It has rendered human life much more insecure than private
property. It is on the average safer to kill a man after robbing him than
to rob him only. The match that lighted the Cincinnati conflagration was
a murder done for the sake of robbery, and punished as if it had been

Our evils in this branch of justice are several distinct fungus growths
of demoralized customs. A murder trial seldom ends within a year of the
discovery of the criminal; it often ends twice as long after the arrest
of the murderer. In England, three months suffices for the same work.
There is no civilized country except our own where these long delays
are tolerated. This is the safest country in the world for a murderer
to carry on his profession. He is less likely to be arrested; he is not
tried until the general public has forgotten his crime. When he comes
to the dock, _if he has money_, or friends possessed of money, he can
buy out the law by employing some member of a class of lawyers who
make a profitable industry of defeating the aims of public justice. In
the Cincinnati case, the judge said, courageously, that the murderer
had been cleared of that crime because _his friends had six or seven
thousand dollars to fee criminal lawyers with_. It is almost a rule
that if the murderer has money, his cunning lawyers will delay trial,
destroy testimony, and confuse the jury, or bribe the jury. If these
fail, and there is money left, motions for new trials will be pressed
upon judges, and perhaps secured by fictitious testimony. The motto of a
murderer may well be: “While there is money there is hope.” It is plain
to all intelligent persons that the law’s delay, under the influence of
money, has become intolerable. We do hang the poor; we seldom hang the
men who can command money. There ought to be a more summary procedure.
There ought to be more pure discretion—unhampered by precedent—vested
in judges. These interminable delays ought to be impossible without the
connivance of the judges.

The power of money in criminal trials is a feature of the jury system
_as we manage it_. In some states a man who knows what is going on in
the world about him can not be admitted to serve on a jury. He has heard
of the case and formed an opinion. Every intelligent man does that in
a case of murder. This leaves jury duty to professional jurors, and to
the least intelligent citizens. Worse still, on the plea of business
duties intelligent men evade service on juries. In New York City, last
year, a ring of “jury fixers” was discovered. They had hundreds, probably
thousands, of customers—consisting of business men—who paid from ten
to fifty dollars a year to have “things fixed” so that they should not
be called on jury service. The men who thus bought themselves off from
a civil duty were so numerous that even the press evaded the duty of
vigorously exposing the crime. The men who are left, in large cities, to
serve on juries, are men whose judgments can be involved in confusion
by an artful plea; often, too, their verdicts can be bought with money.
The city demoralization is gradually extending to the country. _We
must reform._ We are nearing the end of popular patience. People begin
to demand that they shall not be murdered with impunity. Get better
juries; or amend the constitution and abolish juries. Give judges more
power over the criminal lawyers, and more real discretion in refusing
delays that defeat the ends of justice. Give judges to understand that
we want more speedy trials and more direct methods of trial. Ask for
reform—imperatively, emphatically—and reform will come. The lawlessness
of court proceedings keeps within the forms of law; but it has become an
ally of that other lawlessness which murders men, women and children—and
gives its ally comparative impunity.


There is a large amount of well-founded distrust of the tendencies of
our public life. It is not a distrust of Republican principles, or of
universal suffrage, or of popular influence on government. It centers
in our public service, and relates exclusively to the political paths
to office, the uncertain or inadequate rewards for service, and the
speculative element in the tenure of office. Are we not on a road which
leads to demoralization in the civil service? The civil service law
applies only to a small part of the public field. Cabinet officers, heads
of departments, custom house and internal revenue officers, and all
judicial officers, are outside of that law, not to forget the entire body
of law makers. If we ask ourselves what first-class ability is worth,
we find the railroads, banks and other corporations paying an average
of twice (or more) as much as the government pays legislators, judges,
cabinet officers, and heads of departments. If we compare what is needed
by corporations with what is needed by the government, we shall be slow
to admit that the public service can be satisfied with inferior ability.
If we look at the cost of holding an office, we discover that a bank
president may live where and in such style as he pleases, but a cabinet
officer must live in Washington, and _ought_ to spend more than we pay
him in acquitting himself of social obligations.

The editor of THE CHAUTAUQUAN recently attended a party in the house
of Secretary Chandler, the cost of which could not have been less than
a thousand dollars; and there was no ostentation; only the reasonable
social demand was met. Of course Secretary Chandler can not give such
parties out of his salary, and could not meet the social demand upon his
official position, if he had not a private fortune. The incident points
to the suspicion that we are rapidly advancing to a condition of things
under which poor men can not hold high offices. Everywhere the public
officers of the classes which we have named are under special social
obligations which exceed in money-cost the amount of their salaries.
There is a double tendency—on two parallel lines—to exclude honest poor
men, and to take in an inferior class of men who are either rich or
unscrupulous. There is no reasonable doubt that the United States Senate
has seriously deteriorated through the tendencies just mentioned. Every
one knows that so many members of the other House are habitually absent,
that a political battle has to be advertised to collect the members of
the majority for the time being. The men in this case may or may not be
inferior, but they are certainly rendering an inferior service—doing
their own work while in the pay of the people. The other work is a
growing factor. Senators live by their practice in the Supreme Court or
by their services to corporations in which they hold office; this private
work too often coming into collision with public interests.

The subject is so large that we can barely hint at points. Here is a man
climbing to public place through a political combination which taxes him
at every step. He must have money, or borrow or steal money, to make the
ascent. When he reaches the place, he is paid a salary so far below the
demands of his office that if he is to meet his social obligations he
must have an income beyond his salary, and this income he must earn as he
can if he is not wealthy. And the real evil is still farther on: if he
wishes to stay in public life he must pay tribute to political sponges;
for the tenure of his office is so short that he must begin to provide
for the next election as soon as the first is over. If he wishes to
rise, he must pay, and keep on paying to the invisible army of political
tax-collectors which lines, many ranks deep, every road that leads to
an office. Rare and favored men escape these evils; but the majority of
public men encounter them. To crown the edifice of bad policy, partisan
rules are set up which limit time of service. Two terms, for example, is
the limit for service in the lower House of Congress, in many districts.
That is to say, your Congressman is advised at the outset that he must
retire in four years. What motive has he for qualifying himself to be a
good legislator? He naturally seeks an office under the government, and
gives his brain power to that pursuit. But wherever he is—unless he hold
a judicial office—he is menaced by the rule of rotation in office. We
have been remarkably fortunate in the judicial service through the fact
that, though the salaries are niggardly, the terms of service are long,
and safe from partisan influences.

We might profitably reflect on foreign comparisons. In Italy men
receiving from $300 to $600 in bureaus serve for life, and have certain
promotion. It is not a perfect method, but under it the government
service is honorable to an extent which amazes an American. The honor is
the largest item of the pay. We pay a less and less measure of honor.
The path to our service grows more filthy, and the man who has reached
the goal is often soiled with the filth through which he has waded—often
enough to discredit, insensibly but surely, the class which he has
joined. We pay too little in money; we pay too little in honor; we cheat
ourselves and demoralize our public servants by befouling the ladders
on which they climb, and by making their ascent as uncertain, and their
hold on any round of the ladder as precarious, as possible. A large moral
lies in the contrast that a bank cashier is discriminatingly chosen for
ability, has no election expenses, is secure in his office, owes no
social duties to the bank, and may rise to the presidency of it. It is
the same in other corporations. As employers, the corporations have more
soul and more sense than the people of the United States.


The disturbance of Christian peace which has for some months affected
the Madison Avenue Congregational Church, New York, has impressed us as
disclosing a new phase of inter-church life. To an onlooker the case—the
very heart of the case—is a struggle of a pastor to maintain himself in
full membership with two denominations, against a struggle of men in both
denominations to shut him out of one or the other denomination. This
is the novelty in this New York “church quarrel.” For our part we are
disposed to ask what general principle of morals, equity or discipline
is violated by the Rev. Dr. John P. Newman’s position? He claims to be
the permanent pastor of a Congregational church while retaining his
membership in the Methodist Episcopal Church. Why not? It surely is
not an axiom that a man can not belong to two denominations. Dialectic
theologians may invent a score of arguments, but they will find their
best one in the fact that the practice has been to confine a Christian’s
membership to one branch of the church. But in the advance to Christian
unity we have rapidly changed the practice at several points; and it is
quite possible that Dr. Newman’s “new departure” may be another march on
the general line of our progress.

A few words respecting the Madison Avenue Church and its pastor will
help our readers to understand the case. The church was founded a dozen
or more years ago by Dr. Hepworth, who up to about that time had been a
Unitarian clergyman. It was a very expensive enterprise, and Dr. Hepworth
became satisfied, after a few years, that he could neither fill the
church with an audience nor pay its debt. Dr. W. R. Davis, who had been a
Methodist clergyman, and is now a Dutch Reformed pastor in Albany, N. Y.,
succeeded Dr. Hepworth, and, after a few years of experience like that of
his predecessor, hunted up a successor in the person of Dr. Newman, and
resigned. There were two distinct difficulties in both these pastorates.
One was the large debt; the other was the failure to secure adequate
audiences. The last difficulty suggests no fault in either of the
pastors. Both were gifted and popular. But the church is surrounded by
other churches, and only an extraordinary man can secure a large body of
hearers in it. The church was not at fault for not paying its debt; the
burden was beyond its strength. When it asked Dr. Newman to become its
pastor, it asked him for two reasons: He had friends who could pay the
debt, and he would bring these friends into the church and congregation;
and it was well understood that he could fill the large house with

Rev. Dr. John P. Newman has a national reputation as a pulpit orator.
He always has full houses where he statedly preaches. Among his friends
he numbers General Grant, whose pastor he was in Washington in the days
of Grant’s presidency. The ex-president is one of the men whom Dr.
Newman took into the Madison Avenue congregation and made a trustee of
the church property. Dr. Newman is one of the last of the classical
pulpit orators. His style is stately, his presence majestic. Pure taste
and high ideals characterize his thought. His noble person, his rich,
smooth voice, and the elevation of his thought conspire to make him
admired and reverenced in the pulpit. His ardent friends have called
him “the Chrysostom of his age.” Not unnaturally, he has expected the
highest places in Methodism. Neither Webster nor Clay became President
of the United States—and John P. Newman did not become a bishop. Some
difficulties arose respecting a place for him in New York three years
ago, he having then finished his term as pastor of the Central Methodist
Church. After a year of decorous waiting, he accepted the call to the
Madison Avenue Church. There are controversies about sundry minor
matters; but after painfully laboring through the documents, we find two
clear facts: 1st. From the start Dr. Newman has clung to the idea of
remaining a Methodist while becoming a Congregationalist; 2d, there is
an abundant lack of proof that in this policy he has deceived any one
or done any other act which is inconsistent with the character which
he displays in the pulpit. A single sentence in his address before the
council was out of place; but, even it, from his point of view, had great
provocation. To the onlooking public, perhaps to Dr. Newman also, it
was a surprise to see the editor of the _Christian Advocate_ furnishing
material for use against Dr. Newman. This new party to the controversy
presents the Methodists as semi-officially engaged in the effort to crowd
Dr. Newman from his attitude as holding positions in two denominations.
The justification of the editor of the _Christian Advocate_ can not rest
on any special pleading; it must rest on the ground that Dr. Newman’s
claim is a bad one in church moralities. If this be true, then his
Methodist antagonist has discharged a disagreeable duty and “meddled” for
a dignified purpose.

