The Chautauquan, October 1883

Transcriber's Note: This cover has been created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

THE CHAUTAUQUAN

A Monthly Magazine Devoted to the Promotion of True Culture. Organ of the Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Circle.
———————————
VOLUME IV.
FROM OCTOBER, 1883, TO JULY, 1884.
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THEODORE L. FLOOD, D.D., Editor.

THE CHAUTAUQUA PRESS,
MEADVILLE, PA.

Copyrighted by Theodore L. Flood, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. C., 1883-4.

[INDEX TO VOLUME IV.]

Agassiz. Prof. J. Tingley, Ph.D. 462.
Alaska—Its Missions. Rev. Wm. B. Lewis. 592.
American Literature, Criticisms on. 503.
American Literature, Selections From.
Aldrich, Thomas Bailey. 446.
Bancroft, George. 334.
Bryant, William Cullen. 208.
Bushnell, Dr. Horace. 145.
Channing, William Ellery. 79.
Dana, Richard Henry. 208.
Edwards, Jonathan. 16.
Franklin, Benjamin. 77.
Halleck, Fitz Greene. 207.
Higginson, Thomas Wentworth. 392.
Holmes, Oliver Wendell. 265.
Howells, William D. 394.
Irving, Washington. 146.
James, Jr., Henry. 393.
Jefferson, Thomas. 79.
Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth. 210.
Lowell, James Russell. 266.
Mather, Cotton. 14.
Motley, John Lothrop. 333.
Paulding, James Kirke. 147.
Porter, Dr. Noah. 146.
Prescott, William H. 335.
Sandys, George. 14.
Taylor, Bayard. 446.
Thaxter, Celia. 447.
Warner, Charles Dudley. 394.
Washington, George. 78.
Whittier, John G. 264.
Americans, Eccentric. C. E. Bishop. 43, 95, 211, 275, 348, 510, 584.
Amusements of the London Poor. Walter Besant. 457.
Ardent Spirits. B. W. Richardson, M.D. 347.
Arnold, Matthew. Prof. A. B. Hyde, D.D. 270.
Art, Readings in. 11, 75, 142, 204, 262, 330, 384, 442, 500.
Astronomy of the Heavens. Prof. M. B. Goff.
December, 183.
January, 218.
February, 278.
March, 346.
April, 405.
May, 455.
June, 528.
July, 569.
August, 570.
September, 571.
Banquet to Chautauqua Trustees. 307.
Blue Laws. 156.
Book Knowledge and Manners. Lord Chesterfield. 161.
Books Received. 127, 187, 249, 314, 496, 556, 612.
Botanical Notes. Prof. J. H. Montgomery. 227, 287.
California. Frances E. Willard, Pres. W. C. T. U. 222.
Cañons of the Colorado, The. Major G. W. Powell. 564.
Character Building. James Kerr. 153.
Charity of Paris, A Private. 471.
Chautauqua Children’s Class (1883). 62.
Chautauqua for 1884. 543.
Chautauqua to California. Frances Willard, Pres. W. C. T. U. 81.
Chautauqua Winter, Echoes from a. Rev. H. H. Moore. 419.
Class of ’85, To the. 356.
Climate Seeking in America. Geo. A. Townsend. 516.
C. L. S. C. Course for 1884-’85. 600.
C. L. S. C. in Canada, The. 481.
C. L. S. C. in the South. 292.
C. L. S. C. in Toronto, The. 167.
C. L. S. C. Notes on Required Readings.
October, 57.
November, 120.
December, 183.
January, 243.
February, 304.
March, 370.
April, 432.
May, 491.
June, 551.
C. L. S. C. Reunion. 104.
C. L. S. C. Testimony. 103, 606.
C. L. S. C. Work. J. H. Vincent, D.D. 44, 102, 165, 228, 287, 355, 421, 477, 538, 600.
C. L. S. C. ’84. 355.
Commencement, C. L. S. C. Class 1883. 20.
Cooper Institute. J. M. Buckley, D.D. 398.
Council of Nice, The. 581.
Courts of Three Presidents—Thiers, MacMahon, Grévy. 566.
Dead-Letter Office, The. Pattie L. Collins. 460.
Dreamy Old Town, A. Edith Sessions Tupper. 520.
Earthquakes—Ischia and Java. 83.
Editor’s Note-Book. 54, 117, 180, 241, 302, 368, 430, 488, 548, 610.
Editor’s Outlook:
C. L. S. C. an Educational Necessity, The. 53.
C. L. S. C. Plan, The. 178.
C. L. S. C. Course for 1884-5, The. 607.
Chautauqua Outlook for 1884. 609.
College Reform, A. 116.
Complaint, An Unjust. 367.
Day, an Extra. 180.
Dress and Income. 300.
Efficiency and Tenure. 547.
Evangelists. 239.
Floods. 429.
Founder’s Day. 428.
General Conference, Some Points on the. 608.
Greece, History of. 116.
Greeting, To the Class of 1884. 546.
Headquarters of the C. L. S. C. 238.
Idea, Dr. Newman’s New. 487.
Ingenuity in Local Circles. 365.
Is Crime Interesting? 366.
Knowledge, Superfluous. 488.
Lawlessness, Two Kinds of. 485.
Letters of William Cullen Bryant. 367.
Luther, Martin. 179.
Negro, Dr. Haygood’s Battle for. 115.
Père Hyacinthe. 241.
Phillips, Wendell. 429.
Political Methods. 428.
Political Outlook, The. 115.
Political Outlook, Present. 300.
Rewards of Public Service. 486.
Shakspere Controversy, The. 53.
Social Life, A Drawback to. 366.
Spanish Bull Fights. 301.
Steam not an Aristocrat. 300.
Temperance Question, The. 179.
Tenth Assembly, The. 52.
Time Standards, The New. 240.
Wall Street Troubles, The. 608.
Workman, The Decline of Our. 547.
Editor’s Table. 56, 119.
Education of Negro Population. A. G. Haygood. 148.
Electricity. 89.
English, British and American. R. A. Proctor. 410.
Estivation, or Summer Sleep. Rev. J. G. Wood, A.M. 273.
Etiquette. 99.
Experience, A C. L. S. C. 167.
Failings. J. Mortimer-Granville. 39.
Flowers, Early. Francis George Heath. 225.
France, Republican Prospects in. Joseph Reinach. 80.
French History, Readings in. J. H. Vincent, D.D. 315, 377.
From the Baltic To the Adriatic. 36, 87.
Gardening Among the Chinese. 215.
German History. Rev. W. G. Williams. 1, 63, 129, 189, 251.
German Literature. 66.
German Literature, Extracts From.
Goethe, Johann Wolfgang. 194.
Heine, Heinrich. 253.
Humboldt, Alexander von. 253.
Lessing, Gotthold Ephraim. 134.
Luther, Martin. 134.
Sachs, Hans. 133.
Schiller, Friedrich von. 193.
Schleiermacher, Friedrich. 254.
Schopenhauer, Arthur. 255.
Schlegel, Friedrich. 195.
Walther von der Vogelweide. 132.
Winckelman, Johann Joachim. 193.
Going to Europe. 598.
Gospels, The, Considered as a Drama. D. H. Wheeler, D.D. 412.
Graduates C. L. S. C. 310.
Great Organ at Fribourg, The. Edith Sessions Tupper. 94.
Hesitation and Errors in Speech. J. Mortimer-Granville. 454.
Hibernation. J. G. Wood, M.A. 150.
Hyacinth Bulbs. Grant Allen. 351.
Inebriates, What to do with the. W. W. Godding. 514.
Intermediate Normal Class. 188.
Island Park Assembly. 31.
Landmarks of Boston. E. E. Hale. 572.
Lakeside Assembly. 31.
Law, Commercial. E. C. Reynolds, Esq. 260, 327, 382, 439.
Life of a Planet, The. Richard Proctor. 157.
Local Circle, How to Conduct a. 107.
Local Circle Notice. 47.
Local Circles. 105, 169, 230, 288, 356, 422, 478, 539, 601.
London, Disraeli’s. 157.
London Preachers, Some. 536.
Low Spirits. J. Mortimer-Granville. 85.
Man of Learning, Tell Me Something. Margaret Meredith. 150.
Mendelssohn’s Grave and Humboldt’s Home. 339.
Migrations on Foot. Rev. J. G. Wood, M.A. 353.
Missions, Christian. 221.
Monono Lake Assembly. 30.
Monteagle Assembly. Rev. J. H. Warren. 29.
Monterey Assembly. 28.
Mountain Lake Assembly. 31.
Mythology, Slavonic. A. H. Cummings. 34.
Napoleon’s Marshals. 100.
Naval Force, Our. Lieut. G. W. Mentz. 595.
Navy, The. Lieut. G. W. Mentz. 524.
New England Assembly. 32.
New England Branch, Class of ’86. 103.
Normal Class, Chautauqua Graduates (1883). 374.
Normal Class, Chautauqua. J. L. Hurlbut, D.D., and R. S. Holmes, M.A., Instructors. 112, 176, 236, 297, 364, 426, 484, 545.
Nurses, Trained. Lulie W. Winchester. 466.
Ocean Monarch, An. G. Browne Goode. 582.
Ostrich Hunting. Lady Florence Dixie. 220.
Outline of C. L. S. C. Readings.
October, 47.
November, 112.
December, 166.
January, 228.
February, 288.
March, 355.
April, 422.
May, 478.
June, 539.
Peking, The Imperial College of. G. W. Smyth. 587.
Phillips, Wendell. Edward Everett Hale. 451.
Physical Science. 3, 67, 135, 196, 255.
Plant Nutrition. Maxwell T. Masters, M.D. 164.
Poachers in England. Jas. Turves. 90.
Poe, Edgar Allen. C. E. Bishop. 407.
Political Economy. G. M. Steele, D.D. 9, 73, 140, 202.
Popular Education, C. L. S. C. Announcement. 48, 175.
Prisoners and Prisons, Military. O. W. Longan. 475.
Prohibition in Maine. Hon. Neal Dow. 415.
Questions and Answers. A. M. Martin. 49, 109, 172, 234, 294, 362, 425, 482, 544.
Recreation. James Paget. 274.
Recreations of Paris Workmen. R. Heath. 153.
Reunion at Milwaukee. 166.
Roman History, Readings in. W. C. Wilkinson. 437, 497.
Round-Table, C. L. S. C. 171, 233, 292.
Russian Novelist, A. Gabriel Monod. 154.
Schools of Boston, Industrial. E. E. Hale. 417.
Scott, Walter, Eight Centuries with. Wallace Bruce. 91, 162, 216, 284, 343, 403, 467, 533, 589.
Sea as an Aquarium, The. C. L. Anderson, M.D. 279, 341.
Skating and Skaters. Robert MacGregor. 159.
Soldiers’ Home. O. W. Logan. 529.
Speculation in Business. Jonathan. 281.
Stationery, C. L. S. C. 103.
Steel Horse, Our. 523.
Summer Meetings at Chautauqua. 597.
Sunbeams from the Circle. 167, 229.
Sunday Readings. J. H. Vincent, D.D. 6, 70, 137, 198, 257, 328, 388, 440, 499, 560.
Sun and Strange Sunsets, Green. 400.
Table-Talk of Napoleon Bonaparte. 224, 269.
Talk about Books. 126, 248, 314, 436, 495, 556, 612.
Temperature. J. Mortimer Granville. 158.
Tenement House Life in New York. Geo. A. Townsend. 561.
Tricks of Conjurors. Thomas Frost. 125.
Trollope’s (Anthony) Autobiography. 400.
United States History. 267, 336, 395, 448, 506.
University, Chautauqua. 478.
Vanishing Types. Rev. Edward Sprague. 577.
Vegetable Villains. R. Turner. 33, 86.
Waverley Novels. Wallace Bruce. 17.
White House, The. Mrs. Pattie L. Collins. 557.
Wine and Water. Benj. W. Richardson, M.D. 283.
Women as Mistresses of Households, Duties of. F. P. Cobbe. 473.
Women, Work for. 219.
Wreckage, Social. Ellice Hopkins. 40

POETRY.

At Rest. Sarah Doudney. 42.
Autumn Sympathy. E. G. Charlesworth. 80.
Blossoms, To. R. Herrick. 529.
Chillon, Sonnet on. Byron. 582.
Cracked Fiddle, A lay of. Fred. Langbridge. 155.
Divine Sculptor, The. Mrs. Emily J. Bugbee. 451.
Fir Tree, The. Luella Clark. 347.
Flotsom (1492). J. Logie Robertson. 341.
Flowery Fields, In. Mary Harrison. 38.
Gone. E. G. Charlesworth. 40.
Growth. Mrs. Emily J. Bugbee. 561.
Helen’s Tower. Chas. Blatherwick. 338.
His Cold. Foliot S. Pierpoint. 269.
How we Came Together. W. C. Wilkinson, D.D. 32.
Ivy, The. Henry Burton. 19.
Light at Eventide. E. G. Charlesworth. 397.
Luther. Mrs. S. R. Graham Clark. 275.
My Years. Ada Iddings Gale. 343.
Night. Charles Grindrod. 510.
Night. A. St. J. A. 211.
Prayer of Socrates, The. Stuart Blackie. 537.
Returning. Mary Harrison. 148.
Rise Higher. Helen G. Hawthorne. 571.
Sabbath Chimes. Phebe A. Holden. 402.
Self-dependence. Matthew Arnold. 472.
Still Young. Ellen O. Peck. 412.
Stork, The. Translated from the Swedish. 214.
Summer, A Remnant of. E. O. P. 156.
To My Books. Lady Sterling Maxwell. 83.
Under the Autumn Skies. Mrs. Emily J. Bugbee. 161.
Where Lies the Music? Alice C. Jennings. 17.
Zenobia. Ada Iddings Gale. 152.

[The Chautauquan.]

A MONTHLY MAGAZINE DEVOTED TO THE PROMOTION OF TRUE CULTURE. ORGAN OF
THE CHAUTAUQUA LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC CIRCLE.

Vol. IV. OCTOBER, 1883. No. 1.

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.; Rev. 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.

Contents

[REQUIRED READING]
FOR THE
Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Circle for 1882-83.

OCTOBER.

[GERMAN HISTORY.]

By Rev. W. G. WILLIAMS, A. M.

I.

The student of history has need of divisions. By their aid alone can he hope to have command of the facts and events with which history in so large part deals. It is well therefore to begin the study of any particular history by noting such changes, such epoch-making events as may form partition walls of boxes in which may be placed our classified information.

The history of Germany has been variously divided into periods by the different authors. That which we have adopted here has the sanction of the majority and will be found exceedingly natural, and hence simple and convenient. The student should memorize it thoroughly, being assured that though a very general history of itself, nevertheless it is more than many of supposed information could tell of the history of this wonderful people.

DIVISION OF THE HISTORY OF THE GERMANS INTO TEN PERIODS.

First—From the most ancient times to the conquests of the Franks, under Clovis (A. D. 486).

Second—From conquests of Clovis to Charlemagne (511-768).

Third—Charlemagne to Henry I. (768-919).

Fourth—Henry I. to Rodolphus of Hapsburg. The Saxon, Swabian, and Hohenstaufen houses (919-1273).

Fifth—Rodolphus I. of Hapsburg to Charles V. (1273-1520).

Sixth—Charles V. to Peace of Westphalia (1519-1648).

Seventh—Peace of Westphalia to French Revolution (1648-1789).

Eighth—French Revolution to Peace of Paris (1789-1815).

Ninth—Peace of Paris to Franco-Prussian War (1815-1870-1871).

Tenth—From Franco-Prussian War to present time.

THE PRIMITIVE POPULATIONS OF GERMANY, THEIR ORIGIN, CUSTOMS, RELIGION, ETC.

“Germany, or Deutschland, occupies a large part of Central Europe. Speaking roughly, it now reaches from the Alps to the Baltic and the North Sea, and from the valleys of the Rhine and the Maes to the Danube as far as the March and the Mur, and to the Prosna and the Lower Niemen. The country is mountainous in the south, hilly in the center, and flat in the north, where it forms part of the great plain which takes in the whole of north-eastern Europe. The western part of this plain takes in the country between the Teutoburg Wood and the North Sea. As it passes eastward it widens till it reaches from the Erz and Riesen Mountains to the Baltic. A part of South Germany slopes toward the east, and is watered by the Danube; but the general slope of the country is toward the north. Among the rivers flowing northward are the Rhine, the Ems, the Weser, the Elbe, the Oder, and the Vistula.”—Sime.

“Germany has varied very much in extent at different times. This is due partly to the fact that it has no clearly-marked natural boundaries on the east and west, but chiefly to the peculiarity of its position. It is the central country of Europe. Being surrounded by most of the leading nations of the Continent, the Germans have been involved, more than any other people, in the general history of Europe. Of all their neighbors, the Scandinavians are most nearly allied to the Germans. Both are branches of the Teutonic race. But the Germans are also connected, although not so closely, with the other surrounding peoples. All, if we except the Magyars or Hungarians, who are Turanians, belong to the great Aryan family.”—Sime.

“Ancient authors mention several German tribes, as well as their dwelling places, with greater or less precision. Several of them also speak of the chief tribes, among which the single septs united themselves. But their statements are not sufficiently unanimous or precise to give us that clear view which we would so willingly obtain. The origin of the Germanic nations, therefore, like that of all others, is uncertain. To assign to them a distinct historical origin is to make an assertion without evidence, though it is now indisputably established that the Teutonic dialects belong to one great family with the Latin, the Greek, the Sanscrit, and other European and Asiatic tongues. All the positive knowledge that we have of the German nations, previous to their contact with the Romans, is exceedingly vague and mere conjecture.”—Menzies.

“The Romans first heard the name ‘Germans’ from the Celtic Gauls, in whose language it meant simply neighbors. The first notice of a Germanic tribe was given to the world by the Greek navigator Pytheas, who made a voyage to the Baltic in the year 330 B. C. Beyond the amber coast, eastward of the mouth of the Vistula, he found the Goths, of whom we hear nothing more until they appear, several centuries later, on the northern shore of the Black Sea. For more than two hundred years there is no further mention of the Germanic races; then, most unexpectedly, the Romans were called upon to make their personal acquaintance.”—Bayard Taylor.

“At the time of their first contact with the Romans, these Germanic tribes had lost even the tradition of their Asiatic origin. They supposed themselves to have originated upon the soil where they dwelt, sprung either from the earth or descended from the gods. According to the most popular legend, the war-god Tuisko, or Tiu, had a son, Mannus (whence the word man is derived), who was the first human parent of the German race. Many centuries must have elapsed since their first settlement in Europe, or they could not have so completely changed the forms of their religion and their traditional history.”—Taylor.

MANNERS AND CUSTOMS.

“The early Germans were noted for their love of feasting, which was carried to such excess that they would sometimes spend whole days and nights at table, drinking and gaming, in consequence of which they often quarreled and fought so that a convivial meeting frequently terminated in bloodshed. They gambled with dice, as Tacitus, with astonishment, informs us, in a sober state and as a serious occupation, and with so much eagerness for gain, that when they had lost all they hazarded their freedom, and even their very persons, upon the last cast. The loser freely delivered himself up to slavery, although even younger and stronger than his adversary, and patiently allowed himself to be bound and sold as a slave; thus steadfastly did they keep their word, even in a bad case. ‘They call this good faith,’ says the Roman writer. There were various circumstances under which a German might forfeit his liberty, such as marrying a bondwoman, or of not being able to pay his debts; but the generality of the slaves were captives taken in war.

“The Germans did not all sit down at the same table, but each man had his own seat and board, which were of a very rough description, being merely a wooden stool and table, furnished with drinking horns, wooden bowls, spoons, and platters. Each person of rank had his servant behind him to hold his shield and spear. He kept his sword by his side, for on no occasion would a German part with his arms, which was a proof that he expected to have frequent need of them.

“The wives and daughters of the Germans, we are told, shared in all the public entertainments, for however rude and fierce these people might be in other respects, they were distinguished, even in the most barbarous ages, for their attention and respect to the female sex, whom they consulted on the most important affairs, and by whose opinions they were very often guided. The feasts of the Germans, like those of the Gauls and Scandinavians, were always attended by a number of bards, several of whom were attached to the family of every chief, and were treated with the highest respect. They played on the harp and flute, and when they sang of war, the company took part in the concert by clashing their swords against their shields.

“The Germans, in very remote ages, were dressed in skins of wild animals, and afterward in a coarse kind of linen, made by the women; but as they intermixed more with the Gauls, they learned from them to make a finer sort of linen, and woolen also, and as soon as they were acquainted with these useful arts, spinning and weaving became the principal occupations of German women, and a more civilized costume was adopted than that which was made from the skins of the elk and reindeer. These animals, in the time of Julius Cæsar, were very numerous in the forests of Germany, from which, however, they have long since disappeared.

“The Romans justly considered the German nation as an aboriginal, pure, and unmixed race of people. They resembled themselves alone; and like the specifically similar plants of the field, which, springing from a pure seed, not raised in the hot-bed of a garden, but germinating in the healthy, free, unsheltered soil, do not differ from each other by varieties; so, also, among the thousands of the simple German race, there was but one determined and equal form of body. Their chest was wide and strong; their hair yellow, and with young children it was of a dazzling white. Their skin was also white, their eyes blue, and their glance bold and piercing. Their powerful gigantic bodies, which the Romans and Gauls could not behold without fear, displayed the strength that nature had given to this people; for, according to the testimony of some of the ancient writers, their usual height was seven feet. From their earliest youth upward they hardened their bodies by all devisable means. New-born infants were dipped in cold water, and the cold bath was continued during their whole lives as the strengthening renovator, by both boys and girls, men and women. The children ran about almost naked, and effeminate nations wondered how those of the Germans, without cradles or swaddling bands, should grow up to the very fullest bloom of health.

“Cæsar, Tacitus, and Suetonius, with many others, have pointed to one and the same characteristic of the Germans, as the secret of their power and prosperity. The Kelt had everywhere yielded to the eagles of Rome, while the Teuton everywhere checked their flight. Amazed, and even alarmed, at those tall fair-haired, blue-eyed enemies, who had to be conquered with gold instead of steel, Tacitus examines the reasons of their prowess, and finds it in the soberness of their blood, in their reverence for women and for the laws of nature, in their deference to parental authority and their marriages of maturity. ‘Chastity is a custom with them,’ says the ‘De Moribus Germanorum,’ and a passage to the same effect might be cited from Cæsar. Those southern soldiers and statesmen saw, in truth, with a terrible sense of overhanging fate, that race of hardy, chaste, home-loving, free and fearless barbarians, of whom the Emperor Titus said, ‘Their bodies are great, but their souls are greater.’ The tone of Tacitus is that of a man who bitterly feels how much greater, after all, as a moral being, the barbarian may be than the civilized man, when civilization recognizes no higher aim than material splendor, and that utility which subserves material wants. Other civilizations than that of the Empire may read a lesson in those brief pages where the philosopher of a worn-out world records his impression of the races from which the world was hereafter to be reconstituted.”—Menzies.

“The three principal vices of the Germans were indolence, drunkenness, and love of gaming. Although always ready for the toils and dangers of war, they disliked to work at home. The women ruled and regulated their households with undisputed sway. They were considered the equals of the men, and exhibited no less energy and courage. They were supposed to possess the gift of prophecy, and always accompanied the men to battle, where they took care of the wounded, and stimulated the warriors by their shouts and songs. They honored the institution of marriage to an extent beyond that exhibited by any other people of the ancient world. Those who proved unfaithful to the marriage vow were punished with death.”—Taylor.

RELIGIOUS BELIEFS AND USAGES.

“The worship of the ancient Germans coincided with their natural character, and consequently was much more simple and elevated than that of other peoples. Although uncultivated, they carried in their hearts the sentiment of an infinite and eternal power, and they regarded it as an affront to the divinity to enclose it within walls, or to represent it under human form. They consecrated to it the woods and forests as a spacious temple of which nature itself erected the pillars, and to which the immensity of the heavens formed the roof.

“The ancient Germans adored, like the Persians, the sun and fire, but they regarded Wodan as their supreme god. They called him also Alvater, father of all things. Their most beneficent goddess was the mother of the earth (Hertha). The Germans attached great importance to divinations and prognostics. The crow and the owl signified misfortune; the cuckoo announced long life. They discovered the future by means of the branches of fruit trees (runes). Various signs were cut upon each rod, and afterwards the rods were thrown upon a white cloth; then the priest, or father of the family, offered up a prayer to the divinity, and thrice chose from among the rods those which were to give the divine revelations. The clairvoyants were held in high estimation, and history has preserved some of the names of those to which the belief of the people had given a great influence over the decision of public affairs.”—Menzies.

“The people had their religious festivals at stated seasons, when sacrifices—sometimes of human beings—were laid upon the altars of the gods in the sacred groves. Even after they became Christians, in the eighth century, they retained their habit of celebrating some of these festivals, but changed them into the Christian anniversaries of Christmas, Easter, and Whitsuntide.

“Thus, from all we can learn respecting them, we may say that the Germans, during the first century before Christ, were fully prepared by their habits, laws, and their moral development, for a higher civilization. They were still restless, after so many centuries of wandering; they were fierce and fond of war, as a natural consequence of their struggles with the neighboring races; but they had already acquired a love for the wild land where they dwelt, they had begun to cultivate the soil, they had purified and hallowed the family relation, which is the basis of all good government, and finally, although slavery existed among them, they had established equal rights for free men.

“If the object of Rome had been civilization, instead of conquest and plunder, the development of the Germans might have commenced much earlier and produced very different results.”—Taylor.

[To be continued.]

[PHYSICAL SCIENCE.]

I.—THE AIR.

When we begin to look attentively at the world around us, one of the first things to set us thinking is the air. We do not see it, and yet it is present wherever we may go. What is this air?

Although invisible, it is yet a real, material substance. When you swing your arm rapidly up and down you feel the air offering a resistance to the hand. The air is something which you can feel, though you can not see it. You breathe it every moment. You can not get away from it, for it completely surrounds the earth. To this outer envelope of air, the name of atmosphere is given.

The air is not a simple substance, but a mixture of two invisible gases, called nitrogen and oxygen. But besides these chief ingredients, it contains also small quantities of other substances; some of which are visible, others invisible. If you close the shutters of a room, and let the sunlight stream through only one chink or hole into the room, you see some of the visible particles of the air. Hundreds of little motes, or specks of dust, cross the beam of light which makes them visible against the surrounding darkness, though they disappear in full daylight. But it is the invisible parts of the air which are of chief importance; and among them there are two which you must especially remember—the vapor of water and carbonic acid gas. You will soon come to see why it is needful for you to distinguish these.

Now what is this vapor of water? You will understand its nature if you watch what takes place when a kettle boils. From the mouth of the spout a stream of white cloud comes out into the air. It is in continual motion; its outer parts somehow or other disappear, but as fast as they do so they are supplied by fresh materials from the kettle. The water in the kettle is all the while growing less, until at last, if you do not replenish it, the whole will be boiled away, and the kettle left quite dry. What has become of all the water? You have changed it into vapor. It is not destroyed or lost in any way, it has only passed from one state into another, from the liquid into the gaseous form, and is now dissolved in the air.

Carbonic acid gas is also one of the invisible substances of the atmosphere, of which, though it forms no more than four parts in every ten thousand, yet it constitutes an important ingredient. You will understand how important it is when you are told that, from this carbonic acid in the air, all the plants which you see growing upon the land extract nearly the whole of their solid substance. When a plant dies and decays, the carbonic acid is restored to the air again. On the other hand, plants are largely eaten by animals, and help to form the framework of their bodies. Animals in breathing give out carbonic acid gas; and when they die, and their bodies decay, the same substance is again restored to the atmosphere. Hence the carbonic acid of the air is used to build up the structure both of plants and animals, and is given back again when these living things cease to live. There is a continual coming and going of this material between the air and the animal and vegetable kingdoms.