The church quarrel did not originate in the new position of Dr. Newman,
but the conflict having begun, this new position was made the point of
attack by what is called the “Anti-Newman party.” It was the weak place
because Dr. Newman had taken a new departure. The quarrel came out of the
incompatibility of temper and interest developed between the old and the
new elements in the church and congregation. Some of the old men left;
the new were then more numerous and powerful than the old. The latter saw
themselves gradually retiring to back seats, while the new men filled the
front seats. They precipitated a conflict to secure themselves against
the consequences of Dr. Newman’s abundant success. In the wisdom of this
world, the new element put off paying the large debt; but they preferred
to be certain that they would be left in peaceable possession after
paying the debt.

The council has “advised” that Dr. Newman is in an untenable position—is
not the permanent pastor. The advice is probably according to precedent.
But it was not according to precedent that Dr. Hepworth left the
Unitarians, and Dr. Davis the Methodists, to become pastor of that
church. And for forty years there has been an increasing interflow
between denominations. Half a score of ex-Methodists, including some
of the ablest pastors in the city, are preaching in churches of
other denominations. Ministers and members pass and repass between
denominations. All this would have looked strange forty years ago.
Perhaps Dr. Newman’s new idea may not look strange forty years hence.
The advice of the council has probably only changed the form of the
conflict which does not depend on Dr. Newman, but on the antagonism of
the old and new elements in the congregation. We should like to see Dr.
Newman’s theory thoroughly tested, and Congregationalism is liberal
enough to afford the desired test. Methodism, as a whole, has no reason
for jealousy of Dr. Newman’s success in the Madison Avenue Church. His
success and good fame reflect honor on all Methodist preachers. We may
come to realize that if a man is “worthy of confidence and fellowship by
virtue of his responsible connection with some other body of Christian
churches”—words quoted by the late council—he may safely “be counted a
minister of the Congregational,” or any other “order.”


A writer in _Cornhill Magazine_, some years ago, facetiously suggested
that, while societies for the acquisition of useful knowledge abounded,
each, doubtless, in its way, proving of eminent service to mankind,
another society, not so much as a direct opponent, but rather as
a proper, and even necessary, corrective of its rivals, should be
organized, the object of which should be to sift out and to suppress the
vast and ever increasing accumulations of knowledge that are not only
really worthless but which are an unmitigated nuisance, a useless burden,
a confused and baffling heap.

The suggestion above referred to, made perhaps in jest, is one, we
venture to suggest, which might well be made in earnest. Useless
knowledge! Has it never occurred to the reader what areas, and even
continents, not to say oceans of valueless, of absolutely superfluous
knowledge there are in the world? Observe we are not now writing of
literature, or books, merely; we say knowledge.

Useless knowledge! For everything that may, with any kind of propriety,
be comprehended under this honored term, knowledge, we usually cherish a
profound and reverent respect. The highest conception of scholarship, on
the part of many, consists in being possessed of encyclopedic information
concerning the details of almost every conceivable matter.

According to this idea learning consists in an intimate acquaintance,
at once and quite indiscriminately, with all the results of the latest
scientific research, the facts of universal history, the mysteries of
theology and subtleties of metaphysics; with all the institutes of law
and politics; with all the literature of poetry and art.

To one entertaining such an idea of scholarship as this how positively
depressing must be the monstrous and obviously ever-accumulating mass
of facts heaping up around him. He quite envies the great men of the
olden time who, in consequence of the then comparatively narrow range of
knowledge, found it not impracticable to maintain a creditable standing
at once as statesmen, soldiers, poets, philosophers, and artists; while
he, in his day, can serve, at best, only as an infinitesimal wheel in a
machinery of boundless complication.

Even were it desirable to burden the mind with boundless mental
acquisitions, one certainly has not long to live to discover the utter
futility of even the most capacious memory ever being able to compass
any such result—to learn that the human mind, whatever its capabilities,
is yet finite; that it is, therefore, the part of wisdom to select some
one department of study and devote one’s energies mainly to the mastery
of the same; and that, finally, one essential condition of usefulness
depends on one’s thus wisely restricting himself to a comparatively
narrow and limited field of inquiry and of attainment.

In the meantime it should be distinctly understood that true scholarship
does not, by any means, consist in thus knowing absolutely everything.
The popular idea that learning consists in being a walking repository
of all sorts of curious and of more or less ill-assorted erudition, is
a most childish error. Scholarship may, perhaps, be properly defined as
knowing _something_ about almost everything; but more especially every
thing _about some one thing_. This is the true university idea. Some
one has defined the university as being the school where _something_
could be learned about everything, and _everything_ about some _one_
thing. In other words, true scholarship consists in having just so much
learning as one can not only digest and master but effectively use in
connection with his own special work, or mission in life; in having
the keys, if you please, that shall unlock and open up to one at will
all the varied stores of knowledge; and more especially in being the
undisputed master of just so much and of just such knowledge as he can
himself best utilize. Just as no mechanic cares to encumber himself with
more tools, or the soldier with more weapons, than he can advantageously
use, so no true scholar, in our judgment, will covet more knowledge than
he can render properly, wisely, available for service. Why, indeed, may
not too much of a good thing, as well as too little—_l’embarrassment de
richesse_ as well as the embarrassment of poverty—prove not a help but a
burden, not a source of power but an occasion of weakness and a cause of

Let no one, therefore, be tempted to envy the attainments of certain
knowing ones in those walks of literature, or of science, to which he is
for the most a stranger; and, because of his ignorance comparatively on
certain special lines of study and intellectual inquiry, to depreciate
himself as a scholar. Rather, on the other hand, while thankful that, in
your own chosen sphere, you have been enabled to give a good account of
yourself and to render some service, however humble, to your kind, you
should also rejoice that others have been called to explore fields of
thought and inquiry by your feet as yet untrod.

Who that, a few years ago, at the great Exposition at Philadelphia,
walked through those acres of textile fabrics, miles of most ingenious
machinery, and thousands of square yards of painting, but must have been
profoundly impressed with the narrow limits of his own knowledge and
attainments. And yet who, if really a sensible person, instead of feeling
mortified and chagrined at all on this account, but was moved rather,
at every step, silently to give thanks that here was presented another,
and yet another branch of knowledge or industry concerning which it was
his privilege to remain in profound and most contented ignorance? Why,
indeed, should it be deemed specially important that, in order richly and
intelligently to enjoy that marvellous display of the products of all
nations, one should be altogether conversant with the Chinese puzzle, or
versed in all the arts of sub-soiling, top-dressing, tile-draining, or

Let the dictionaries, therefore, and the encyclopædias, the archives and
the libraries, for the most part, serve as the treasure-houses of the
materials of knowledge—especially of all more strictly technical and
curious lore, properly classified, indexed, assorted, accessible. Let
it be the part of scholarship, if you please, exhaustively to explore
certain departments of learning as specialties; but to be content,
meantime, as a general thing, to know where, and how readily to find, and
to be able wisely to appropriate, and effectually to employ, as occasion
may require, this accumulated and duly sifted and organized learning of
the ages.


The discovery of a manuscript copy of “The Teachings of the Twelve
Apostles,” a Christian compilation of the second century, has created
a general expectation of new and better light by means of it, on early
Christian history. The portions of this manuscript which have been
published in this country are too brief to afford much satisfaction.
The genuineness of the document is vouched for by Professor Harnack, of
Giessen, one of the foremost patristic scholars. If there were not a
general disposition to believe the manuscript to be genuine, we might
note some circumstances as suspicious. Professor Harnack has believed
and taught that such a book probably existed in the early centuries.
If we were suspicious we should wonder whether another Saphira has
not undertaken, of his own avaricious motion, to find what a great
patristic scholar believes to exist—and to make discovery certain by
constructing the desired document himself. No breath of suspicion taints
the atmosphere, and the finding of the manuscript is regarded as a strong
proof of the rare learning and sound judgment of Professor Harnack. But
until the whole document, in the Original Greek, with a history of its
discovery, has passed under the eyes of many scholars, it will be wise
to keep our judgments in suspense respecting the genuineness and the
importance of the document.

       *       *       *       *       *

The new Congregational creed has been received with a good deal of favor.
The aim of it is in the right direction; we leave others to decide
whether or not it hits its mark. Theology consists of doctrines and
explanations of doctrines. The aim of the authors of the new creed is to
make a statement of doctrines, leaving explanations of doctrines to the
field of liberty. It happens that the larger half of most creeds make
doctrines out of explanations. For example, the deity of Jesus Christ is
a doctrine; but along with it we hold a number of explanations of the
doctrine. The atonement is a doctrine; but three-fourths of the texts
of the creeds, on this subject, are explanatory theses. That Christ
_died for us_ according to the Scriptures is doctrine; but the various
theories called “Governmental,” “Substitutional,” “Moral Influence,”
etc., are explanatory. That the Bible is God’s book, revealing Him
and His law is doctrine; but the separation of the printers’ and
proof-readers’ mistakes—that is all the failure in the human making-up
of the book—proceeds by way of explanatory theology. If tolerably clear
lines can be drawn between doctrine and explanation—we are not sure such
a line can be drawn—then evangelical Christendom can have a common creed
at once. The doctrinal unity exists in fact; we are only waiting for some
one to state the doctrines clearly, leaving us to differ concerning the
explanations. The new Congregational creed may prove to be a rough first
sketch of the creed of Christendom. There is no doubt that the great body
of Christians, though ranked in distinct divisions, has a common faith.
Some symbolic expression of that faith is to be expected—is probably near
at hand.

       *       *       *       *       *

A shocking piece of news is that several women were recently attacked,
and two of them killed, by wolves. That is bad enough, surely; but a
greater shock will be experienced by the general reader when we add that
the scene of this tragic incident was in southern Italy! Our habitual
associations of Italian things are music, sculpture, architecture, and
other high humanities, all overarched by beautiful sunshine. Most of us
hardly realize that there has been a wolf in Italy since the demise of
the one which suckled the boys who founded Rome. But in fact wolves and
other ferocious beasts still reign in the Italian mountains, along with
the brigands. The latter are not as numerous as when Spartacus collected
an army of them which defeated Roman armies within sight of Naples.
But the brigand is, like the wolf, an unconquerable element in Italian
life. A few months ago, an Italian nobleman was captured by brigands
who exacted and obtained fifty thousand dollars for restoring him to
the bosom of his family. Add brigands and wolves to your “pictures from

       *       *       *       *       *

The regulation of railroad traffic has made more progress than the
general public supposes. In Massachusetts, for instance, the Board of
Railroad Commissioners say in their last report to the legislature that
“No charge of unreasonable preference or discrimination by a lower charge
for the longer haul has this year been brought before the board, except
in two cases, where the evidence wholly failed to support the charges.”
The Massachusetts system of supervision was founded twelve years ago
by C. F. Adams, and the results obtained by him and his successors in
office show clearly that an intelligent and judicious supervision by
state authority benefits both parties—the railroads and their customers.
But—and this point is the reason of the success in Massachusetts—there
has not been one ounce of demagogism in the action of the commissioners.

       *       *       *       *       *

The decision of the United States Supreme Court that Congress may
issue paper money at its discretion has been received with lugubrious
prophecies by a part of the press. It is probably good for us that the
decision has been rendered now rather than a few years later—and it was
certain to come. The good of it is, we know clearly what the powers and
responsibilities of Congress are in regard to money. We can select our
Congressmen with a plain and full understanding of their functions. The
doubt which has hung over this subject for several years has had an
unwholesome effect—“unsettled questions have no mercy on the peace of
nations.” The people of this country are conservative under well defined
responsibilities. Perhaps the prophets of evil have too little faith in
the popular sense and conscience.

       *       *       *       *       *

There is no sympathy in this country with the Irish dynamiters; but
we are all more or less astonished by the gravity with which English
newspapers rail at this country for not preventing the exportation of
dynamite. The London _Times_ unconsciously puts its fingers on the proper
place for the discovery of such dynamite when it calls attention to the
fact that a ninety pound package of the murderous stuff got to London
_through a British custom house_. The British custom house is the spot
where the watching should be done. If the importation of goods was as
closely supervised in England as it is in this country, no dynamite
could reach London. We do not watch exportation closely because no
export duties are allowed to be levied by the constitution. It is the
inward movement, not the outward, for which we have official machinery
of supervision. To invent and carry on machinery for watching exports
is an expensive business in which we should not engage. It is entirely
unnecessary. Let England watch at her own custom houses. If her officers
admit dynamite in ninety pound cases, let her improve that branch of her
civil service. The _Nation_ very judiciously says: “If the English custom
house can not stop the infernal machines, it is folly to ask any foreign
police to do it.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Our suggestion that laws against intermarriage between races should be
repealed (April number) has “shocked” one reader. Our friend does not get
shocked at the right time and place. Intermarriage of white and colored
persons is very rare, because nature and society exercise adequate
restraint. The place for being shocked is in another part of the field.
And yet it is an astounding fact that the peoples who are most easily
shocked by the marriage of two persons of different races seem not to be
shocked by the very large number of illegitimate children of dark skinned
mothers. There is an exact parallel in the doctrine of the celibacy of
the clergy, and the intense feeling which enforced it, in the days of
Hildebrand. A recent writer says of that state of things: “The priest
who kept a harem of concubines was simply guilty of a venial sin which
did not vitiate his act as a priest; it was the act of marriage, with
its more deliberate declaration of principle, which the church could not
tolerate.” In both cases, that old case of mock celibacy and the present
case of illegitimate mingling of races, the _feeling_ on the subject
is very sincere, deep, aggressive, against _marriage_ “with its more
deliberate declaration of principle.” But in each case the real evil
evades the feeling and defeats its object with demoralizing effects.

       *       *       *       *       *

They do some things better in France. The government has ordered
observations to be made on strokes of lightning and their effects, by
a bureau, using postmasters and others as observers. A report for the
first half of 1883 shows that in January there was one lightning stroke
which injured a man carrying an umbrella with metal ribs; in February
there were no strokes; in March and April, four each month; in May
twenty-eight; in June one hundred and thirteen. Seventy animals and seven
men were killed, and about forty persons were injured. Lightning rods
were treated with contempt, and the electric fluid especially attacked
the bells and bell-towers of churches, and in one case blasted the gilt
wooden figure of the Christ on a church which had a lightning rod.
The second half of the year would of course show a longer chapter of
accidents. Why can not we have in this country just such a system of
collecting the facts about lightning strokes?

       *       *       *       *       *

An interesting set of experiments is reported by Mr. G. H. Darwin, son of
the great author of Darwinism, on right-leggedness and left-leggedness.
The subject is of more importance than it seems. Most readers will
remember that Charles Reade, the novelist, contended in a recent work
that right-handedness is a fruit of bad education, and that, if children
were not meddled with by nurses and teachers, both sides of the body
would be equally strong and skilful. Mr. Darwin blindfolded a group of
boys, having first ascertained whether they were right or left handed,
and set them to walking toward a mark, leading them straight for three
or four paces. All but one swung round to right or left, tending to a
circular path, and the right-handed boys turned to the left, and the
left-handed boys to the right. The one exception was a boy about equally
expert with both hands. He went tolerably straight. Mr. Darwin’s opinion
is that right-handed persons are left-legged, because every strong effort
by the right hand is attended with a corresponding effort by the left
leg. This does not, however, settle the question raised by Mr. Charles
Reade; for left-leggedness is only an effect of right-handedness.

       *       *       *       *       *

We shall have to study the machine politician a good deal before we
dispense with his existence. In New York City, investigations show that
the city offices, such as County Clerk, Register and Sheriff, afford from
$50,000 to $100,000 a year of revenue to the man holding either office,
and that he buys the office, never paying less than $50,000 for it to the
bosses who control votes by arts that are as dark to respectable citizens
as the mysteries of mediæval astrology. A man on a school board was
caught selling teachers’ appointments. He was put off the board and went
to selling liquor. In due time he became an alderman. The halls could
not agree upon a president of the Board of Aldermen. Then the Republican
boss made “a deal” with the Tammany hall and turned over the Republican
aldermen’s votes to elect as president the smirched seller of teachers’
places and bad whiskey. This man is mayor of New York when Mayor Edson is
absent, and has recently acted as such. An intrigue of that sort is as
well worth studying as the farewell letter of Washington. It opens the
very heart of our political demoralization. The chief parties to this
intrigue will both be at Chicago, one in June, the other in July, with
the votes of their respective parties in New York City in their dirty
hands. They are engaged in a commercial business the staple of which is
ballots, and they amass fortunes by selling votes and offices.

       *       *       *       *       *

Is there any other competitive industry which is exploited with so much
skill as politics? We write these words in early April, within sixty
days of the Republican convention, and we should hardly be able to
affirm that any prominent candidate is an _avowed_ candidate. Are there
no candidates, then? Is the nomination of the party which has ruled the
country twenty-three years going a begging at Chicago? By no means. You
are in the presence of management as a fine art. It is certain that the
work of “getting up an interest” is going on briskly, and it is not
possible that the candidates are ignorant of it. The popular pulse is
rising, and there are men who can tell why it is rising. Perhaps the
Democratic art is of a finer quality. Mr. Tilden has educated bright men
in the delicate branches of political art. That there is no prominent
candidate except Mr. Tilden, who is not a possible candidate, means that
all dangerous aspirants are kept back by the candidacy of “the Sage of
Greystone;” but the object of this suppression of candidates is out
of sight. The children of this world are very wise in this political

       *       *       *       *       *

Our readers all know that the Methodist Episcopal General Conference
meets May 1st in each Presidential election year. Not all of them have
our opportunities of knowing what a wholesome effect the approaching
session is having upon the seven or eight periodicals whose editors
will be re-elected or relegated to pastoral cares by the conference.
Ordinarily we can see small faults in these papers. Now we would as soon
seek to find the proverbial “needle in a haystack” as to discover a
blemish on the face of a Methodist periodical. A cynic at our elbow says:
“What a pity the General Conference does not meet every year!” In sober
earnest we must say that all these “official editors” have been outdoing
their former selves during the last eight or ten months.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Temple Bar_ for March contains a criticism of “The New School of
American Fiction”—that of James and Howells—which makes some excellent
points. Mr. Howells claims the art of fiction has become a finer art in
our day than it was with Dickens and Thackeray. This reminds us of a
story, as Lincoln used to say. Once a young preacher was warmly commended
for his last sermon in the following terms: “It was a fine sermon, a
very fine sermon, in fact it was so fine there was nothing of it.” The
attenuated art of Mr. Howells spins out into a fineness which vanishes
in nothingness. _Temple Bar_ thinks this “finer art” of our new school
is a study of surface emotion and accidental types of mankind. The art
is “a photograph where no artist’s hand has grouped the figures, only
posed them before his lens.” Mr. Howells boasts that he finds “delight
in the foolish, insipid face of real life.” But the life that wears that
kind of face affords no material for art—is not _really_ real life.
The accidental types which Mr. Howells paints so carefully please us
just as a gossip’s description of a bridal dress pleases her feminine
neighbor—for a moment. Sometimes we have seen specimens—as for example,
Bartley Hubbard—of the transient creatures and recognize the photograph.
But after all such photography is the function of the newspaper. We all
know that last year’s newspaper is dull reading. The fiction produced by
the “new school” will probably be just as dull in ten years. Dickens and
Thackeray are much older than that and are still fascinating reading.