You know that though you can not see the air you can feel it when it moves. A light breeze, or a strong gale, can be just as little seen by the eye as still air; and yet we readily feel their motion. But even when the air is still it can make itself sensible in another way, viz: by its temperature. For air, like common visible things, can be warmed and cooled.

This warming and cooling of the air is well illustrated by what takes place in a dwelling-house. If you pass out of a warm room, on a winter’s day, into the open air when there is no wind, you feel a sensation of cold. Whence does this sensation come? Not from anything you can see, for your feet, though resting on the frozen ground, are protected by leather, and do not yet feel the cold. It is the air which is cold, and which encircles you on all sides, and robs you of your heat; while at the same time you are giving off or radiating heat from your skin into the air. On the other hand, if, after standing a while in the chilly winter air, you return into the room again, you feel a sensation of pleasant warmth. Here, again, the feeling does not come from any visible object, but from the invisible air which touches every part of your skin, and is thus robbed of its heat by you.

Now, how is it that the atmosphere should sometimes be warm and sometimes cold? Where does the heat come from? and how does the air take it up?

Let us return again to the illustration of the house. In winter, when the air is keen and frosty outside, it is warm and pleasant indoors, because fires are there kept burning. The burning of coal and wood produces heat, and the heat thus given out warms the air. Hence it is by the giving off or radiation of the heat from some burning substance that the air of our houses is made warmer than the air outside.

Now, it is really by radiation from a heated body that the air outside gets its heat. In summer, this air is sometimes far hotter than is usual in dwelling-houses in winter. All this heat comes from the sun, which is an enormous hot mass, continually sending out heat in all directions.

But, if the sun is always pouring down heat upon the earth, why is the air ever cold? Place a screen between you and a bright fire, and you will immediately feel that some of the heat from the fire place has been cut off. When the sun is shining, expose your hand to its beams for a time, and then hold a book between the hand and the sun. At first, your skin is warmed; but the moment you put it in the shade, it is cooled again. The book has cut off the heat which was passing directly from the sun to your hand. When the atmosphere is felt to be cold, something has come in the way to keep the sun’s heat from directly reaching us.

Clouds cut off the direct heat of the sun. You must often have noticed the change of temperature, when, after the sun has been shining for a time, a cloud comes between it and the earth. Immediately a feeling of chilliness is experienced, which passes off as soon as the cloud has sailed on, and allowed the sun once more to come out.

The air itself absorbs some of the sun’s heat, and the greater the thickness of air through which that heat has to make its way, the more heat will be absorbed. Besides this, the more the rays of heat are slanted the weaker do they become. At noon, for example, the sun stands high in the sky. Its rays are then nearest to the vertical, and have also the least thickness of air to pass through before they reach us. As it descends in the afternoon, its rays get more and more slanted, and must also make their way through a constantly increasing thickness of air. Hence the middle of the day is much warmer than morning or evening.

At night, when the sun no longer shines, its heat does not directly warm the part of the earth in shadow. That part not only receives no heat from it, but even radiates its heat out into the cold sky. Hence night is much colder than day.

Then, again, in summer the sun at noon shines much higher in the sky with us, or more directly overhead, than in winter. Its heat comes down less obliquely and has less depth of air to pass through, and hence is much more felt than in winter, when, as you know, the sun in our part of the world never rises high even at mid-day.

If we were dependent for our warmth upon the direct heat of the sun alone, we should be warm only when the sun shines. A cloudy day would be an extremely cold one, and every night as intensely frosty as it ever is in winter. Yet such is not the case. Cloudy days are often quite warm; while we are all aware that the nights are by no means always very cold. There must be some way in which the sun’s heat is stored up, so that it can be felt even when he is not shining.

In summer the ground gets warmed; in some parts, indeed, becoming even so hot at times that we can hardly keep the hand upon it. In hot countries this is felt much more than in this country. Soil and stones absorb heat steadily, that is to say, soon get heated, and they soon cool again. When they have been warmed by the sun, the air gets warmed by contact with them, and keeps its heat longer than they do; so that even when at night the soil and stones have become ice-cold, the air a little above is not so chilly. On the other hand, when the surface of the ground is cold, it cools the air next it. The ground parts easily with its heat, and a vast amount of heat is in this way radiated at night from the earth outward into the cold starry space. Much more heat, however, would be lost from this cause did not the abundant aqueous vapor of the atmosphere absorb part of it, and act as a kind of screen to retard the radiation. This is the reason why in hot climates, where the air is very dry—that is, contains a small proportion of the vapor of water—the nights are relatively colder than they are in other countries where the air is moister. In like manner, clouds serve to keep heat from escaping; and hence it is that cloudy nights are not so cold as those which are clear and starry.

The atmosphere, then, is heated or cooled according as it lies upon a warm or cold part of the earth’s surface; and, by means of its aqueous vapor, it serves to store up and distribute this heat, keeping the earth from such extremes of climate as would otherwise prevail.

The air lying next to a hot surface is heated; the air touching a cold surface is cooled. And upon such differences of temperature in the air the formation of winds depends.

Hot or warm air is lighter than cold air. You have learned how heat expands bodies. It is this expansion of air, or the separation of its particles further from each other which makes it less dense or heavy than cold air, where the particles lie more closely together. As a consequence of this difference of density, the light warm air rises, and the heavy cold air sinks. You can easily satisfy yourselves of this by experiment. Take a poker, and heat the end of it in the fire until it is red-hot. Withdraw it, and gently bring some small bits of very light paper, or some other light substance, a few inches above the heated surface. The bits of paper will be at once carried up into the air. This happens because the air, heated by the poker, immediately rises, and its place is taken by colder air, which, on getting warmed, likewise ascends. The upward currents of air grow feebler as the iron cools, until, when it is of the same temperature as the air around, they cease.

This is the principle on which our fire-places are constructed. The fire is not kindled on the hearth, for, in that case, it would not get a large enough draft of air underneath, and would be apt to go out. It is placed some way above the floor, and a chimney is put over it. As soon as the fire is lighted, the air next it gets warmed, and begins to mount, and the air in the room is drawn in from below to take the place of that which rises. All the air which lies above the burning coal gets warmer and lighter; it therefore flows up the chimney, carrying with it the smoke and gases. You will understand that though a bright blazing fire is a pleasant sight in winter, we do not get all the heat which it gives out. On the contrary, a great deal of the heat goes up the chimney; and, except in so far as it warms the walls, passes away and warms the outer air.

What happens in a small way in our houses takes place on a far grander scale in nature. As already pointed out, the sun is the great source of heat which warms and lightens our globe. While the heat of the sun is passing through the air, it does very little in the way of warming it. The heat goes through the air, and warms the surface of the earth. You know that in summer the direct rays of the sun are hot enough to burn your face, and yet, if you put even a thin sheet of paper over your head, enough to cut off these rays, the sensation of burning heat at once goes off, although the same air is playing about you all the time.

Both land and water are heated by the sun’s rays, and the same change in the air then takes place which we find also at our firesides. The layer of air next the warmed earth becomes itself warmed. As it thereby grows lighter it ascends, and its place is taken by colder air, which flows in from the neighborhood to take its place. This flowing in of air is wind.

One of the most important ingredients in the air is the vapor of water. Let us try to see, first of all, how it gets into and out of the air. And in this case, as before, you will find that great questions in science often admit of being simply and readily illustrated by the most familiar things.

You may have noticed that on very cold nights the windows of sitting-rooms, or crowded public halls, are apt to be found streaming with water on the inside.

Now, in such cases, where does the moisture come from? Certainly not out of the glass. It is derived from the vapor of water present in the air. This word vapor is often used to describe some kind of visible mist or fog. But these visible forms of moisture are not properly vapor in the sense in which the term is used in science. The aqueous vapor of the air is always invisible, even when the air is saturated with it, and only when it passes back into the state of water do you actually see anything.

When the invisible vapor dissolved in the air becomes visible, as in mists, clouds, dew, or rain, it is said to be condensed, and this process of liquefaction is called condensation.

The quantity of vapor which the air can contain varies according to temperature, warm air being able to hold more than cold air.

As the air is cooled, its power of retaining vapor diminishes. When it becomes colder than the temperature at which it is able to keep its supply of vapor dissolved, the excess of vapor is condensed and becomes visible. The temperature at which this takes place is the point of saturation, or dew-point.

Perhaps you may ask how it is that the vapor so universally present gets into the atmosphere, and where it comes from. If you pour a little water into a plate, and set it down in the open air, you will note in the course of a day or two, that the water has sensibly diminished. The air has drunk up part of it, and will drink up the whole, if the water is allowed to stand long enough. What takes place from a small quantity of water goes on from every surface of water on the face of the earth, from every brook and river and lake, and from the great sea itself. Water is constantly passing off into vapor, which is received and retained by the air. This process is called evaporation, and the water which passes off into vapor is said to evaporate.

Since warm air can hold more vapor than cold air, evaporation must be more vigorous in sunshine than at night, and during summer than during winter.

On a dry, bracing day, evaporation goes on rapidly, because the air has not nearly got all the quantity of vapor it can hold in solution. On a damp day, however, when the air contains about as much vapor as it can hold at that particular temperature, evaporation is quite feeble, or ceases altogether. This varying capacity of the air for vapor is the reason why laundresses find so much difference between days, in the ease with which they can have their clothes dried.

After sunset, when the sky is clear, you know that the grass gets wet with dew. In the morning you may see mists hanging over woods, and streams, and hills, and gradually melting away as the sun mounts in the sky. At all times of the year you may watch how clouds form and dissolve, and form again, ever changing their size and shape as they move through the air. Now these are all examples of the condensation of vapor. Let us see how the process takes place.

Condensation, as we have seen, results from a cooling of the air. When vapor is condensed, it does not at once take the form of running water. The cold glass brought into the warm room has first a fine film of mist formed upon it, and then by degrees the clear drops of water come. In reality mist is made up of exceedingly minute particles of water, and it is the running together of these which makes the larger drops. So in nature on the great scale, when condensation occurs the vapor first appears as a fine mist. This is always the result of cooling; so that, whenever you see a mist or cloud forming, you may conclude that the air in which it lies is being cooled.

Dew is the name given to the wetness which we notice appearing in the evening, or at night, upon grass, leaves, or stones, or even sometimes on our hair. In the morning you have, no doubt, often watched the little dewdrops sparkling upon the foliage and the delicate threads of gossamer. Now this wetness does not come out of the leaves or stones, nor out of your hair. It is all derived from the air by condensation, exactly as we see the film of mist form upon the cold tumbler in the warm moist air of a room. In fact, that film of mist was really dew, and all dew is formed in the same way, and from the same cause.

At night, when the sky is clear, the earth radiates heat rapidly; that is to say, it gives off into cold space a great part of the heat which it has received from the sun during the day. Its surface consequently becomes cold, as you may have felt when you put your hand upon leaves or stones after nightfall. The layer of air next the cooled ground is chilled below its point of condensation, and the excess of vapor is deposited as dew upon the grass, twigs, stones, and other objects. Hence it is that the temperature at which this condensation begins to take place is called the dew-point.

Another way in which a cold surface of the earth may produce condensation is shown by what takes place among mountains. When a warm moist wind blows upon a chill mountain top, the air is cooled, and its vapor becomes visible in the form of a mist or cloud. You can often see that the cloud is quite solitary, and even shapes itself to the form of the ground, as if it were a sort of fleecy cap drawn down over the mountain’s head. This is often well marked in the morning. As day advances, the ground, warmed by the sun, no longer cools the air, and hence the mist is gradually re-absorbed into the atmosphere. But by and by, at the coming on of night, when the ground is once more cooled by radiation, if there should be vapor enough in the air, the mist will re-form, and the mountain put on his cap again.

Cold air, as well as cold ground, condenses the vapor of warmer air. If you watch what goes on along the course of a river, you will often see examples of this kind of condensation. The ground on either side of the river parts with its heat after sundown sooner than the river itself does, and consequently cools the air above it more than the air above the river is cooled. So when this colder air from either side moves over to take the place of the warmer damp air lying on and rising from the river, condensation ensues in the form of the mist or river-fog, which so commonly hangs at night and early morning over streams.

A cloud is merely a mist formed by the cooling of warm moist air, when it loses its heat from any cause, such as expansion during ascent, or contact with currents of cooler air. If you watch what goes on in the sky, you may often see clouds in the act of forming. At first a little flake of white appears. By degrees this grows larger, and other cloudlets arise and flock together, until at last the sky is quite overcast with heavy clouds, and rain begins to fall. The vapor which is thus condensed in the air has all been obtained by the evaporation of the water on the earth’s surface. It rises with the warm air, which losing its heat as it ascends, and coming too in contact with colder layers of the atmosphere, can not hold all its vapor, and is obliged to get rid of the excess, which then condenses into cloud.

On a summer morning the sky is often free from cloud. As the day advances, and the earth gets warmed, more vapor is raised; and as this vapor, borne upward by the ascending air-currents, reaches the higher and colder parts of the atmosphere, it is chilled into the white fleecy clouds which you see forming about mid-day and in the afternoon. Toward evening, when less evaporation takes place, the clouds cease to grow, and gradually lessen in size until at night the sky is quite clear. They have been dissolved again by descending and coming in contact with the warm air nearest to the earth. Again, you have often noticed that clouds move across the sky. They are driven along by upper currents of air, and of course the stronger these currents are the faster do the clouds travel. In this way the sky is sometimes completely overcast with clouds which have come from a distance.

You are well aware that rain always comes from clouds in the sky. When the sky is clear overhead, no rain falls. Only when it gets overcast does the rain come. You can watch a dark rain-cloud gather itself together and discharge a heavy shower upon the earth. When a cold glass is brought into a warm room, you will remember that the film of mist formed upon the glass is found by degrees to gather into drops, and trickles down the cold surface. Now the mist on the glass and the cloud in the sky are both formed of minute particles of water, separated by air. It is the running together of these particles which gives rise to these drops. In the one case, the drops run down the cold glass. In the other case, they fall as drops of rain through the air. Rain, therefore, is thus a further stage in the condensation of the aqueous vapor of the atmosphere. The minute particles of the cloud, as condensation proceeds, gather more moisture round them, until at last they form drops of water, too heavy to hang any longer suspended in the air. These then fall to the earth as rain-drops.