       *       *       *       *       *

Is not the tone of the general newspaper press below that of the people
who read newspapers? Are our people as slangy, coarse and low-toned as
the average newspaper is? We do not believe that the people who _read_
the papers are as vulgar-minded as the average reporter supposes them to
be. We have read many defenses of the newspaper methods; but we never
heard of a newspaper which died by becoming decent and wholesome. The
reporter is trying to please a class which rarely reads anything, and is
displeasing his habitual patrons. Let the latter take courage and tell
him the simple truth and ask him to write English in future. A few talks
of this nature will do the young man good.

       *       *       *       *       *

The name of Adelaide Bell Morgan, Stapleton, N. Y., should have been
among the list of C. L. S. C. graduates of the class of ’83, published in

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. W. A. Duncan, the new secretary of the Chautauqua Assembly, requests
that all questions concerning Chautauqua matters should be addressed to
him at Syracuse, N. Y.

       *       *       *       *       *

A late number of _Harper’s Weekly_ says of Mrs. P. L. Collins, the author
of the interesting article on the Dead-Letter Office which appears in
this number of THE CHAUTAUQUAN: “Mrs. Collins has for several years held
an important and responsible position in the Dead-Letter Office. Her fine
culture, varied attainments, and the skill and ability displayed in the
performance of the difficult and intricate duties of the service have won
for her high and well deserved repute. No one is better qualified than
Mrs. Collins to give our readers an insight into the workings of this
important branch of our postal service.”



In reading “Pictures from English History” the “Chronology,” (page 274)
will be found indispensable. It gives a complete and concise summary of
English history while the most prominent features of that history are
fully displayed in the “Pictures.”

P. 12.—“Druid.” The origin of the word is obscure; the common derivation
from the Greek word for _oak_, the best authorities consider fanciful,
and give their preference to the derivation from the Celtic words for
_God_ and _speaking_. Many of their rites have been found to be similar
to those of the Oriental religions, thus indicating that the religion was
brought to Gaul at the time of an Asiatic invasion. Their centers in Gaul
were along the Loire and in modern Brittany.

“Serpent’s egg.” The most remarkable of all the Druidical charms was the
anguineum or snake’s egg. It was said to be produced from the saliva and
frothy sweat of a number of serpents writhing in an entangled mass, and
to be tossed up into the air as soon as it was formed. The fortunate
Druid who managed as it fell to catch it in his sagum, or cloak, rode
off at full speed on a horse that had been waiting for him, pursued by
the serpents till they were stopped by the intervention of a running
stream. Pliny declares that he had seen one. “It is,” he says, “about the
size of a moderately large, round apple, and has a cartilaginous rind,
studded with cavities like those on the arm of a polypus.”—_Encyclopædia

P. 13.—“Stonehenge,” stōnˈhĕnj. Hanging stones, the word means. About
eight miles north of Salisbury (see map) there is a collection of about
one hundred and forty large stones, ranging in weight from ten to seventy
tons. Many of them are still in their original positions, showing that
they were arranged in two ovals within two circles, and were surrounded
by a bank of dirt fifteen feet high, and ten hundred and ten feet in
circumference. Not all authorities agree that Stonehenge was a Druid
temple, some asserting that it was an astronomical observatory, and
others that it was a place for assemblies of the people.

“Kit’s Coty House.” A cromlech, as the primitive monuments of the
Scandinavians and Celts were called. It is composed of three upright
stones about eight feet square by two thick, which support an irregular
stone roof eleven feet long by eight wide. The name is a contraction of
Kitigern’s coty house; _i. e._, Kitigern’s house made from _coits_, the
Celtic word for huge, flat stones. Kitigern was a leader of the Britains
slain in a battle against Hengist and Horsa.

P. 14.—“Cassivellaunus,” casˈsi-ve-lauˌnus; “Chertsey,” chesˈse;
“Hertfordshire,” harˈfurd-shire.

P. 15.—“Aulus Plautius,” auˈlus plauˈti-us. He was a Roman consul when,
in A. D. 48, he was sent to Britain, where he remained four years.

“Ostorius Scapula,” os-toˈri-us scapˈula. He went to Britain about A. D.
50. Soon after sending Caractacus to Rome, Scapula died in the province.

“Caractacus,” ca-racˈta-cus.

P. 16.—“Suetonius,” swe-toˈni-us. It was during the reign of the Emperor
Nero that Suetonius fought in Britain. Previous to this campaign he had
carried war against the Moors. After returning from Britain he was made
consul. “Boadicea,” bo-adˈi-ceˌa.

P. 17.—“Agricola” (37-93). Agricola had been trained in military
service in Britain under Suetonius. Subsequently he had been governor
of Aquitania, and consul at Rome. As governor of Britain he was very
successful until the jealousy of the emperor, Domitian, caused his
return. Tacitus, the historian, was his son-in-law, and wrote his life.

“Hadrian” (76-138). Roman emperor. His trip to Britain was made about 119.

“Severus.” Emperor of Rome from 193-211. It was 208 that he went to
Britain where he carried on a campaign until his death at York.

“Carausius,” ca-rauˈsi-us. Maximian had given Carausius the command of
a fleet which was to protect the coast of Gaul. Dissatisfied with him,
the emperor ordered his execution. Carausius discovering this crossed
to Gaul and proclaimed himself Augustus. When the Roman emperors found
it impossible to subdue him they made him a colleague. He ruled Britain
until he was slain in 293.

P. 18.—“Honorius,” ho-noˈri-us. Roman emperor from 395-423.

P. 21.—“Hengist,” hĕnˈgĭst. A Jutish prince who, with his brother, Horsa,
landed with a fleet on the Isle of Thanet about 449. At this time the
Britains needed assistance against the incursions of the Picts and Scots,
and hired Hengist and his troops. After repelling the barbarians the
Saxons concluded to conquer Britain for themselves. After years of war
Hengist succeeded in driving the Britains from Kent. He then established
his court at Canterbury, where he reigned about thirty years.

“Cerdic.” In 495 a band of Saxons, under Cerdic, attempted the conquest
of southern Britain. In 519 the crown of the West Saxons was put on
Cerdic’s head, but the next year the battle of Mount Bradon checked the

“Old Sarum.” A city two miles north of Salisbury, or New Sarum. It was
deserted for the new site in the fifteenth century.

“Marlborough,” mawlˈbrŭh. A town of Wiltshire.

“Cirencester,” ciˈren-ces-ter. A town about fifteen miles south-east of

“Ceaulin,” ceuˈlin.

P. 22.—“Armorica,” ar-morˈi-ca. A name formerly given to the northwestern
part of Gaul from the Loire to the Seine. The influx of Britons caused
the country to be called Brittany.

“Osismii,” o-sisˈmi-i. A people of Gaul in the neighborhood of the modern
Quimper and Brest. See map in THE CHAUTAUQUAN for March.

“Vannes,” vän; “Rennes,” ren; “Mantes,” mants. Towns of western France.

“Vortimer,” vorˈti-mer. His father, Vorˈti-gern, was the chief of the
British kings when Hengist came to Britain. Being unable to cope with the
Saxon leader, Vortigern was deposed, and his son made commander. Hengist
and Horsa were three times defeated under his leadership, Horsa being
slain in the last battle. Hengist then returned to his country until
Vortimer’s death, when Vortigern was restored. On the return of Hengist
the whole country was easily conquered.

P. 23.—“Ambrosius Aurelianus,” am-broˈsi-us au-reˈli-a-nus.

“Arthur.” As the legend runs Arthur was the son of Uter Pendragon. His
high birth was concealed until he one day drew from the stone in which it
was concealed a sword with the inscription: “Whoso pulleth this sword out
of this stone is rightwise born king of England.” Several years after he
was crowned, he received the enchanted Round Table which had belonged to
his father, and formed about it that circle of knights whose brilliant
exploits form so large a part of English legendary history. Arthur was
finally wounded in battle, and carried away by the fairies, who were to
restore him to the Celts upon his recovery.

“Jeffrey of Monmouth.” An old English chronicler of the first half of the
twelfth century. He compiled a history of the Britains, professing to
be a translation from an old Welsh manuscript. The historical value is
doubted. It contains the legends of Arthur and his court, and Merlin’s

“Knights of the Round-Table.” This Round-Table had been made by Merlin
for Uter Pendragon. It was circular, it was said to prevent jealousy
about precedent. The number of knights which Arthur had is variously
estimated as twelve, forty, and one hundred and fifty. These knights went
into all countries seeking adventures. Their chief exploits occurred in
search of the Holy Cup brought to Britain by Joseph of Arimathea.

“Uter,” uˈter. Pendragon (chief) was the follower of Ambrosius as leader
of the Britons, and the father of King Arthur.

P. 24.—“Merlin.” The Prince of Enchanters. The legends represent Merlin
as the son of a demon. His supernatural powers recommended him to King
Vortigern as a counselor, a position which he afterward filled to
Ambrosius, Uter Pendragon and Arthur. Merlin finally fell a victim to a
charm which he had taught his mistress, Vivien. See Tennyson’s “Merlin
and Vivien.”

“Lancelot,” lănˈce-lot. One of the chief knights of the Round-Table,
called “the darling of the court.” He is often spoken of as _Lancelot du
Lac_ (of the lake), as he was educated at the court of Vivien, known as
the Lady of the Lake. Lancelot was celebrated for his amours with Queen
Guinevere, the wife of King Arthur, and the exploits which he undertook
for her.

“Tristam.” A knight of the Round-Table. A nephew of the king of Cornwall.
He had gone to Ireland, where, being wounded, he was healed by the
Princess Iseult. Returning he told his uncle of her beauty. The latter
sent for Iseult and married her, though she loved Tristam. Years after
his own marriage, Tristam was again wounded, and was told that only
Iseult could heal him. She was sent for, but his wife from jealousy,
persuaded him that she was not coming, and he died. Matthew Arnold has a
poem on this story.

P. 25.—“Aurochs,” auˈrochs. A species of wild ox, contemporary with the
mammoths, but now only found in Lithuania and the forests of the Caucasus.

P. 26.—“Sagas.” The name given to the Scandinavian historical and
mythological tales.

“Edda.” A book containing Scandinavian poetry and mythology. There are
two Eddas. The earliest is in thirty-nine poems containing mythology. The
second is a collection of the myths of the gods, with instructions in the
types and meters of the pagan poetry for the benefit of young poets. It
is chiefly in prose.

P. 27.—“Tarpeian Rock,” tar-peiˈan. A part of the Capitoline hill. It
is said that once while the Sabines were warring against the Romans,
Tarpeia, the daughter of the governor of the citadel on the Capitoline
offered to open the gates to the enemy if they would give her “what they
wore on their arms,” meaning their bracelets. They promised, but on
entering crushed her with their shields. She was buried on the hill, and
her name is still preserved in the name of the rock.

“Jupiter Sator.” After the Sabines had gained possession of the city
through the treachery of Tarpeia, a battle was fought, in which the
Sabines were prevailing when Romulus vowed a temple to Jupiter, and the
god gave him the victory.

P. 31.—“Eulogius,” eu-loˈgi-us.

“Oswald.” He became king of Northumbria about 635. The Welsh had shortly
before this allied themselves under their king Cadwallon, or Cædwalla,
with the king of Mercia, had defeated the Northumbrians and had slain
their king. At the time of Oswald’s succession the Welsh were still in
the north, and he attacked them. The cross being set up as a standard
Oswald held it till the hollow in which it was to stand was filled in
by his soldiers. Throwing himself on his knees he called on his army to
pray. Cadwallon was slain on “Heaven’s field,” as this battle ground was
called, and Oswald for nine years held the chief power. He was finally
slain by Penda.

“Maserfelth,” maˈser-felth.

“Penda.” He became king of Mercia early in the seventh century. His life
was spent in fighting for the old religion of the country. In 655 he met
Oswin, or Oswi, the king of Northumbria, and was defeated in a battle, in
which Green says “the cause of the older gods was lost forever.”

“Offa.” King of Mercia from 758 to 796. Charlemagne, his contemporary,
called him “the most powerful of the Christian kings of the West.”

P. 32.—“Iona,” or Icolmkill. An island of the Hebrides, where Columba
founded a monastery. Columba (521-597) was born in Ireland and trained
in the monasteries. Trouble with a priest led to his being driven from
the country. He went to Iona, where he founded a community which grew
very rapidly and sent out many missionaries. Columba attained a great
reputation, and built, it is said, 300 churches.

“Wilfred.” (634?-709.) “The life of Wilfrith (or Wilfred), of York, was
a mere series of flights to Rome and returns to England, of wonderful
successes in pleading the right of Rome to the obedience of the Church of
Northumbria, and of as wonderful defeats.”—_Green._

“Biscop.” “Benedict Biscop worked toward the same end in a quieter
fashion, coming backward and forward across the sea with books and relics
and cunning masons and painters to rear a great church and monastery at
Wearmouth, whose brethren owed allegiance to the Roman See.”—_Green._

“Cædmon,” kĕdˈmon. The father of English song. He died in 680. According
to traditions he was a swineherd to the monks of Whiteby. One night an
angel appeared to him and commanded him to sing. Awakening, the words of
a poem on creation came to him. He was admitted to the monastery as a
member, after this. Milton is said to have taken the idea of “Paradise
Lost” from this poem.

“Adhelm,” adˈhelm.

“Jarrow.” A town of Durham on the Tyne, where Biscop had founded a
monastery, and where Bede was buried.

P. 33.—“Ethelwulf,” ĕthˈel-wŏolf; “Osburga,” osˈbur-ga.

P. 38.—“Hastings.” A Scandinavian viking born about 812. He joined a band
of marauding Northmen, of whom he soon gained entire control. Leading his
band against France he devasted the banks of the Loire, went thence to
Spain where he pillaged Lisbon and burned Seville. Afterward he went to
Tuscany, and by stratagem captured Rome. Having made another successful
invasion of France, Hastings sailed to England, but was repulsed by King
Alfred. Soon after he left his roving life to settle in Denmark, where
his identity is lost.

P. 41.—“Dunstan,” dŭnˈstan; “Athelstane,” ĕthˈel-stăn.

“Glastonbury,” glasˈton-bury. A town of Somerset, near Bath.

P. 42.—“Crediton,” credˈi-ton. A town of Devonshire.

P. 43.—“Elgiva,” el-giˈva.

P. 44.—“Cambria.” The ancient Latin name for Wales.

“Sterlingshire.” A central county of Scotland. Bannockburn is within its

“Argyle.” A western county of Scotland, including several islands near
the coast. Its hills are famous for their picturesque beauty. The columns
and cave of Staffa are within its limits.

P. 46.—“Elfrida,” elˈfri-da. The second wife of Edgar. The story of the
wooing of Elfrida tells that Edgar having heard of her great beauty,
sent his minister and friend to ascertain if the reports were true. The
minister was so captivated with her charms that he misrepresented her
beauty to the king and married her himself. When Edgar discovered the
deceit, he promptly killed his friend and married Elfrida.

P. 48.—“Canute,” ka-nūtˈ. The second king of Denmark of that name. He was
the son of King Sweyn, of Denmark, and came over with him to England.
Sweyn failed to establish his power, but left the succession to Canute,
who, after obtaining forces from his native land, completed the conquest.

P. 51.—“St. John.” (1801-1875.) An English author and traveler. He has
written several volumes of histories, travels and philosophy.

“Beau Ideal.” A model of beauty; ideal perfection.

P. 53.—“Sobriquet,” sŏbˈre-kāˌ. A nickname. The word is sometimes
incorrectly spelt _soubriquet_.

“Falaise,” fă-laisz. A town of Normandy, France.

“Palgrave.” (1788-1861.) An English author.

P. 54.—“Thierry,” tyārˌreˈ. Jacques Nicholas Augustin (1795-1856). A
French historian. He established a reputation as one of the most original
historians of his times by a history of the conquest of England by the
Normans. Several other volumes, mainly French histories, were written by

P. 59.—“Pizarro,” pe-zārˈo. (1475?-1541.) A Spanish adventurer. Early
in the sixteenth century he assisted in the settlement of Darien. Being
anxious to explore the western coast of Peru for gold, he obtained
supplies of men and arms several times from the governor of Darien, but
the force was insufficient to accomplish his purpose. Pizarro at last
went to Spain and obtained from Charles V. the right to conquest and
discovery in Peru. The expedition was successful, but a quarrel with
Almagro, his partner, led to a civil war, in which Pizarro was slain. His
descendants bearing the title of Marquis of the Conquest are still to be
found in Trujillo, Spain.

P. 61.—“Malmesbury,” mämzˈber-ĭ, William of. (1095?-1143.) He was the
librarian of the monastery of Malmesbury, and the author of several
valuable historical works.

“Guizot,” geˌzoˈ. (1787-1874.) A French statesman and historian.

“Lisieux,” leˈze-uhˌ. A city of Normandy, formerly the seat of a
bishopric, but in 1801 the diocese was abolished.

“Peter the Hermit.” (1050-1115.) He had tried several pursuits, but
finally became a hermit. In 1093 he made a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. The
condition of things there led to his preaching the Crusades. He led the
first band of Crusaders, and afterward was associated with Godfrey of
Bouillon. After the capture of Jerusalem he returned to Europe where he
founded an abbey in which he passed the rest of his life.

P. 65.—“Godfrey of Bouillon,” booˈyonˌ. (1060?-1100.) In the struggle
of Henry IV., of Germany, with Pope Gregory VII., Godfrey had aided
Henry, and was the first to scale the walls of Rome at its capture. This
violation of the sacred city burdened his conscience, and he went on the
First Crusade, of which he became the virtual leader. In 1099 Godfrey
captured Jerusalem after a siege of thirty-eight days. He took the title
of duke, though offered a crown. On his death his brother succeeded him,
assuming the title of Baldwin I., King of Jerusalem.

“Count of Vermandois,” vĕrˌmŏnˈdwaˌ. Brother of the French king, Philip I.

“Bohemond,” bōˈhe-mŏnd. (1060?-1111.) The eldest son of Robert Guiscard.
Being expelled from his father’s throne he took a prominent part in the
Crusades, and was made prince of Antioch. Returning to Europe he married
the daughter of the king of France, and marched against Alexis, the
emperor of Constantinople. He was unsuccessful, and concluded peace. His
death occurred soon after.

“Tancred,” tănkˈred. (1078-1112.) A cousin of Bohemond. He acted a
distinguished part in the war against the Turks, attaining distinction
at the sieges of Nicæa and Antioch, and at the storming of Jerusalem.
He assisted Bohemond, and after the latter returned to Europe, Tancred
defended Antioch. After the defeat of Bohemond, Tancred defeated the
Saracens and drove the Sultan from Syria.