But there is another important form in which the moisture of the clouds may descend to the surface of the earth. When the weather is cold enough, there fall to the ground not drops of rain, but flakes of snow.

If you bring snow indoors, it soon melts into water. If you expose this water for a time it evaporates. Snow, water, and aqueous vapor are thus only different forms of the same substance. We say that water can exist in three forms—the gaseous, the liquid, and the solid. Snow is an example of the solid condition.

On a frosty night pools of water are covered with a hard, transparent crust, of what is called ice. You may break this crust into pieces, but if the cold continues, a new crust will soon be formed with bits of the old one firmly cemented in it. And the greater the cold the thicker will the crust be, until perhaps the whole of the water in the pools may become solid. If you take a piece of this solid substance, you find it to be cold, brittle, and transparent. Brought into a warm room it soon melts into water, and you may drive off the water as before into vapor. Ice is the general name given to water when it is in the solid state, such forms as snow and hail being only different appearances which ice puts on. Whenever water becomes colder than a certain temperature it passes into ice, or freezes, and this temperature is consequently known as the freezing-point.

The upper layers of the atmosphere are much colder than the freezing-point of water. In the condensation which takes place there, the clouds do not resolve themselves into rain. The vapor of the up-streaming currents of warm air from the earth’s surface is condensed and frozen in these high regions, and passes into little crystals, which unite into flakes of snow. Even in summer the fine white cloudlets which you see floating at great heights are probably formed of snow. But in those countries, such as ours, where in winter the air even at the surface is sometimes very cold, the snow falls to the ground, and lies there as a white covering, until returning warmth melts it away.

Besides rain and snow, the moisture of the air takes sometimes the form of hail, which consists of little lumps of ice like frozen rain; and of sleet, which is partially melted snow. But rain and snow are the most important, and it is these two forms which we must follow a little further.

Before doing so, let us gather together the sum of what has been said about the aqueous vapor of the air. We have learned that, as every sheet of water on the face of the globe evaporates, the air is full of vapor; that this vapor is condensed into visible form, and appears as dew, mist, and cloud. We have learned further, that the vapor of which clouds are formed is resolved into rain and snow, and, in one or other of these forms, descends to the earth again. There is thus a circulation of water between the solid earth beneath and the air above. This circulation is as essential to the earth in making it a fit habitation for living things, as the circulation of blood is in keeping our bodies alive. It mixes and washes the air, clearing away impurities, such as those which rise from the chimneys of a town. It moistens and quickens the soil, which it renders capable of supporting vegetation. It supplies springs, brooks, and rivers. In short, it is the very mainspring of all the life of the globe. So important a part of the machinery of the world deserves our careful consideration. Let us next attend, therefore, to what becomes of the rain and the snow after they have been discharged from the air upon the surface of the earth.

[To be continued.]

[SUNDAY READINGS.]

SELECTED BY REV. J. H. VINCENT, D.D.

[October 7.]
“TENDENCIES TO ERROR.”

By Rev. WILLIAM FRASER, LL.D.

“Let no one, upon a weak conceit of sobriety or an ill-applied moderation, think or maintain that a man can search too far, or be too well studied in the book of God’s word, or in the book of God’s works—divinity or philosophy—but rather let men endeavor an endless progress or proficiency in both; only let them beware that they apply both to charity and not to arrogance; to use, and not to ostentation; and again, that they do not mingle or confound these learnings together.”—Bacon.

Many have lost their early faith in the Bible and are following its guidance with faltering footstep. Between them and hitherto accepted truths the sciences have been placing apparently insurmountable obstacles. The trustful simplicity with which they once read the sacred record has almost perished. Inferences by the man of science, conflicting with the interpretations of scripture by the theologian, have rudely shaken their most cherished convictions. They are not infidels, they are not skeptics, for doubt is distasteful to them, they long for more definite expositions and a firmer faith.

Such, possibly, may be some of you. In the midst of such discussions as are at present in progress, perplexity is not unnatural. Your most anxiously sustained investigations have hitherto only multiplied difficulties, and a sense of responsibility alone constrains you to linger over conclusions from which your judgment recoils. This hesitancy of belief may be at the outset disheartening; yet it may be inseparable from that clearness of insight and that force of character which, in the end, commonly create the stablest convictions, and evoke adequate proof to shield them. To shun or to denounce you because you can not acquiesce in what we believe is inconsistent, not only with the lessons of philosophy, but with his example to “bear witness to the truth.”

What is your duty, with the natural sciences on the one hand, appealing so largely to your reason, and the scriptures on the other hand, appealing so constantly to your faith? Obviously, to depreciate neither, but to welcome both the sciences and the scriptures, to ascertain their harmony, to note their differences, and to accept all the treasures of truth which they may bring. Indifference is inexcusable as is excessive zeal, and apathy as antagonism.

The Bible, free to us as are the fields of science, challenges the severest scrutiny. It is the boldest of books, and demands the application of every test. As it is the most comprehensive history in the world, and gives amplest scope for research; as its earliest records are the oldest in existence, and its latest prophecies shed light far into the future; as it touches depths and reaches heights which no other book can approach; as it brings into closest connection the visible and invisible, natural law and supernatural force, the condition of man and the character of God, it is exposed to assaults which no other book can bear.

Systematic and persistent study is required at your hand, that you may estimate aright not only the facts and arguments brought against the Bible, but those also which are adduced in its favor. The task may be arduous, but this price is not too great for the settlement of questions so momentous; and if the solution of some of them may have to be for a season postponed, yours will be the satisfaction which the conscientious improvement of every opportunity invariably fosters.

Different lines of investigation may be profitably followed, but we may suggest the following as exhaustive, or nearly exhaustive, of the most prominent questions which modern research has raised.

As the Bible is confessedly related to the natural sciences, archæology, history, and modern civilization, let it be placed successively in the midst of their facts, and let us see to what extent its statements can bear their light.

There are many questions which none of us can honestly avoid; and while some may remain unsettled, the unbiased review of those solutions which have been already offered, and which have been generally accepted, will be found to confirm scripture instead of confuting it.

1. As to science. Have astronomy and geology given evidence for or against the eternity of the visible universe? Has biology determined the origin of life? Whence it is? Have comparative anatomy and physiology, psychology and ethics, established more than one origin for the human race? Are the incidental allusions in scripture contradicted or confirmed in natural science?

2. As to archæology. Can the Bible confront prehistoric revelations? Antiquity is pouring over the oldest records, increasing light. Ruins, monuments, inscriptions, parchments, have been emitting their wondrous testimonies, parallel with scripture histories. Assyria, Egypt, Palestine, Greece, Rome, in their histories, revolutions, and domestic episodes, have all been interwoven with the statements of scripture as with those of no other book. To what purpose has historic criticism dealt with the sacred page? Is the Bible yielding or is it growing brighter in the crucible of archæology?

3. As to modern history and civilization. By its claim to uplift and bless the human race, the Bible is separated from all other books. It proposes to revolutionize man’s moral history here, and to prepare him for a future whose course it in part delineates. Has it failed, or is it failing? Has it been enfeebled by the lapse of ages? Has it become effete amid changes which have given intellect new instruments and reason new spheres? Has it lost its former hold of the human mind, and is it sinking amid the tumult of bitterly conflicting opinions? Has ever tribe been found which it could not raise and enlighten? Or has ever civilization outshone, in any land, its intellectual and moral splendor?

4. As to the supernatural. If the Bible is the book which it professes to be, and which we hold it is, the ordinary and the extraordinary, the natural and the supernatural, must be associated in its character and history. What is the warrant which men of science adduce for repudiating the supernatural while they accept the natural? And by what reason does the Christian apologist attempt to preserve their connection? Is there no evidence around us in the contrasts of barbarism and civilization, as well as in the histories of nations, in their relation to prophecy? And are there no facts in the strangely revolutionized lives of thousands in the Christian church, which proclaim the singular moral force of the word of God?

[October 14.]

Assuming that you are willing to follow such a course of study as we have sketched, either to remove doubts which may be lingering in your own mind, or to aid some brother in his struggle to win the repose which you have gained, we shall, at the outset, offer some suggestions as to the spirit and the method by which your work should be characterized. It is of much importance to know, what is, and what is not, within our reach.

1. Do not assume the possibility, in the present state of our knowledge, of demonstrating a perfect agreement between science and scripture, or rather between the inferences of the philosopher and the interpretations of the theologian. Much remains to be ascertained before that result can be realized. The natural sciences are confessedly incomplete; some of them are only in their infancy, and can teach us little. Many years may pass before they can be brought into perfect accord with the Bible. As the facts of natural science have not been all ascertained and classified, as its laws have not been all recognized, and as the inferences of to-day may be modified by the discoveries of to-morrow, it is absurd to be demanding immediate evidence of a perfect agreement between science and scripture. Apparent contradictions are, at the present stage unavoidable. There must first be an exact and exhaustive examination of all those points at which the scriptures and the sciences touch each other; for so long as a single fact or a single law remains unknown, some important or essential truth, intimately related to the Bible, may be concealed. While the natural sciences continue incomplete, natural theology must necessarily have an imperfect foundation. As confessedly dependent on what is incomplete, natural theology can have neither the comprehensiveness nor the definiteness which characterizes supernatural theology, as dependent on what is now complete and unvarying. We can not force the legitimate yet somewhat incoherent teachings of the one book—the works of God—of which but a few leaves have been separated, scanned and paged, into perfect harmony with the teachings of the other book, whose revelation of truth has been finished, accredited, and closed.

2. Wait patiently, while you work persistently, for the solution of difficulties which may be continuing to press upon you. The experience of the past is an encouragement for the future. The sciences have again and again become their own interpreter, and rejected erroneous inferences. Many examples might be given, but one or two may in the meantime suffice. Human skeletons were found in what seemed old limestone, on the northeast coast of the mainland of Guadaloupe; and after bold attacks on the Bible, which were met by some very weak and irregular defenses, it was ascertained that the whole was a mistake, that the limestone was of very recent formation, that the skeletons were of well-known Indian tribes, and agitation ceased. A similar commotion was raised when the supposed imprints of human feet on limestone had been figured and described in the American Journal of Science; and Christians met strange infidel hypotheses by feeble assertions, until Dr. Dale Owen proved the imprints to have been sculptured by an Indian tribe. Thereafter, for a season, the scientific inquirer and the theological student prosecuted their respective investigations in peace. There are important lessons for us in these, and in many similar facts. Christian apologists have often egregiously erred, not only in hastily accepting statements as to supposed facts, but in admitting the validity of the reasoning which has been eagerly founded on them, and in making a fruitless attempt to twist scripture into harmony with what science itself has subsequently disowned. Facts ill observed, and afterward misstated, have drawn many of our best and most candid students into unnecessary collision with biblical critics; and, after much heat in controversy, and the waste on both sides of much intellectual energy, the obstacle lying between them has unexpectedly vanished in the fuller light of science. The evil to be deplored is, that after the errors have disappeared their influence remains. The imprint often lingers after the counterfeit die has been broken.

3. There is a constant tendency on the part of discoverers to invest new facts with a fictitious interest, and those who are hostile to the Bible eagerly parade them for the discomfiture of Christians. Every fact is to be welcomed, but it is to be treasured up only that it may be adjusted to other facts, and become in part the foundation of a new truth. Isolated and unexplained facts have been too often unceremoniously dragged in to give testimony against some scripture statement, and have too easily been held sufficient to push aside those accumulated evidences to its truth, which history, or science, or both, had indisputably established. It is not, indeed, surprising that the faith of many young men has failed, when they have observed the too ready acquiescence of prominent Christian writers in theories which necessitate the abandonment of some of the impregnable fortresses which have been raised by exact scholarship around those portions of scripture which had longest been exposed to the fiercest assaults. Were this method common, no permanent foundation could be laid, and progress in any science would be impossible. Is it not absurd to be displacing cornerstones, and disowning, at random, first principles? No system of philosophy, no science, not even mathematical, the exactest, and in one sense the most permanent of all the sciences, could have any weight or make the least progress if subjected to such changes in both its principles and their applications, as have marked the history of Bible assaults, concessions and defenses. When facts, which are utterly inexplicable are presented, we should retain the fact in science and also the relative statement in scripture, assured that in due time the solution will come.

[October 21.]

4. Neither accept nor offer apologies for the Bible. It has, of late, become common on the part of those who are alarmed by the temporary triumphs which scientific investigation has given to those who are avowedly hostile to the Bible, to demand that its propositions be altogether disassociated from both science and philosophy, on the plea that the Bible was not given to teach either the one or the other. The proposal is plausible, but it is really unnecessary, for although not given to teach physical science, the Bible can not contradict either its facts or its legitimate inferences. The word of God can not be regarded as by any possibility contradicting the just lessons of his works. Like every other book, the Bible must bear all the light that can fall on its pages; and it must not only stand the tests of criticism and history, but vindicate all its claims as the “more sure word of prophecy.” Otherwise, appeals for leniency are profitless. True, in its highest connections, the Bible is unapproachable by other books; it is easily distinguishable from them all; yet in its human relations it must submit to all the ordinary appliances of scholarship. No apologies can justify a single error in either its science or its history, and its propositions are obviously inadmissable if they contradict human reason; they may be above, but they can not be opposed to it.

5. Akin to an easy escape from difficulties, through apologies for the Bible, is the tendency to glide into conclusions directly hostile. The prevailing activity of the age is so unfavorable to leisurely investigations as to facilitate the subtle advances of error. While many writers of the present day are as preëminently gifted, and as distinguished in the different departments of learning, as those of any preceding age; and while their reasonings and their conclusions are borne by the daily and the serial press to every man’s door, multitudes think and decide by substitute. They want leisure, and trust to others. Rapidity of locomotion, the chief physical feature of our time, betokens also its intellectual tendencies. Men read cursorily and decide rapidly. The daily newspaper is making book-study rarer than hitherto. It is felt in ten thousand instances to be distasteful or difficult. The subtle influence of the daily newspaper is telling on our thoughtfulness. We really seem to be approaching the fulfillment of Lamartine’s prediction, “Before this century shall have run out, journalism will be the whole press, the whole of human thought. Thought will not have had time to ripen, to accommodate itself into the form of a book. The book will arrive too late; the only book possible soon, will be a newspaper.”

As one result of this process, truth and error are often imperceptibly mingled. So swift is the transition from one fact and inference to another, that truth and error, like different colors blent into one by rapid motion, become so much alike, that few can separate them. Thus with every advance of truth, error is wafted forward. The seeds of future tares and wheat are being profusely scattered. It can not be denied, that while to almost every man’s door are daily wafted accurate records of passing history, of the discoveries of science, of the triumphs of art, and of the generalizations of philosophy, the same messengers no less sedulously exhibit, now faintly and now in the strongest light, every difficulty connected with the Bible, both real and imaginary, the boldest objections of historic criticism, the theories of speculative philosophy, the apparent contradictions of science and scripture, and the saddening conflicts of professing Christians. The constant diffusion of such influences does tell in the long run, not only on less active minds, but on the most energetic, and it renders easier of acceptance every erroneous conclusion.

But this incessant activity is a symptom of health. It augurs good. Rightly directed, it may strengthen character while it develops mental power, and gives a more exquisite appreciation of the just and true. But remember that everything depends on this rightness of direction; and to secure this, unfailing caution is required. The wind and tide which, rightly used, would hasten the voyager to his harbor, may, if unheeded, strand him on an unexpected shore; and those subtle forces, and those under-currents, which should have aided in guiding us to a satisfying intellectual and moral repose, may, through the thoughtlessness or the indolence that at the outset disregarded a slight divergence from the truth, almost but not altogether imperceptible, destroy our happiness through the shipwreck and the ultimate abandonment of our Christian faith.

6. Another common tendency in the wrong direction claims your attention. It manifests itself in repugnance to controversy or discussion in every form. Many shrink from it as unseemly, and seek escape in either solitude or study. While peace is in itself desirable, it is not always attainable. You cannot escape conflict by letting go the Bible; nor can you traverse any fields of science without entanglement in the intellectual struggles of disputants whose reasonings have sometimes but little of the calmness of philosophy. Nor is this to be regretted. The repose of meditation is not so bracing as the discipline of occasional contest for the truth.

[October 28.]

There are other advantages. The attrition of discussion often reveals and beautifies truths which would otherwise have remained unrecognized. Apathy or silence may shelter error without preserving truth. Intellectual indolence, bad for the world, is still worse for the Church. The highest life is demanded by the Bible, and, therefore, also the greatest activity. From intellectual warfare, the sciences and the scriptures have nothing to lose, but everything to gain. On Christian or skeptic, on prophet true or false, the Bible never enforces silence. It seals no thinker’s lip. “The prophet that hath a dream, let him tell a dream; and he that hath my word, let him speak my word faithfully. What is the chaff to the wheat? saith the Lord.” In the field of thought, nothing save the chaff perishes. Lost truths spring up again; and, beneath their spreading branches, vitiated reasoning, unsound criticism, and erroneous conclusions, ultimately decay as briers beneath the spreading oak.

There are those also who deplore discussion only because it raises questions hostile to the scriptures, and alarms the weak. This anxiety, though laudable, is fruitless. Vital questions are already discussed on all hands, and in every variety of aspect. There are disadvantages, but they are generally inseparable from the progress of truth.

It will be admitted on both sides, that while the extension of exact knowledge contracts the sphere of superstition, it enlarges at the same time the sphere of skepticism. Superstition may be displaced without Christianity becoming its substitute; there may be a high and an attractive civilization, based on science and its applications, which, in acknowledging the intellectual and moral supremacy of the Bible, and nothing more, may for a season destroy credulity, only to give fuller scope to no-belief, and to evoke ultimately an opposition to the Bible hitherto repressed or unknown. For such results we must be prepared; they are collateral, not essential or direct. They are, in fact, the price which we pay for our intellectual freedom. We are neither to falter nor hesitate because the increasing light, which is dissipating ignorance and extending the boundaries of truth, is at the same time indirectly opening to error a wider field for the distribution of her forces, revealing new weapons for her armory, and enabling her to seize and for a season to retain, positions hitherto unknown and unassailed. In the history of the physical sciences, and of archæological discovery, error has often rushed to the battlements of truth, and, seizing some detached or imaginary facts, has wielded them against the Bible, until the sciences have themselves expelled her, and repudiated her reasoning. Such agitation is not to be deplored; it conducts to stability, it evokes more good than evil, and not unfrequently has it happened that the superstition which long benumbed the Church, and the infidelity which aroused her, have yielded to the unexpected sway of some Bible truth, when a more definite meaning has been given to some natural law or Providential dispensation.

Those misunderstand the character of the Bible who suppose its safety lies in keeping it as far as possible from the rigorous investigations and the exact conclusions of science or philosophy. Such a method is indispensable. To pursue truth in one department, implies, or should imply, not only a love of truth in every department, but also a resolute purpose to discover and dislodge every error. Which of the sciences, as preserved from controversy, is entitled to cast the first stone at the others, or their students? “Philosophy and literature,” says Lord Kinloch, in an admirable work, “while professing to pursue truth in the composure of unruffled seclusion, and to be desirous of having it elicited by the healthy excitement of friendly debate, will protest against the dishonor of soiling their hands, or disarranging their robes in the turmoil of heated controversy; and least of all will they consent to be defiled with the mire or exposed to the perils of religious strife. This plea is false in fact, as it is futile in philosophy. It is in fact false; for literary and philosophical controversies have neither been few in number nor wanting in a keen and rancorous spirit. And, admitting that religious contentions have been still more rancorous and embittered, it is only what might be reasonably expected, on account of the higher interests at stake. The plea is, moreover, worthless on philosophical principles; for it eviscerates the distinction between truth and error of all meaning and value. Better not to admit the distinction at all, than, having admitted it in one instance, deny it in another; or, what is worse, depreciate its significance even to thought, and that too in the most important of its applications. All argument and all effort are forever at an end, unless truth,—yea, all truth,—be precious; so precious, that in the legitimate pursuit of it we may and ought to put forth our utmost strength; and in defense of it, when found, incur the utmost hazard.”

Do not be discouraged by apparently insurmountable obstacles. The boldest assertions and the most plausible reasonings need not disturb you. Difficulties seemingly insuperable have, in the past, suddenly evanished in the light of unexpected discoveries; and every science, you may rest assured, will hereafter show strength enough and light enough to purify its own temple and be its own interpreter. The past may be held to be prophetic of future solutions; and the sciences will be found not only correcting the mistakes and the arrogance of many of their students, but rebuking the too hasty concessions of Christian apologists, and either directly or indirectly revealing, at the same time, the impressiveness and the majesty of scripture truth.

[POLITICAL ECONOMY.]

By G. M. STEELE, D.D.

I.

I. DEFINITIONS—UTILITY OF THE SUBJECT.

1. Social science comprises the statement and explanation of the natural laws which govern men in their mutual relations. Political economy is the application of that portion of those laws which pertain to the production and distribution of wealth. Now we are not to be discouraged by this term wealth, as though the subject were one which concerns only rich men, and in which a poor man could have no interest. The man who has a little property, worth only one or two hundred dollars, is just as really a possessor of wealth as one who has one or two millions; and to be able to acquire and rightly use these small fortunes is, in the aggregate, of more importance than the acquisition and management of the greater riches of the few.

2. But what is meant by wealth? For the present it is enough to say that it comprises all things which have value. A more complete definition will follow by and by. What, then, do we mean by value? This, too, has many forms of definition, but they for the most part have one element in common. The general notion concerning it is that it has reference to the amount of one commodity that may be equitably given in exchange for a designated amount of another; this is a correct notion. Thus a bushel of wheat may be exchanged for two bushels of oats, or a cord of wood for twenty yards of cloth. That is, the value of a bushel of wheat is that of two bushels of oats, and the value of twenty yards of cloth is the same as that of a cord of wood. It is thus seen to be a relative term, and not indicative of any quality of any one thing considered by itself. But in all instances of relationship there must be some ground of the relation. Let us try to determine what it is in this case. A superficial thinker might decide that it is money, from the fact that value is generally estimated in money. But money is itself in the same relation to all other commodities in this respect as they are to one another, and its value rests upon the same basis.

3. The chief element in value, and that constitutes its original standard, is the cost of production; and by cost is meant the amount of labor involved. Labor is the voluntary effort put forth by man to secure some desired object. But when we say this, a little caution is needed. We are not to infer that the present value of an article is estimated by the amount of labor required at the time of its production, especially if that was a long time ago. A hundred years since, it required the labor of a man for days to produce a yard of cotton cloth. A dozen yards of better cloth can now be produced by the same amount of labor; of course the present value of the latter is superior to the present value of the former, even if this were as good as new. It is the labor that would be required to reproduce or replace an article which determines its value.

4. But there is another element which is essential to value; this is utility. It comprises all those qualities in an object which make it available to gratify any desire. It will readily be seen that there are objects which have utility and at the same time are without value. They are such objects as cost nothing; that is, such as involve no labor in their acquisition. Thus air, and sunshine, and rain, have no value; but they are of immeasurable utility. Value is often in the inverse ratio of utility. Iron is a far more useful metal than gold, but gold is vastly more valuable than iron. Still, though utility may exist where there is no value, there can be no value where there is no utility; because no one would put forth effort for that which could not gratify any desire, and it is the ability to gratify desire that constitutes utility. Sometimes utility becomes the paramount element in determining value; but ordinarily it is subordinate to the cost of production. When the article is one for which there is a very great demand, and of which there is a great scarcity, the value may increase many times beyond the cost. In such case the utility rather than cost rules. But where the demand is readily and fully met by the supply, the cost controls.

5. But valuable things can not be produced very largely without tools, implements, and various contrivances. These constitute capital. Capital is the result of previous labor reserved and employed in further production. This implies self-denial. A man can not consume what he has secured by labor and at the same time preserve it to aid in additional production. Hence he must restrain his desires if he would save something for this purpose. This capital is sometimes called pre-existent labor. The point to be observed is that its existence is due, not to labor alone, but to abstinence as well. The two elements in the cost of production are labor and abstinence, and we may combine these in the one term, sacrifice. Sacrifice and utility, then, are the two essential conditions of value; and we may complete our definition of value by saying that value is man’s estimate of the amount of sacrifice requisite to the attainment of a desired object.

6. Hence, if wealth comprises all valuable objects, and if every desirable object which involves sacrifice has value, it would be a proper definition to say that wealth consists of all those objects and qualities useful to man, the attainment of which involves sacrifice. This includes not only material objects and qualities, but also all those human powers acquired by sacrifice, which enable man to master nature. This is not admitted by many writers. But Mr. Carey states, in a broad way, that “Wealth is the power to command the always gratuitous services of nature.” When man is at his weakest nature does nothing for him. Every infant, if dependent on nature alone, would inevitably perish. So in the infancy of society, it is only by the most strenuous exertion that a precarious existence is secured. But with every increment of power in man, nature multiplies her services. They are not bought but freely given, and given as soon as man is able to command them. In the most advanced civilization the forces of nature have become so subservient to man that in thousands of cases one can accomplish what a score, or sometimes even a hundred, could not formerly have done. It is this increase of power more than that of material commodities which constitutes the real wealth of the world.

7. From this it follows that the proper subject of political economy is MAN. The laws pertaining to the underlying science are found in the nature and character of man—in his tastes, his desires, in the motives influencing him and in the limitations to which he is subject. The results to be achieved are his prosperity and freedom, his mastery over nature, and his happiness. Here, then, is the prime reason why every person who aspires to any intelligence at all should have some acquaintance with this subject. It has to do more than any other study with his temporal welfare, and with the welfare of society, without the prosperity of which his individual prosperity will suffer.

8. A second reason is implied in the meaning of the terms used. Economy is from a Greek compound signifying husbandry. It has reference to the prudent management by a householder of his means so as to secure the largest measure of prosperity for his family. It does not mean parsimony, nor even mere frugality; that is, it does not consist in mere abstinence for the sake of saving. It is rather a wise use of means and forces, so as to make them as effective as possible. There is an old proverb which says, “There is more in calculation than in hard work,” and though sometimes perverted in the interest of human laziness, it is nevertheless full of philosophy. It is this “calculation” which such a study greatly aids.

9. Political economy, as the term implies, has reference to man in society,—to “the body politic.” The social element in man is as imperative as any part of his constitution. Man’s greatest need is association. The solitary individual is only a minute constituent of man in man’s relation to the main purposes of life. No man is complete in himself. He must be supplemented by others, generally by many others, and he must find a large part of his own completeness in this association. Each has something that others lack, and we are designed to be sources of mutual supply to our several wants.

Here emerges another vital fact. Individuality is as indispensable as association. A superficial thinker might regard these characteristics as antagonistic. The fact is so far otherwise that each is really dependent on the other. Men must differ in order to be of any use to one another. It is the difference that makes the individuality. Mutual aid is the object of association. Hence the greater the difference, the greater the individuality; and the greater the individuality, the greater the association. No man would associate with another unless the one had something which the other lacked. But for this there would be no commerce. Two farmers producing nothing but wheat would have nothing to exchange with each other. Two men of precisely the same mental possessions, habits and aptitudes, would never be companions for each other.

On the other hand it is only by association that individuality becomes the most highly developed. Only by such development do the differences among men become great and numerous. In the lower grades of humanity there is comparatively little difference between individuals, and there is little association. It is only in advanced civilization that a strongly marked individuality exists, and that we find those numerous differences which make the mutual dependence the greatest. Here is a potent reason for the study of this subject. It is impossible to estimate the power of association in production alone. It is known in a general way that the combination of men gives greatly increased results as compared with those of men working separately. Yet it is not nearly realized that a hundred men properly associated in an industrial enterprise will often effect two or three hundred times as much as all the very same men working separately.