P. 67.—“Brabanion.” Soldiers from Brabant, one of the divisions of the

P. 68.—“Angevins,” änˈjāˌvŏnˌ. The inhabitants of Anjou.

P. 69.—“Ely.” The fens of Ely were a portion of the section known now as
the “Bedford Level,” a district in eastern England, which was formerly a
vast morass, but which in the seventeenth century was reclaimed by the
Earl of Bedford.

“Baldwin de Rivier,” deh reˈveerˈ; “Lenoir,” le-noreˈ.

P. 73.—“Hauberk,” hâuˈbërk. A coat of mail used in the middle ages, being
a jacket or tunic, with wide sleeves reaching a little below the elbow,
and with short trousers terminating at the knee.—_Fairholt._

“De la Chesnage,” deh lä chĕsˈnazhˌ.

P. 76.—“Brito,” brĭtˈo; “Fitzurse,” fitsˈurs.

P. 86.—“Real,” rēˈal. A Spanish and Mexican silver coin worth about 12½

“Lists.” A place enclosed for combats.

“Pursuivants,” pürˈswe-vănt. A follower or attendant.

P. 87.—“Brian de Bois Guilbert,” bre-ŏnˈ deh bwä gĕlˌbêrˈ. A brave but
voluptuous commander of the Knights Templar in Scott’s Ivanhoe.

“Front de Bœuf,” frōn deh bŭf; “Richard de Malvoisin,” deh mălˈvwäˌsănˌ;
“Grantmesnil,” grantˈmāsˌnelˌ; “Vipont,” veˈpŏnˌ.

“St. John of Jerusalem.” A religious and military order which originated
in the middle of the eleventh century. A chapel and hostelries had been
built at Jerusalem near the Holy Sepulchre. The fraternity who cared
for them showed such courage during the siege of Jerusalem that many
knights and princes attached themselves to the hospitallers, and in
1113 the order was approved as “Brothers Hospitallers of St. John in
Jerusalem.” To monastic vows were added those of bearing arms in defense
of Christianity. Many services were rendered to religion, but the order
growing rich, degenerated. After the fall of Jerusalem it was established
at Markab, and in 1291 removed to Cyprus. In 1530 the knights took Malta
and retained it until its capture by Bonaparte in 1798. Since that time
the order has existed only in name.

P. 88.—“La Reyne de la,” etc. The queen of love and beauty.

P. 89.—“Caracoled.” Wheeled about.

P. 92.—“Laissez Aller.” Go.

P. 93.—“Beau-scant.” The name of the Templars’ banner, which was half
white, half black, to intimate, it is said, that they were candid and
fair toward Christians, but black and terrible toward infidels.

“Desdichado.” Scott says of this knight: “His suit of armor was formed of
steel richly inlaid with gold, and the device on his shield was a young
oak tree pulled up by the roots, with the Spanish word _Desdichado_,
signifying disinherited.”

P. 96.—“Chamfron,” chămˈfron. An ancient piece of armor for the head of a

P. 99.—“St. Edmundsbury” or Bury St. Edmunds. A borough in Suffolkshire.
It received its name from Edmund, the Saxon king and martyr.

P. 102.—“Ankerwyke,” anˈker-wike.

P. 103.—“Lewes,” luˈis.

“Mortimer.” The Earl of March. During the reign of Edward II. he became
virtual sovereign of England, by favor of Queen Isabella. Through his
instrumentality the king was imprisoned, and in 1326 murdered. Mortimer
tried to gain control of the young prince, but was seized and hung in

P. 104.—“Llewelyn,” le-welˈin. Prince of Wales 1246. Was through life
engaged in contests with the English, but finally submitted and resigned
his territory 1277; revolted again and was killed by Mortimer 1282.

P. 105.—“Justiciar,” jus-tishˈe-ar. Judge.

“Marcher.” The border barons. The word _march_ means border. It is used
chiefly in the plural, and in the English history applied to the border
territories between England and Scotland, and England and Wales.

P. 106.—“Glamorgan,” gla-morˈgan. The most southerly of the counties of

P. 107.—“Hugh Dispenser.” The son of Simon de Montfort.

P. 109.—“Mareschal,” märˈshal. The word is now written _marshal_. A
military officer of high rank.

P. 111.—“De Bohun,” deh boˈhun; “Inchaffray,” inˈchaf-fray; “Ingelram de
Umphraville,” inˈgel-ram deh umphˈre-ville.

P. 113.—“Ponthieu,” pōngˈte-ŭh.

“Houseled,” houzˈeld. An obsolete word, meaning that they had received
the eucharist.

P. 114.—“Salet,” sălˈet. A light helmet used by foot soldiers.

P. 115.—“Froissart,” froisˈärt (1337-1410). A French chronicler. He had
been destined for the priesthood, but became interested in preparing a
history of the wars of his time. He went to England to collect materials,
where he held a state position until he had attained his object; then he
visited Scotland and Italy before returning to a clerical position in
France. His life as country priest did not suit him and he joined the
duke of Brabant. Having traveled through several countries, collected a
volume of poems and observed the life of nearly all the courts of western
Europe, Froissart devoted the rest of his days to completing his great
work, “The chronicles of the wonderful adventures, great enterprises and
feats of arm which happened during my time in France, England, Brittany,
Scotland, Spain, Portugal, and elsewhere.”

“St. Denis.” A bishop of France in the third century who by legendary
writers is confounded with Dionysius the Areopagite. The latter was an
Athenian philosopher, who became a convert to St. Paul, and traveled
through many countries preaching Christ. Arriving at Paris he resolved to
stay there as a preacher. After several years of service he was executed.
“He became the patron of the French monarchy, his name the war cry of the
French armies. The famous oriflamme—the standard of France—was the banner
consecrated upon his tomb.”

“Alençon,” ä-lĕnˈson.

P. 118.—“La Brayes,” lă brwa; “Reynault,” ráˈnōlˌ.

P. 119.—“Entrepot,” ŏng-tr-pō. A free port where goods are received and

“Vienne,” ve-enˈ.

P. 121.—“Gossip.” This word was formerly used in the sense of comrade,

“Jehan d’Airs,” jāˈänˌdăr; “Jacques de Wisant,” zhäk deh veˈsŏnˌ.

P. 124.—“John Ball.” An English fanatical preacher in the reign of
Richard II. executed at Coventry in 1381. He had been repeatedly
excommunicated for preaching ‘errors and schisms and scandals against the
pope, the archbishops, bishops and clergy,’ and when Wyckliffe began to
preach he adopted some of the reformer’s doctrines, and engrafted them
on his own. He joined Wat Tyler’s rebellion in 1381, and at Blackheath
preached to a hundred thousand of the insurgents a violent democratic
sermon on the text,

    “When Adam delved and Eve span
     Who was then the gentleman?”

P. 128.—“Good Parliament.” In the reign of Edward III., and so called
from the severity with which it pursued the party of the duke of

P. 129.—“Peter’s Pence.” An annual tribute of one penny paid at the feast
of St. Peter to the See of Rome. At one time it was collected from every
family, but afterwards it was restricted to those who had the value of
thirty pence in quick or live stock. This tax was collected in England
from 740 till it was abolished by Henry VIII.

P. 137.—“Cinque Ports,” sink ports. The five English Channel ports of
Hastings, Romney, Hythe, Dover, and Sandwich. These ports lying opposite
to France received peculiar privileges in the days of early English
history, on condition of providing in time of war a certain number of
ships at their own expense.

P. 138.—“Chandos.” (Sir John.) An English soldier of the fourteenth
century, whose valor and virtue have been greatly praised by the
historians of the time. At Crecy, Poitiers and Auray he won honors, was
made constable of Aquitane, and seneschal of Poitou. On his death the
king of France exclaimed that he was the only warrior who could have made
peace between him and the king of England.

“Du Guesclin,” dü gāˈklănˌ (1314?-1380). Constable of France, and its
most famous warrior during his life.

“Saint George.” The patron saint of England. Was at once the GREAT SAINT
of the Greek Church and the patron of the chivalry of Europe. According
to the legends he lived in the time of the emperor Diocletian. He
performed many marvelous feats in defense of his religion, and suffered
terrible persecution; when finally he was beheaded he was placed at the
head of the martyrs. Mrs. Jameson says: “The particular veneration paid
to him in England dates from the time of Richard I., who in the wars of
Palestine placed himself and his army under the especial protection of
St. George.”

“Derby,” earl of, afterward earl of Lancaster. A cousin of Edward III.,
who defended the English provinces in France against the French, winning
a fine reputation as a warrior.

“Hawkwood.” Sir John. An English military adventurer of the fourteenth
century. He fought for Gregory XI., and for the king of Naples, and won
great renown for daring and skill.



P. 437, c. 1.—“Horatii,” ho-raˈti-i; “Curiatii,” cuˈri-aˌti-i.

P. 438, c. 1.—“Cineas.” See Notes in THE CHAUTAUQUAN, page 370. “Manius
Curius,” manˈi-us cuˈri-us; “Cornelius Rufinus,” cor-neˈli-us ru-fiˈnus;
“Fabricius,” fa-bricˈi-us.

“Heraclea,” herˈa-cleˌa. A city in Lucania, near the Tarentine Gulf. It
was here that the first battle between Pyrrhus and the Romans took place
in which the latter were defeated.

“Appius Claudius,” apˈpi-us clauˈdi-us. He was censor in 312, when he
built the Appian aqueduct and commenced the Appian Way. Appius was the
earliest Roman writer whose name has come down to us.

P. 438, c. 2.—“Chaonians,” chā-oˈni-ans. Inhabitants of Chaonia, a
division of Epirus.

“Molossians,” mo-losˈsi-ans. A people of Epirus.

“Lucanians,” lu-caˈni-ans. Inhabitants of Lucania. A district of Lower
Italy, corresponding to a part of the kingdom of Naples.

“Bruttians,” brutˈti-ans. The district south of Lucania, in the southern
extremity of Italy was called Bruttium, from which the people were called


P. 442.—“Dürer,” düˈrer; “Schongauer,” shōnˈgow-er. More generally known
as Martin Schön (the beautiful Martin). Among the Italians he was called
“Bel Martino,” and the French called him “Beau Martin”—so named from
the beauty of his works. He lived in the fifteenth century—the greatest
German artist of that period. His paintings are rare, he being more
famous as an engraver than as a painter. A fine collection of his prints
are in the British Museum.

“Wolgemut,” wolˈge-moot. (1434-1519.) A native of Wurtemburg, who devoted
himself chiefly to the carving and manufacture of huge altar chests and
other specimens of church furniture. Specimens of his painting are in the
gallery at Munich, also at Zwickau, and at Nuremburg.

“Florins,” flŏrˈins. A silver coin of Florence first used in the twelfth
century. The name is given to various coins, in different countries; the
value varying from twenty-three to fifty-four cents.

“Giovanni Bellini,” jo-väˈnee bel-leeˈnee. (1426-1516.) Generally
regarded as the founder of the Venetian school of painting. He decorated
the walls of the Hall of the Council, painted many church pieces, and a
few portraits.

“Zisselgasse,” tsiss-el-gassˈä; “Bruges,” brüzh.

P. 443, c. 1.—“Shahpour,” shaˈpoor; “Pirkheimer,” pirkˈhi-mer; “Holbein,”

“Kugler,” koogˈler. (1808-1858.) A German writer whose works on the
history of art met with great success. He also wrote histories and
published a volume of poems and several successful dramas.

“Bâle,” bäl.

“Rathaus,” rawtˈhous. Counsel house.

P. 443, c. 2.—“More.” (1480-1535.) An English statesman. He was finely
educated at the university, and afterward studied law. At the bar he
became very successful. Under Henry VIII. he was employed in many public
affairs until he won that monarch’s dislike by refusing to consent to his
divorce from the queen. This dislike led to a charge of treason being
preferred against him, and he was condemned and executed.

“Chelsea,” chelˈse. Formerly a village about two miles from London, but
now a suburb. The famous military hospital for invalid soldiers and the
royal military asylum for the support and education of the children of
soldiers are at Chelsea.

“In tempera.” “_Tempera_ painting or _distemper_, as it is now called, is
that in which the pigments are mixed with chalk or clay, and mixed with
weak glue or size.”

“Easterlings.” The popular name of traders from the Baltic and Germany
during the Middle Ages.

“Francesco Sforza,” fran-chĕsˈko sfortˈsä.

“Friedrich Overbeck,” fredˈric oˌver-bekˈ.

“Degli Angeli,” deˈglee änˈgel-ee.

“Tasso.” (1144-1595.) An Italian poet. His “Jerusalem Delivered” was an
epic poem on the delivery of the holy city by Godfrey of Bouillon.

P. 444, c. 1.—“Marchese Massimo,” marˈchez mäs-seeˈmo; “Städel,” stäˈdel.

“Van Eyck,” van-ikˈ. These brothers, Huibrecht and Jan Van Eyck, lived
in the latter part of the fourteenth and first part of the fifteenth
centuries. They attained a great success, which was undoubtedly due to
the discovery of a new process for mixing colors with oil. This discovery
led to a new coloring known as “the purple of Van Eyck.”

“Matsys,” mätˌsisˈ. (1460?-1529.) He is said to have been a blacksmith
in early life, and to have been a self-taught artist. His pictures are
highly colored and finished. One of his best is an altar piece in the
cathedral at Antwerp.

“Siegen,” seˈgen.

“Paolo Veronese,” pawˈlo vá-ro nā-zá. Commonly known as Cagliari
(kälˈjä-ree) (1530?-1588.) A native of Verona. When quite young he
painted the dome of the cathedral at Mantua, and soon after gained a
prize at Venice from several eminent painters. His splendid coloring
made his pictures very famous. One of the best known is the “Marriage of
Cana,” in the Louvre. He also painted portraits of great merit.

“Vincenzo Gonzaga,” vin-senˈzo gon-zäˈgä.

“Giulio Romano,” jooˈle-o ro-mäˈno (1492-1546.) The most famous disciple
of Raphael. “He was particularly successful as an original painter
in battle pieces, and other warlike subjects, and was, above all, an
inimitable designer.”

“Lichtenstein,” lĭkˈten-stine.

“Whitehall.” A famous royal palace of London of great historical
interest. The old palace was burnt in 1697, leaving only a banqueting
hall, which was converted into a Chapel Royal by George I.

“Fourment,” foor-mentˈ.

P. 444, c. 1.—“Decius.” Emperor of Rome from 249 to 251.

“Ixion,” ixˈion; “Antoon van Dyck,” anˈtoon van dikeˈ.

P. 445, c. 1.—“Velasquez,” vä-lasˈkes. (1599-1660.) A painter of Seville.
He studied with the best masters of the times and early attained a
success which led to his being appointed court painter to Philip IV. In
1627 Velasquez visited Rome to study the masters there. On his return
he was given a studio in the king’s palace, and in 1656 he was given a
lucrative position as superintendent of the king’s lodgement. Of his
painting it is said: “He drew nothing from the antique, and his visit to
Italy produced no change in his style. He held up the mirror to his age
alone; all his art was his own—original, national and idiosyncratic.”
Mengs gives the historical picture—“General Pescara receiving the keys of
a Flemish citadel” as his masterpiece. The finest pictures of Velasquez
remain at Madrid.

“Mater Dolorosa,” maˈter dō-lō-rōˈsä. Sorrowing mother.

“Pittore Cavalieresco,” pitˈō-rā cä-välˌee-resˈcō. The Cavalier painter.

“Rembrandt Harmensz van Rijn,” remˈbrănt harˈmensz van rīn; “Van Mander,”
van manˈder. (1548-1606.) A Flemish painter of historical pieces and

“Houbraken.” A Dutch painter of portraits and historical pieces, who
lived in the latter part of the seventeenth century.

“Hermann Gerritszoon,” herˈmann ger-ritsˈzoon; “Weddesteeg,” vedˈdes-tēg;
“Antoine Breedstraat,” anˈto-ny breed-sträˈät; “Saskia van Ulenburch,”
sasˈki-a van ooˈlen-burk; “Leeuwarden,” lö-warˈden.

P. 445, c. 2.—“Guilders,” gĭldˈer. A Dutch coin worth about 38 cents.

“Walloon,” walˈloon. A native of that part of Flanders between the
Scheldt and the Lys.


P. 447, c. 1.—“El Bireh,” el bēˈrä; “Zebroud,” zé-broud; “Aian el
Haramiyeh,” aiˈan el haˌram-iˈyeh; “Nablous,” naˈblous.


P. 448, c. 1.—“Youghiogheny,” yŏhˈho-gāˌnĭ.

“Dinwiddy,” din-widˈdie. (1690-1770.) A Scotchman. Governor of Virginia
from 1752 to 1758.

P. 448, c. 2.—“Le Bœuf,” lŭhˈbŭf; “Du Quesne,” dü-kain.

P. 449, c. 1.—“Braddock.” General Braddock was a Scotchman. He had earned
his title in the wars in Flanders, and had been sent to America in
February before his death, which it is believed was caused by one of his
own men. Braddock gave the order that none of the English should protect
themselves in the battle of Monongahela behind the trees as the French
and Indians did. One of the provincial soldiers disobeyed. Braddock saw
it and struck him with his sword. The brother of the man seeing this,
shot Braddock in the back.

“St. Croix,” krwâ.

P. 450, c. 1.—“Loudon,” lŏwˈdon. (1705-1782.) He had been appointed
governor of Virginia, and commander in-chief of the British forces in
America, but he paid no attention to military affairs. Franklin said
of him: “He is like little St. George on the sign boards, always on
horseback, but never goes forward.”

“Abercrombie,” ăbˈer-krŭm-bĭ. (1706-1781.) A Scotchman. He became a
colonel in the British army in 1746, and came to America in 1756, where
he held the chief command until the arrival of Loudon. After his defeat
at Ticonderoga, Abercrombie returned to England and became a member of
Parliament, where he advocated the obnoxious measures which led to the
war of the Revolution.

“Ticonderoga,” tī-conˈder-oˌga.

“Lord Howe.” (1724-1758.) He was a member of the British army who came
to America in the spring of 1758. It is said that with him “the soul of
the expedition seemed to expire.” His body was taken from Ticonderoga
to Albany and placed in a vault. When several years after, the remains
were removed, his hair, which had been cut short as an example for his
soldiers, had grown to long, flowing, and beautiful locks.

“Wolfe.” (1726-1759.) He distinguished himself in the army when only
twenty years old. His valor at Louisburg led to his being placed at the
head of the expedition against Quebec, where he was killed.

“Gabarus,” gabˈa-rus.

P. 450, c. 2.—“Prideaux,” prĭdˈo; “Montmorenci,” mŏntˈmo-rĕnˌsĭ.

“Johnson.” (1715-1774.) An Irishman who came to America in 1738 to take
care of property in the Mohawk Valley for an uncle. He became a great
favorite with the Indians, and at the breaking out of the French and
Indian war was made superintendent of Indian Affairs. His great influence
kept the Six Nations from any favoring of the French. Johnson was adopted
into the Mohawk tribe and made a sachem. For his invaluable services
during the war he was knighted and given a grant of 100,000 acres of land
north of the Mohawk River.

“Amherst.” (1717-1797.) After his campaign in the north, Amherst was made
governor of Virginia in 1763, was afterward created a baron, and from
1778 to 1795 was commander-in-chief.