10. Again, this subject intimately concerns man in his governmental relations. For governments must furnish many of the conditions for the best economical results. Then, too, the great moral enterprises of the age, and of all ages, have to do with the principles here involved; education, pauperism, vicious social usages, the dangerous classes, have to be considered, and can only rightly be considered in the light of these truths. It is wonderful how closely this study is connected with all the great interests of humanity. Whole communities which have been impoverished and demoralized by neglecting some of the obvious principles of political economy, have revived and prospered under their application. Portions of our own country are examples of both these kinds of effects, and that, too, within the memory of men now living.

We shall follow the usual plan of the division of the subject under the heads of production, consumption, exchange and distribution.

II. PRODUCTION—LABOR.

1. Production is the creation of value by rendering the utilities of nature available to man. The creation, it will be noticed, is not of matter but of value. There are two great agencies which must co-operate in production—nature and man. Man furnishes labor; nature furnishes materials and forces. The former would be useless without the latter. There must be soils, and mines, and trees, and animals, or no matter how much labor there may be, there can be no grain, nor fruit, nor metals, nor lumber; no houses and no meat, nor hides nor leather. So also there may be all kinds of material, but without labor they are of no available service to man.

2. But nature furnishes not only materials but also forces to aid man in his productive efforts. The more obvious and palpable of these are gravitation, especially in falling water, wind, the explosive property of gunpowder and dynamite, the expansive power of steam, magnetism, electricity, and the forces of vegetation. There are also numerous passive powers, or properties of matter which, when adapted by man, give him much advantage; such are the mechanical powers of the lever, inclined plane, wheel and axle, pulley and wedge, and those qualities of the metals which render them capable of taking an edge for cutting purposes, as also malleability, ductility, elasticity, etc. It is a beneficent fact of nature that she furnishes these materials and forces gratuitously. She is not churlish nor parsimonious in this respect. The more we avail ourselves of her help, the more ready she is to help us; and the greater the advantage we obtain, the more lavishly she bestows her gifts upon us.

It is thus seen that labor consists not in creating things but in moving them; that is, in effecting changes. It directs the natural forces to the service of man, and it is in this that production consists. It can move materials into position where these forces can act upon them with the desired effect. Thus an agricultural laborer can effect such changes in the soil as are requisite to the growth of corn; he can place the seed in the ground, but he can not make the crop. It is as impossible for him to create a kernel of grain as to create a planet. Labor may move the fuel to the fire-place and properly dispose it for kindling. It may move a match, which by a previous movement has taken fire, to the prepared fuel; but all this would be useless but for the conditions and forces which nature furnishes.

3. The application of labor to production is of two kinds, direct and indirect. The direct changes effected by labor may be embraced under the three heads of transmutation, transformation, and transportation. The first comprises elementary changes, as when under required conditions ingredients of the soil and of the atmosphere are changed into grain and vegetables, and fruit. The second is where there is simply a change in the form of the material, as when boards are made into a table, or leather into shoes. The third implies merely a change of place, as when coal in a mine, where it has no value, becomes valuable by being brought within reach of those who desire it for fuel.

4. The greater part of labor is indirect; in some cases so much so that its relation to the product is unseen. For instance, the man who makes your shoes is not the only laborer concerned in that product. Some previous labor produced the leather, and before that some labor produced the hide from which the leather was made; some persons made the tools, some the house or shop, and some provided sustenance for the shoemaker. All these are conditions, without which no shoes can be made, and all who provide them furnish a part of the labor on which the product of the shoes depends.

Of this indirect labor there are several kinds. (1) Those who provide the materials, and there may be many grades of these; (2) those who furnish the implements and the machinery; (3) those who supply the sustenance and shelter, and raiment for the laborers; (4) the government agencies for protecting the workman; (5) organizers and managers of business enterprises, without whom production would often fall far short of what it now accomplishes; (6) the labor of raising children who are subsequently to become laborers; (7) all those engaged in the work of education, by which men are prepared for the most efficient work—this includes not only teachers, but writers, clergymen, etc.; (8) professional men, who devote themselves to matters essential to the interests of the community and thus not only save the time of the laborers, but often their property and their health, and their lives; (9) inventors and discoverers, who ascertain new conditions of more efficient production. These are the principal, though there are also others.

[READINGS IN ART.]

I.—SCULPTURE: ITS VARIETIES AND MATERIALS.

All work cut out in a solid material, in imitation of natural objects, is called sculpture. Thus carvings in wood, ivory-stone, marble, metal, and works moulded from wax and clay, come under the head of sculpture.

But sculpture, as we are about to consider it, is to be distinguished by the term statuary from all carved work belonging to ornamental art and glyptics. It must be borne in mind, however, that the sculptor does not ordinarily carve his work directly out of the marble; he first makes his statue, or bas relief, in clay or wax. This method enables him to “sketch in clay” and perfect his work in this obedient material. Michael Angelo, and many great masters could dispense with this and carve at once the statue from the block. The modeling in clay is, however, generally the primary work. The “model,” as it is called, is afterward moulded, and by means of this mould a cast of the original clay statue, or bas-relief, is taken by the use of liquid plaster. The clay model is, therefore, like the original drawing of a painter—a master work.

The model completed, most of the carving is done by a skilled laborer, the sculptor taking it up to give the finish, which a master-hand alone can bestow. The copying of the model into marble is accomplished by means of a method of mechanical measurement, or “pointing.” The model and the block of marble are both fastened to a base called a “scale-stone,” to which a standard vertical rod can be attached at corresponding centers, having at its upper end a sliding needle, so adapted by a movable joint as to be set at any angle and fastened by a screw when so set. The master sculptor having marked the governing points with a pencil on the model the instrument is applied to these and the measure taken. The standard being then transferred to the block-base, the pointer, guided by his measure, cuts away the marble, taking care to leave it rather larger than the model, so that the general proportions are kept, and the more important work is then left for the master hand.

The character of work is influenced by the nature of the material in which the sculptor carves; the harder the stone the more difficult to give it the pliant forms of life. It is remarkable that the most ancient and perfect Egyptian statues should have been formed of very hard stones; and, as the ancient Egyptians were not acquainted with steel, they must have been dependent upon bronze, of various degrees of hardness, for their cutting tools. These works are remarkable for their excellence, both of form and proportion, and in the finish given to the details of feature, the dress, and the ornaments.

Assyrian sculpture was in softer stones, limestones and alabaster; only small objects, such as seals, being worked in hard stones.

Greek and Roman sculptors made many statues and bas-reliefs in hard stones, such as basalt, granite, and porphyry. The extreme difficulty of such work may be understood when it is seen that the ordinary method of the chisel and mallet, in the most skillful hands, would be quite unavailing in this hard material. The treadle-wheel, the drill, and the file, are brought to aid the chisel, and even these require the use of emery upon the wheel of the lapidary, in the manner in which the hardest stones are cut.

Clay modeled and dried in the sun, or hardened by the fire, was naturally one of the early forms in which sculpture was developed. At once ready to hand, and easily modeled, it was adopted for the same reasons that made clay convenient for the ordinary vessels of every-day use. We find countless numbers of these baked, or sun-dried clay figures. They have escaped destruction because of the little value of the material and because they resist decay. The Egyptians and Assyrians applied a vitreous glaze to terra-cotta objects, which made them more decorative and more durable.

Terra-cotta was chosen by many sculptors to preserve the spirit and freedom of the original. Although some shrinking under the action of the fire must be allowed for, yet what is well baked is certain to possess the excellence of the fresh clay. It escapes the chances of over-finish, which too often befalls marble and bronze.

Another form of sculpture to be noticed is called chryselephantine, on account of the combined use of gold and ivory; the nude parts of the figure being of ivory, probably with color applied to the features and the drapery of gold. The statue was substantially but roughly made in marble, with wood, perhaps, upon it; the ivory being laid on in thick pieces.

Statues of wood, of various kinds, were made by the most ancient sculptors. Many small figures in wood, the work of the Egyptian carvers, are to be seen in the museums, and the mummy cases show the practice of carving the head, while the trunk is left only partly shaped out of the block.

Bronze was one of the most important forms of ancient statuary. It must be remembered that bronze is an entirely different alloy from brass, the former being an alloy of copper and tin, while brass is of copper and zinc. Small proportions of gold, silver, lead, and iron, were mixed with the bronze by ancient metal-workers to give various colors to their work; thus a blush of shame was produced by allowing the iron in the bronze to rust. Plutarch mentions a face which was pale, the sculptor having mixed silver with the bronze.

The primitive bronze-workers, before they arrived at the knowledge of casting, began by hammering solid metals into shapes. The toreutic art, although not definitely known at present, was probably that of hammering, punching, and chiseling plates of metal, either separately or with a view of fixing them upon stone or wood. Both the solid hammered work and the hollow-plate work is mentioned by the authorities. The hollow statues were built up in pieces, fastened together with nails, rivets, and dove-tails, and it is not improbable that some system of welding was practiced.

The casting of metals in moulds must have followed the discovery that they could be melted. As the sculptor improved in his art of modeling he would be able to make better moulds. He would soon observe that the solid statue was not only very costly, but so very heavy that the whole figure would collapse from sheer weight.

This trouble was corrected by the discovery of a contrivance for casting metals in a hollow mould. It was done pretty much as it is at the present day, by fixing within the mould a core, which did not touch the sides, except at certain small points necessary for support. The space between this and the surface of the mould was to be filled by the molten metal.

There is still another method, less common in modern times, but employed by the ancients, for some of their smaller works. This is when a wax model is encased in clay or plaster of Paris and the molten metal then poured into it to melt the wax, and take the form of the work precisely as it left the hand of the sculptor. The original model is thus destroyed and the bronze takes its place. Some very large and important works have recently been cast in this method, but with the core. In bronze casting with a core, this contrivance must be made with great care. The mould, which is obliged to be formed of pieces fitted together, in order that the model may be taken out, is first well soaked in oil, then melted wax is applied to the inner side of the moulded parts in such thickness as may be required in the metal of the completed statue. But as a hollow metal statue would not be strong enough to support its own weight, a sort of skeleton of iron bars is made to take the general form of the figure, and this strong frame-work is firmly fixed within the mould. We have then the mould, with its wax lining, enclosing the iron skeleton, or armature, as it is called, with an opening left in the proper place to allow of pouring in the liquid plaster of Paris mixed with pounded brick, which fills the space about the armature. Therefore, if at this stage, the mould were taken to pieces again, the sculptor would behold his statue as one of apparently solid wax. Practically this is done in order that he may satisfy himself of the success of his work, and correct it where necessary. The model is then again placed in the mould preparatory to casting.

Galvano-plastique, or the use of electricity, to deposit a thin layer of metal in a pure state upon a model, is an important invention or application of science to art.

Having described the various materials and methods employed in sculptured art, we are ready to classify the different forms adopted and arrange them under the proper terms.

Sculpture in relief is the first division. There are four varieties. Bas-relief, or basso-relievo, is the term used when the work projects from the plain surface, the forms being rounded as in nature. If the work is very little raised, the forms being not so projecting as in nature, it is called flat-relief, or stiacciato. If more raised, but not free from the ground in any place, it is half-relief or mezzo-relievo. If the relief is still higher it becomes full-relief, or alto-relievo, in which parts of the human figure are entirely free from the ground of the slab. In sunk-relief, or cavo-relievo, the work is recessed within an outline, but still raised in flat relief, not projecting above the surface of the slab. Much of the renaissance and modern sculpture combines the first-named kinds of work on different planes in degrees of distance, with some under-cutting. The beauty and character of bas-relief depend much upon the representation of outline.

Statuary proper is sculpture in the round. The statue is therefore seen on every side.

Statues are, (1) standing; (2) seated; (3) recumbent; (4) equestrian.

Statues are classed into five forms as to size: Colossal, above the heroic standard; heroic, above six feet but under the colossal; life-size; small life-size; statuettes, half the size of life and smaller.

To know the proper proportions of the figures is a matter of the utmost value in all sculpture, even more so than in painting, as the statue is measurable on every side and in every direction. It would have been impossible for the ancient Egyptians to carve out of the living rock their tremendous figures unless they had arrived at a rule of proportion for their figure. Without this their colossi would have been only rude monsters. Such a rule they had discovered and laid down in a canon, as it is called, similar to that which was followed by the Greek sculptors after them, and especially made known by Polycletus, whose name it received. Though there is some doubt about the precise terms of the canon, there can be no doubt that it had for its unit of measurement some part of the human figure. The version of Vitruvius Pollio is supposed to be the correct one. He says: “Nature has so composed the human body that the face, from the chin to the top of the forehead, and the roots of the hair, should be a tenth part; also the palm of the hand from the wrist-joint to the tip of the middle finger; the head from the chin to the highest point, an eighth; from the top of the chest to the roots of the hair, a sixth.”

The rule of ten faces, or eight heads, derived from this, has remained to the present time. Several sculptors of a later period, who have given much attention to the subject of proportion, differ slightly from the canon of Polycletus, though it is commonly accepted.

That strict rules of symmetrical proportion should be followed is necessary in all statuary, but especially in that which serves as a decoration for architecture. The knowledge of the figure acquired by eminent sculptors inspired them with admiration for the beautiful, and enabled them to express in the creation of their art an ideal of grand beauty, which was guided by a taste and feeling which rarely failed to direct them aright. It was the greatest sculptor of modern times, Michael Angelo, who said that the sculptor should carry “his compasses in his eye.” Some one comments on this that, “Sculptors, and painters especially, dread the rule of geometry. They regard rule as a fetter upon their invention, not dreaming that this great man (Michael Angelo), before he expressed himself thus, had for so long a time had the compasses in his hand.” This points to a profound truth in all practical art, that no man can be a great artist unless he have the power of drawing in the true proportions of the beautiful.

Having pointed out the leading points in the technic of sculpture, we take up its history, beginning naturally with the earliest forms as found in Egypt.