“Montcalm.” (1712-1759.) He had entered the French army when but 14 years
old. In the war of the Austrian Secession, and afterward in Italy, he
gained a high rank. In 1756 he was sent to Canada, where he was feebly
seconded by the governor in his efforts to preserve the colony to the
French. A fine monument stands at Quebec erected to both Montcalm and


After a residence of sixteen years on the Pacific coast, and much
travel, often by the most primitive methods, through a remote and, at
the time, little known part of the country, Mrs. Leighton gives us in
an unpretending little volume[C] some picturesque descriptions, and an
entertaining narrative of her personal observations and experiences. As
the work was written from memoranda made at the time, it, of course,
describes the country and its inhabitants as they appeared fifteen or
twenty years ago. The rapid immigration of enterprising white people with
their multiform industries, schools, churches, and all the improvements
of civilized life has so greatly changed things that a faithful picture,
now drawn, of some of the localities would be in strong contrast
with that here sketched for us. With the present railroad facilities,
the steady stream of emigration to the “new land of promise” will be
accelerated, and in the next decade the advancement of society there will
be still more rapid.

A work of rare excellence, and one that meets a demand that has long
been felt, is Wheeler’s complete analysis of the Bible.[D] The learned
author was eminently fitted for the work undertaken, every part of
which witnesses his competency, fidelity and thoroughness. The field
occupied is not new. We have several other works of the same class
but none half so satisfactory. The Professor had already wrought with
gratifying success on his “Analysis and Summary of Herodotus,” and also
of “Thucydides,” books that present the principal facts narrated by those
classic historians summarized with great clearness. The analyses in the
present work present some of the very best examples of concise clearness
of statement, and the summaries are carefully made. The synthesis of
the four gospels gives all the principal events and sayings of the
Savior’s life in chronological order, with explanatory notes. We most
cordially commend it to all our friends who are able to place it in their
libraries. If they are Bible students it is full of such information as
will greatly interest them.

We are glad to know that Dr. J. H. Vincent is publishing in neatly
ornamented paper covers a series of tracts,[E] full of valuable
suggestions, and that ought to be read by the young people of all
fraternizing evangelical churches. They are written from a Methodist
standpoint, in plain, forcible language, that can not fail to be
understood. The writer is so well known and honored by Chautauquans, for
his generous catholicity of spirit, and cordial fellowship with the good
of all denominations that they will not wonder at his intense abhorrence
of all bigotry and narrow-mindedness.

Among the many books on temperance that have been written during the
last two years one of the most useful is “Leaves from the Diary of an
Old Lawyer.”[F] The materials for the volume are taken directly from
the author’s experience as a criminal lawyer, and consist of incidents
whose details he heard in the courts or in the cells of the jails. He
says: “My experience at the bar has satisfied me that intemperance is the
direct cause of nearly all the crime that is committed in our country. I
have been at the bar over thirty years, have been engaged on over four
thousand criminal cases, and, on mature reflection I am satisfied that
over three thousand of those cases have originated from drunkenness
alone, and I believe that a great proportion of the remainder could be
traced either directly or indirectly to this great source of crime.” With
such an experience and such a conviction it is needless to add that Mr.
Richmond has made a strong plea for the temperance cause.

When Messrs. Charles Scribner’s Sons announced that a new and complete
edition of the writings of Donald G. Mitchell (Ik Marvel) was to be
sent out from their house, the many lovers of “Reveries of a Bachelor,”
and “Dream Life,” were heartily pleased. No other books in our American
Literature have a charm like those two. We all feel a certain personal
affection for the Bachelor whose fireside dreams and fancies are like our
own, an affection which makes us turn gladly to anything he writes, and
we are never disappointed in what we find. To be sure there is nothing in
“Seven Stories,” or “Wet Days at Edgewood,” or “Dr. Johns,” that gives
us the delight of our first favorites, but there is much of pleasant
narrative and wholesome sentiment that drives away our dullness and tones
up our thoughts. The new edition is very attractive, its cloth binding
being “something new” in American books, and when the twelve volumes are
out they will be a valuable addition to our _good_ books.

The first new volume in the new edition of Ik Marvel is a bundle of
pleasant papers which are put under the apt title of “Bound Together,”[G]
because, as the author says, “after considerable search I could find
no more unifying title.” Pleasant reading they are, indeed, on topics
which are everyday enough and interesting enough to make every reader
linger over them. Among the essays is the oration on Washington Irving,
delivered at the centennial celebration of Irving’s birth, held a year
ago, at Tarrytown; a course of lectures on “Titian and His Times;” “Two
College Talks;” “Beginnings of an Old Town,” an address delivered upon
the occasion of the second centennial of the foundation of the town of
Norwich, and several delightful papers grouped under the general heads of
“Processions of the Months,” and “In-doors and Out-of-doors.”

There are a great many very suggestive and valuable hints in “My
House.”[H] If house builders would only follow them our eyes and taste
would not be so tried now-a-days by the ginger-bready piles of red and
green peaks and towers and balconies and turrets and cupolas that are
called houses; houses that are built for style, and not for fitness. It
is a pity that a few sensible ideas about house building can not be put
into our heads until we shall build a little nearer Mr. Bunce’s ideal,
houses whose foundations are deep, and whose walls will stand through
many generations to come, built for happiness and not to look at. He does
not try to set forth cheap devices by which “inferior things are made
to put on the seeming of better things,” nor to show how a house can be
made pretentious by means of shams, but “how it can be made beautiful
by choosing and combining intelligently.” “My theme is art, and not
trickery; my design is to show how to bring about good results by right
methods, not how to cover up paltry objects by false devices.”

A book giving much needed and valuable information respecting the false
systems of religion, has been lately issued, by Messrs. Phillips &
Hunt.[I] It is a book for the times, and published for a purpose worthy
of the source whence it comes. It contains nine distinct essays, by as
many Christian scholars, well fitted for the work undertaken; beside
their eminent ability they have severally been in circumstances most
favorable to a thorough understanding of the subjects discussed. The
thoughtful reader will discover in them sufficient grounds for the faith
indicated by the title, “Doomed Religions,” and that the false systems
that have for ages enthralled the race give evidence of decay.


“The World’s Cyclopædia and Library of Universal Knowledge.” Compiled by
Professor H. L. Williams. New York: World Manufacturing Co.

“Biogen; A Speculation on the Origin and Nature of Life.” By Prof. Elliot
Coues. Boston: Estes & Lauriat. 1884.

“Stories by American Authors;” volumes I. and II. New York: Charles
Scribner’s Sons. 1884.

“The Last of the Luscombs;” by Helen Pearson Barnard. Boston:
Congregational Sunday-School and Publishing Society.

“The Retrospect. A Poem in Four Cantos;” by John Ap Thomas Jones.
Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott & Co. 1884.

“The Opening of a Chestnut Burr.” By E. P. Roe. New York: Dodd, Mead & Co.

The Riverside Literature Series: “Mabel Martin and Other Poems.” By John
Greenleaf Whittier. Boston: Houghton, Mifflin & Co.

[C] Life at Puget Sound, with Sketches of Travel in Washington Territory,
British Columbia, Oregon and California. 1865-1881. By Caroline C.
Leighton. Boston: Lee & Shepard, publishers, 1884.

[D] Wheeler’s Complete Analysis of the Bible. A Summary of Old and New
Testament History. By J. T. Wheeler, F. R. G. S., Philadelphia: Thayer,
Merriam & Co. 1882.

[E] The Holy Catholic Church. The Antiquity of Methodism. The Episcopal
Church. By J. H. Vincent, D.D. Phillips & Hunt, New York: 1884.

[F] Leaves from the Diary of an Old Lawyer. By A. B. Richmond, Esq.,
Meadville, Pa. Meadville Publishing House. 1883.

[G] Bound Together: A Sheaf of Papers. By the author of “Wet Days at
Edgewood,” “Reveries of a Bachelor,” etc. New York: Charles Scribner’s
Sons. 1884.

[H] My House; An Ideal. By Oliver B. Bunce. New York: Charles Scribner’s
Sons. 1884.

[I] Doomed Religions. A series of essays on Great Religions of the World.
Edited by Rev. J. M. Reid, D.D., LL. D. New York: Phillips & Hunt. 1884.

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Transcriber’s Notes:

Obvious punctuation errors repaired.

Page 438, “Kineas” changed to “Cineas” throughout, to match the heading,
the note, and the prior issue of THE CHAUTAUQUAN referenced in the note.

Pages 440-442, Sunday Readings: date headings changed from the dates of
the Sundays in April 1884, to the dates of the Sundays in May 1884.

Page 444, “DIJCK” changed to “DYCK” (heading: ANTOON VAN DYCK)

Page 447, “phase” changed to “phrase” (a joyous phrase)

Page 450, “loses” changed to “losses” (their losses at Ticonderoga)

Page 461, “Jeussen” changed to “Jenssen” (Hans Jenssen, in far away

Page 480, “Brittanica” changed to “Britannica” (Lübke, the Britannica,

Page 483, “Vermamdois” changed to “Vermandois” (Hugh of Vermandois)

Page 484, “suceessful” changed to “successful” (successful or happy

Page 490, “Aquatania” changed to “Aquitania” (governor of Aquitania)

Page 492, “owned” changed to “owed” (whose brethren owed allegiance)

Page 494, “Perkheimer” changed to “Pirkheimer” (“Pirkheimer,” pirkˈhi-mer)

Page 494, “Francesko Spforza” changed to “Francesco Sforza” (“Francesco
Sforza,” fran-chĕsˈko sfortˈsä)

Page 494, “Paola” changed to “Paolo“ (Paolo Veronese)

Page 494, “Gongaza” and pronunciation “gon-gäˈzä“ changed to “Gonzaga“
and “gon-zäˈgä” (“Vincenzo Gonzaga,” vin-senˈzo gon-zäˈgä)

Page 495, “Pescarra” changed to “Pescara” (General Pescara receiving the

Page 495, “English” changed to “Indians” (as the French and Indians did)

Page 495, “Louisberg” changed to “Louisburg” (His valor at Louisburg)

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