The Egyptians, inhabiting a flat, uniform country, of pure and salubrious climate, working as sculptors before a written language was invented, carved their colossal sphinx almost entirely out of the living rock; an amazing example of symbolic sculptural representation, combining the human with the brute form of the lion. The date of this first great work is probably earlier than that of the earliest pyramids—that built by Chofo, King of Memphis, the Cheops of Herodotus, and the larger one by Nef Chofo, his son. M. Renan, speaking for M. Mariette, states that a tablet was found by him recording that Nef Chofo did certain repairs to the sphinx; so that since it required repairs, it must already have existed for a considerable time. All small barbaric or archaic work of the ancient Egyptians in sculpture has perished in the vast lapse of time. But this one monument, raised at least 4,000 years before the Christian era, stands to prove, with its companion pyramids, the wonderful power of conception, the energy and practical skill which characterized the early Egyptians. What they lacked in ideas of beauty, they made up for by the simple grandeur in the colossal size and perfection in execution.

The intention of producing a monument to last forever was shown in an equally striking manner in the construction of the pyramids, and with an exercise of science and skill even more remarkable.

Egyptian art, in the form of architecture, was, after the pyramids of Ghizeh, further developed about 1650 B. C., under Osirtesen I., who built the oldest of the temples at Thebes. Columns and obelisks were then invented, and the cavi relievi were largely used. Statuary, however, did not advance until after the Phœnician Shepherd Kings—a body of wandering Arabs, so called, who conquered Upper Egypt for a time—were driven out by Amosis, King of Thebes, about 1450 B. C.

Passing over Amunothph I. and his successor Thothmosis I., of whom there is a fine statue in the Turin Museum, we come to Thothmosis II., whose reign marks a period of vast development, as he married Nitocris, the last Queen of Memphis, capital of Lower Egypt, and thus united the two kingdoms, about 1340 B. C. The great avenue of sphinxes, leading to the temple of Karnak, was made in her reign, and there is a statue of Thothmosis II., a seated figure seven feet nine inches high, in good proportions, of about seven heads high, the fingers and toes straight, not showing the knuckles, and the legs sharply chiseled at the shins, not showing the small bone on the outside of the leg, as in the statues of the later time of Amunothph III. (about 1260 B. C.).

The famous colossus, called the musical Memnon, one of the two still standing in the desert near Thebes, more than fifty feet high, is of this period. These statues are not in good proportion, being too short in the waist. The two fine lions, carved in red granite, belonging to this time, which Lord Prudhoe brought over and presented to the British Museum, are remarkable as examples of fine typical treatment of the lion. They show much grandeur of feeling, and, compared with the modern naturalistic sculpture of lions, they are superior as examples of monumental art.

In 1170 B. C. reigned Ramses II., the greatest of the Egyptian kings, under whom was invented all the wonderful adaptation of the lotus and papyrus plant to the design of columns, as seen in the famous colonnade of the hall of Karnak. His statue, in the Turin Museum, is in the finest style of ancient Theban art; it is a seated figure carved out of a block of black granite, and is not colossal, being only five feet seven inches high. The point to be noticed in this statue is the effort at action, which is not seen in earlier works. The right hand is raised to the breast holding the short sort of crosier of the god Osiris; the left hand resting on the knee, strongly clenched. The colossal statue of Ramses, as Osiris, may be taken as examples, with that of the Memnon, in the British Museum, of the sculpture of this time. The large sphinx in the Louvre bears the name of Ramses II. The four-seated colossi, carved out of the living rock at the entrance of the great temple of Abou Simbel in Ethiopia, represent the same king. They are between sixty and seventy feet high, and wonderfully well sculptured, but the proportions are not so good as in some smaller statues, as they are six heads only in height, and short in the waist and thick in the limbs, showing no attempt at any close or correct imitation of nature. They look straight before them with a calm smile of confident power and contentment. These statues, and others which are to be seen in the museums, are not equal to those of the time of Amunothph III., previously referred to; they are not so well carved, and the features are heavy, with thick noses and lips, while the limbs are clumsy, and without any attempt at accurate modeling.

It will be observed, therefore, that Egyptian sculpture may be classed broadly into three styles. (1) the Egyptian proper, reaching its finest period in the reign of Amunothph III.; (2) the Ethiopic Egyptian; (3) the later Egyptian, leading to the decline of that style of sculpture. Of the first it should be noticed that the general proportions of the figure were more accurately considered than the relative proportions of hands and feet to the limbs, which are generally incorrect. There are, however, some examples of excellent proportion, as in a colossal arm and fist in the British Museum. This arm belonged to a statue of Thothmes III., and came from Memphis. It is about ten feet long. The fist also came from Memphis, and measures four feet across. The heads of statues of this period are of the pure Coptic type, with a nose somewhat aquiline, and the lips comparatively thin. The eyes, however, were always carved in full in profile representations; the feet, one in advance of the other on the same plane. The details of form at the knuckles and legs are well indicated.

In the Ethiopic-Egyptian statues, general proportion is lost sight of; the figures become dumpy, being only six heads high; the limbs are clumsy and wanting in modeling; the hands and feet stiff and not marked by details at the joints; nor do they show the small bone of the leg. The heads are more of the Negro type, with turned-up noses and thick lips.

In the later Egyptian it is remarkable that with more attempt to imitate nature in the modeling of the muscles, the forms of the trunk and limbs become unnaturally puffed. More is added in symbolic attributes; heads of the cat, the hawk, and the ape, are placed on the human body; the dress is more elaborate, that of the head especially, on which a disc for the sun was often placed, as on the god Osiris. From the fall of Thebes, about 1000 B. C., to the conquest of Egypt by the Persians, 523 B. C., sculpture became more and more degraded, and soon lost its original style of simplicity and grandeur of form.

After some two centuries of rule, the Persians were conquered by Alexander the Great, 332 B. C., but there are no statues of Greek style of this date found in Egypt; under the Ptolemies, his successors for 300 years, new temples of inferior but still Egyptian style were built, such as those at Phile, Edfou, and Denderah, and many statues were made, but nearly all have been destroyed, and there is not one of any king or queen of the Ptolemies.

After Egypt became a Roman province, in 38 B. C., Egyptian sculpture, in a debased form, was still continued upon the decoration of the temples, but the statues were then in the hands of Greek artists. Still later, there is the well-known statue of Antinous as an Egyptian, the work of a Greek sculptor of the time of the Emperor Hadrian (A. D. 117-138).

Assyrian sculpture is a discovery of recent times, first made in 1842-3 by Botta, the French consul at Mosul on the banks of the Tigris, and almost simultaneously by Mr. Layard, who though he had seen the ruins of Nineveh in 1840 did not get permission to examine and excavate till 1845. The sculptures differ widely from any in Egypt in being nearly all in bas-relief and high relief. There are very few statues, carved in the round, that stand either with a support practically or on the legs. There are no colossi nearly approaching in size the Egyptian and Greek colossal statues, none being higher than eighteen feet, while as we have seen sixty feet was a moderate height for an Egyptian or Greek colossal figure, and some were higher. The colossal human-headed bulls and lions with wings, at the portals of the king’s palace, are in high relief on huge slabs, one on each side, facing outwards, and one on each side on the wall, with the head turned to look to the front. It does not appear that any principal figure was set up in an interior, either of these compound animals, or of any deity or king. No colossal seated figures like the Egyptian statues have been found. The standing figures carved in relief differ entirely in the expression of the countenance and motive of the figure from the Egyptian. They have all some action; the king grasps a captured lion, or as chief priest he walks with his staff which he holds firmly, while the left hand rests on the hilt of his sword. It is true that the legs are on one plane, and the feet in a position that could not support the body; still the intention to show action and life is there. There is none of the desire to express majestic, calm, eternal repose and content which is so characteristic of Egyptian sculptured statues. Throughout the great number of slabs in the British Museum and in the Louvre there is a very vigorous descriptive power displayed in carving figures of men, horses, chariots, battles, sieges of cities, hunting scenes, processions, rivers with men swimming on inflated skins, with fish and boats; implements, weapons, chairs, baskets, trees, birds, buildings, with a close resemblance to the real objects that is very distinctive of the Assyrian style. The quadrupeds and birds are much better done than the human figures; the character of some of the mules is faithfully given, and there is much feeling for nature in some of the lions in the hunting-scenes. There is no doubt, also, that this naturalistic realism was carried further by painting the sculptures. In none of these painted reliefs, however, is there anything of the careful carving and delicate delineation of the Egyptian cavi relievi; they are all boldly done, and with a good deal of skill, but by hands that would seem to have been self-taught, and at liberty to represent as they pleased so that the conventional attributes and symbolic objects were duly made clear. There is scarcely any regulated use of typical forms; and in the proportions of the figures especially there is no rule. The principal figures are about 6½ heads high, and in others the heads are often larger, while the arms and legs are out of all proportion gigantic, the muscles being exaggerated into masses at the calf and knee, and the shin-bone absurdly prominent. All truth seems to have been sacrificed for the sake of conveying a violent look of immense strength. The battle scenes remind us of some of the puerile representations by mediæval workmen of a poor style, or the debased Roman work seen on sarcophaguses. The Assyrians, unlike the Egyptians, were “mighty hunters,” consequently horses were favorites with the Assyrian carvers, as they were with the Greek sculptors afterwards; they seldom have more than one fore-leg and one hind one, but their heads are carefully carved, and all the trappings show the same intention to obtain exact resemblance as is displayed in the dress and ornaments of the kings and other figures. It is important to observe that these sculptures are very equal in merit; there is no sign of improvement and little of falling off. As to the date of these sculptures, they are much later than all the Egyptian work of the finer style.

It may be concluded that the Assyrian palaces, with their sculptured walls, took a much shorter time to build than the Egyptian, as they were built of sun-baked bricks, with ornamental slabs below, and wooden beams and columns above, all which structures have perished leaving only the stone slabs. The soft nature of the stone, which is a kind of grey alabaster, extremely suited to carving in the manner employed, afforded the facility that influenced the style and enabled the carvers to indulge their inclination for realistic detail. They do not appear to have sought for fine colored hard stones as the Egyptians did, nor do they show the same desire to make their work monumental and enduring.

Assyrian sculpture was always archaic, though at the same time more vigorous in what might be called graphic sculpture, and truer in imitation of nature than Egyptian, which rarely attempted action in the figure or facial expression. There is, however, no alliance between the two styles, and there was never likely to be, as the Assyrians were not a people of poetic and abstract ideas, but of facts, circumstances, and action. They thought of the present glory, and did not trouble themselves about the future. The same characteristics will partly account for the absence of any kind of reference to a future state. The tree of life with the priest ministering before it and holding fruit is to be seen; but it is remarkable that no sepulchral monuments have been found; no tomb or mark of regard in any shape for the welfare of the dead hereafter has been discovered.

Bearing in mind that the Assyrians were never a statue-making people, and never attempted to follow the example of the Egyptians—do we find them influencing the sculptural art of any other people in work like that of the Assyrians? This question is answered at once by the remains found at Persepolis, where there are to be seen similar winged and human-headed lions and bulls, and sculptured slabs, but no statues either in the round or in alto-relievo.

The ruins of the palaces of Cambyses, Darius, and Xerxes, the date of which is from 560 B. C. to the conquests of Alexander the Great (331 B. C.), show only sculptural remains left, after all the soft brick walls and the wooden beams and rafters have long perished. Persian sculptural art since those days never advanced to the dignity of statuary, but like its Assyrian predecessor stopped short where Greek art began to develop. The same is to be observed of that ramification of the Assyrian arts which is to be traced in the building of the temple of Jerusalem under Solomon, which, however, was some five centuries before the time of Cambyses, and about the same length of time after the settling of the Israelites in the Delta of the Nile (1550 B. C.). The law of Moses was sufficient to prevent any sculpture in the likeness of living things; but the cherubim, with their wings, seem to have been borrowed from the Assyrians. The temple was, no doubt, built of stone and cedar-wood after the manner of the Assyrians, and with a profusion of ornament in carving, of valuable marbles, wood, and embossed work in precious metals.

The colossal sculptures in the rock-cut temples of India, whether taken as derived from the Assyrian centre or not, may be classed with that style as semi-barbaric and naturalistic, with a superadded symbolism which only led to the most extravagant deformities of the human figure to express the power and attributes of a deity. Statuary proper never existed in any shape of beauty like the human form, throughout Persia, India, and China, and there is no sign of any disposition amongst the Asiatics to learn the art from their European conquerors; it is not in their nature.

[SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE.]

[MODERN STATE OF ANCIENT COUNTRIES.]

By GEORGE SANDYS.

The parts I speak of are the most renowned countries and kingdoms; once the seats of most glorious and triumphant empires; the theaters of valor and heroical actions; the soils enriched with all earthly felicities; the places where Nature hath produced her wonderful works; where arts and sciences have been invented and perfected; where wisdom, virtue, policy, and civility, have been planted, have flourished; and, lastly, where God himself did place his own commonwealth, gave laws and oracles, inspired his prophets, sent angels to converse with men; above all, where the Son of God descended to become man; where he honored the earth with his beautiful steps, wrought the works of our redemption, triumphed over death, and ascended into glory; which countries, once so glorious and famous for their happy estate, are now, through vice and ingratitude, become the most deplored spectacles of extreme misery; the wild beasts of mankind having broken in upon them, and rooted out all civility, and the pride of a stern and barbarous tyrant possessing the thrones of ancient and just dominion. Who, aiming only at the height of greatness and sensuality, hath in tract of time reduced so great and goodly a part of the world to that lamentable distress and servitude, under which (to the astonishment of the understanding beholders) it now faints and groaneth. Those rich lands at this present remain waste and overgrown with bushes, receptacles of wild beasts, of thieves, and murderers; large territories dispeopled or thinly inhabited; goodly cities made desolate; sumptuous buildings become ruins; glorious temples either subverted or prostituted to impiety; true religion discountenanced and oppressed; all nobility extinguished; no light of learning permitted, nor virtue cherished; violence and rapine insulting over all, and leaving no security except to an abject mind, and unlooked-on poverty; which calamities of theirs, so great and deserved, are to the rest of the world as threatening instructions. For assistance wherein, I have not only related what I saw of their present condition, but, so far as convenience might permit, presented a brief view of the former estates and first antiquities of those peoples and countries; thence to draw a right image of the frailty of man, the mutability of whatever is worldly, and assurance that, as there is nothing unchangeable saving God, so nothing stable but by his grace and protection.

[THE DESIGN OF THE NEW ENGLAND PLANTATIONS.]

By the Rev. COTTON MATHER.

There were more than a few attempts of the English to people, to settle and improve the parts of New England which were to the northward of New Plymouth, but the designs of those attempts being aimed no higher than the advancement of some worldly interests, a constant series of disasters confounded them, until there was a plantation erected on the nobler designs of Christianity, and that plantation, though it has had more adversaries, perhaps, than any one upon earth, yet, having obtained help from God, it continues to this day. There have been very fine settlements in the northeast regions, but what is become of them? I have heard that one of our ministers, once preaching to a congregation there, urged them to approve themselves a religious people from this consideration: that otherwise they would contradict the main object of planting this wilderness, whereupon a well-known person, then in the assembly, cried out: “Sir, you are mistaken, you think you are preaching to the people at the Bay; our main end was to catch fish.” Truly ’twere to have been wished that something more excellent had been the main end of the settlements in that brave country, which we have, even long since the arrival of that more pious colony at the Bay, now seen dreadfully unsettled, no less than twice, at least, by the sword of the heathen, after they had been replenished by many hundreds of people who had thriven to many thousands of pounds, and all the force of the Bay, too, to assist them in maintaining their settlements. But the same or like inauspicious things attended many other endeavors to make plantations, on such a main end, in several other parts of the country, before the arrival of the Massachusetts colony, which was formed on more glorious aims.

REMARKS ON THE CATALOGUE OF PLANTATIONS.

(1) There are few towns to be now seen on our list but what were existing in this land before the dreadful Indian war which befell us twenty years ago; and there are few towns broken up within the then Massachusetts line by that war but what have revived out of their ashes. Nevertheless the many calamities which have ever since been wasting the country have so nip the growth of it, that its later progress hath held no proportion with what was from the beginning; but yet with such variety, that while the trained companies of some towns are no bigger than they were thirty or forty years ago, others are as big again.

(2) The calamities that have carried off the inhabitants of our several towns have not been all of one sort. Pestilential sicknesses have made fearful havoc in divers places, where the sound have not perhaps been enough to tend the sick, while others have not had one touch from the Angel of Death, and the sword hath cut off scores in sundry places, when others, it may be, have not lost a single man by that avenger.

(3) ’Tis no unusual, though no universal experiment, among us, that while an excellent, laborious, illuminating ministry has been continued in a town, the place has thriven to admiration; but ever since that man’s time they have gone down the wind in all their interests. The gospel has evidently been the making of all our towns, and the blessings of the Upper have been accompanied with the blessings of the Nether Springs. Memorable also is the remark of Slingsby Beibel, Esq., in his most judicious “Book of the Interests of Europe:” “Were not the cold climate of New England supplied by good laws and discipline, the barrenness of the country would never have brought people to it, nor have advanced it in consideration and formidableness above the other English plantations exceeding it much in fertility and other inviting qualities.”

(4) Well may New England lay claim to the name it wears, and to a room in the tenderest affections of its mother, the happy island. For as there are few of our towns but what have their namesakes in England, so the reason why most of our towns are called what they are, is because the chief of the first inhabitants would thus bear up the names of the particular places there from whence they came.

(5) I have heard an aged saint, near his death, thus cheerfully express himself: “Well, I am going to heaven, and I will there tell the faithful who are gone long since from New England thither, that though they who gathered in our churches are all dead and gone, yet the churches are still alive, with as numerous flocks of Christians as were ever among them.” Concerning most of the churches in our catalogue, the report thus carried unto heaven, I must now also send through the earth; but if with “as numerous,” we could in every respect say as gracious, what joy to all the saints, both in heaven and on earth, might be from thence occasioned.—Magnalia Christi Americana.

[EXTRACTS FROM “ESSAYS TO DO GOOD.”]

By the Rev. COTTON MATHER.

To take a poor child, especially an orphan left in poverty, and bestow a liberal education on it, is an admirable charity, yea, it may draw after it a long train of good, and may interest you in all the good done by him whom you have educated. Hence, also, what is done for schools, for colleges, and for hospitals is done for the general good. The endowment and maintenance of these is at once to do good to many.

But alas, how much of the silver and the gold is buried in hands where it is little better than if conveyed back to the mines whence it came. How much of it is employed to as little purpose as what arrives at Hindoostan, where a great part of it, after some circulation, is by the Moguls lodged in subterraneous caves never to see the light again. The Christian whose faith and hope are genuine, acts not thus.

Sometimes elaborate compositions may be prepared for the press, works of great bulk, and of greater worth, by which the best interests of knowledge and virtue might be considerably promoted, but they lie, like the impotent man at the pool of Bethesda, in silent neglect, and are likely to continue in that state, till God inspires some wealthy persons nobly to subscribe to their publication, and by this generous application of their property to bring them abroad. The names of such noble benefactors to mankind ought to live as long as the works themselves live; and when the works do any good, what these have done towards the publishing of them, ought to be “told for a memorial of them.” He urges gentlemen of leisure to seek “some honorable and agreeable employments,” and says, “I will mention one: The Pythagoreans forbade men’s eating their own brains, or keeping their good thoughts to themselves.” The incomparable Boyle observes that as to religious books in general, “those that have been written by laymen, and especially by gentlemen, have (cæteris paribus) been better received and more effectual than those published by clergymen.” Mr. Boyle’s were certainly so. Men of quality have frequently attained such accomplishments in languages and science that they become prodigies of literature. Their libraries also have stupendous collections approaching toward Vatican or Bodleian dimensions. It were much to be wished that persons of wealth and station would qualify themselves for the use of the pen, as well as of the sword, and deserve this eulogium: “They have written excellent things.” An English person of quality in his treatise entitled “A view of the soul,” has the following passage: “It is certainly the highest dignity, if not the greatest happiness of which human nature is capable in the vale below, to have the soul so far enlightened as to become a mirror, conduit or conveyor of God’s truth to others.” It is a bad motto for a man of capacity to say, “My understanding is unfruitful.” Gentlemen, consider what subjects may most properly and usefully fall under your cultivation. Your pens may stab atheism and vice more effectually than other men’s can. If out of your tribe there come those who handle the pen of the writer, they will do uncommon execution. One of them has ingenuously said, “Though I know of some functions, yet I know no truths of religion that like the shew-bread belong to the priests alone.” * * *

To do good is a sure and pleasant way effectually to bespeak God’s blessings on ourselves. Who so likely to find blessings as the men who are blessings? While we work for God, he certainly will work for us, and ours—will do for us more than we have done for him; “more than we can ask or think.” A good action is its own reward.

But what shall be done for the good man in the heavenly world? His part and work in the city of God are at present incomprehensible to us, but the kindness which his God will show him in the strong city will be truly marvelous. The attempts which the Christian has made to fill this world with righteous things, are so many tokens for good to him, that he shall have a portion in that world wherein shall dwell nothing but righteousness. He will be welcomed with “Well done, good and faithful servant.”

I will conclude with a declaration which I will boldly maintain. It is this: Were a man able to write in seven languages, could he daily converse with all the sweets of the liberal sciences to which the most accomplished make pretensions; were he to entertain himself with all ancient and modern history; and could he feast continually on the curiosities which the different branches of learning may discover to him, all this would not afford the ravishing satisfaction which he might find in relieving the distresses of a poor, miserable neighbor, nor would it bear any comparison with the heartfelt delight which he might have by doing service to the kingdom of our great Savior in the world.

[SPIRITUAL KNOWLEDGE.]

By JONATHAN EDWARDS.

There is a kind of taste of the mind, whereby persons are guided in their judgment of the natural beauty, gracefulness, propriety, nobleness, and sublimity of speeches and action, whereby they judge, as it were, by the glance of the eye, or by inward sensation, and the first impression of the object; so there is likewise such a thing as a divine taste, given and maintained by the Spirit of God, in the hearts of the saints, whereby they are in like manner led and guided in discerning and distinguishing the true spiritual and holy beauty of actions; and that more easily, readily, and accurately, as they have more or less of the Spirit of God dwelling in them. And thus “the sons of God are led by the Spirit of God, in their behavior in the world.”

A holy disposition and spiritual taste, where grace is strong and lively, will enable a soul to determine what actions are right and becoming Christians, not only more speedily, but far more exactly, than the greatest abilities without it. This may be illustrated by the manner in which some habits of mind, and dispositions of heart, of a nature inferior to true grace, will teach and guide a man in his actions. As for instance, if a man be a very good natured man, his good nature will teach him how to act benevolently amongst mankind, and will direct him, on every occasion, to those speeches and actions which are agreeable to rules of goodness, than the strongest reason will a man of a morose temper. So if a man’s heart be under the influence of an entire friendship, and most endeared affection to another, though he be a man of an indifferent capacity, yet this habit of his mind will direct him, far more readily and exactly, to a speech and deportment, or manner of behavior, which shall in all respects be sweet and kind, and agreeable to a benevolent disposition of heart, than the greatest capacity without it. He has, as it were, a spirit within him, that guides him; the habit of his mind is attended with a taste by which he immediately relishes that air and mien which is benevolent, and disrelishes the contrary, and causes him to distinguish between one and the other in a moment, more precisely, than the most accurate reasonings can find out in many hours. As the nature and inward tendency of a stone, or other heavy body, that is let fall from aloft, shows the way to the center of the earth more exactly in an instant than the ablest mathematician, without it, could determine, by his most accurate observations, in a whole day. Thus it is that a spiritual disposition and taste teaches and guides a man in his behavior in the world. So an eminently humble, or meek, or charitable disposition, will direct a person of mean capacity to such a behavior, as is agreeable to Christian rules of humility, meekness and charity, far more readily and precisely than the most diligent study and elaborate reasonings of a man of the strongest faculties, who has not a Christian spirit within him. So also will a spirit of love to God, and holy fear and reverence toward God, and filial confidence in God, and an heavenly disposition, teach and guide a man in his behavior.

It is an exceedingly difficult thing for a wicked man, destitute of Christian principles in his heart to guide him, to know how to demean himself like a Christian, with the life and beauty, and heavenly sweetness of a truly holy, humble, Christ-like behavior. He knows not how to put on these garments; neither do they fit him.

The saints in thus judging of actions by a spiritual taste, have not a particular recourse to express rules of God’s word, with respect to every word and action that is before them, the good or evil of which they thus judge: But yet their taste itself, in general, is subject to the rule of God’s word, and must be tried by that, and a right reasoning upon it. As a man of a rectified palate judges of particular morsels by his taste; but yet his palate itself must be judged of, whether it be right or no, by certain rules and reasons. But a spiritual taste of soul mightily helps the soul in its reasonings on the word of God, and in judging the true meaning of its rules: As it removes the prejudices of a depraved appetite, and naturally leads the thoughts in the right channel, casts a light on the word of God, and causes the true meaning, most naturally, to come to mind, through the harmony there is between the disposition and relish of a sanctified soul, and the true meaning of the rules of God’s word. Yea, this harmony tends to bring the texts themselves to mind, on proper occasions; as the particular state of the stomach and palate tends to bring particular meats and drinks to mind, as are agreeable to that state. “Thus the children of God are led by the Spirit of God” in judging of actions themselves, and in their meditations upon, and judging of, and applying the rules of God’s holy word: And so God “teaches them his statutes and causes them to understand the way of his precepts;” which the Psalmist so often prays for.

But this leading of the spirit is a thing exceedingly diverse from that which some call so; which consists not in teaching them God’s statutes and precepts, that he has already given; but in giving them new precepts by immediate inward speech or suggestion, and has in it no tasting the true excellency of things, or judging or discerning the nature of things at all. They do not determine what is the will of God by any taste or relish, or any manner of judging of the nature of things, but by an immediate dictate concerning the thing to be done; there is no such thing as judgment or wisdom in the case. Whereas, in that leading of the spirit which is peculiar to God’s children, is imparted that true wisdom and holy discretion, so often spoken of in the word of God; which is high above the other way, as the stars are higher than a glow worm; and that which Balaam and Saul (who sometimes were led by the spirit in that other way) never had, and no natural man can have without a change of nature.

[End of Required Reading for October, 1883.]

Man is only a reed, the weakest plant of nature, but he is a thinking reed. It is not necessary that the whole universe should be in arms to crush him. A vapor, a drop of water is sufficient to put him out of existence. But even though the universe could crush him to atoms, man would still be more noble than that which kills him, because he is conscious that he is dying, and of the advantage which the universe has over him; the universe knows nothing.—Pascal.

Nothing is so dangerous as an ignorant friend; a wise enemy is worth much more.—La Fontaine.

[WHERE LIES THE MUSIC?]

By ALICE C. JENNINGS.

[When Paganini once rose to amuse a crowded auditory with his music, he found that his violin had been removed, and a coarser instrument substituted for it. Explaining the trick, he said to the audience, “Now I will show you that the music is not in my violin, but in me.”—Chautauquan for December, 1882.]

An artist once, whose magic could command

That sound its deepest secrets should unfold,

Had found his instrument by evil hand

Exchanged for one of meaner, coarser mould.

Yet, like the clashing tongue of vibrant bells,

The hindrance but a greater power revealed.

“See, I will show thee that the music dwells

In me, and not the instrument I wield.”

He turns, and sweetly, grandly, at his call,

The violin its richest music flings.

The instrument is naught—the player all—

The power is in the touch, and not the strings.

A coarse, rude instrument, this world, at best:

Its strings made tense by selfishness and pride;

If by its discords music be expressed,

The music in our fingers must reside.

Remember this: in tune keep heart and hand,

And to earth’s music thou shalt hold the key,

And from its discords sweetest tones command,

Unknown and unimagined, save by thee.

[WAVERLEY NOVELS.]

By WALLACE BRUCE.

When Walter Scott, one morning before breakfast, while looking for fishing-tackle, came upon his long neglected manuscript of Waverley, and decided to publish it, he baited his hook, so to speak, with a plump literary angle-worm, and carefully concealing himself, dropped it cautiously into one of the quiet and almost stagnant pools which here and there break the flow of the eighteenth century.

Not to carry the figure further he wakes up one morning to find the “Author of Waverley” famous; but no one knew who the “Author of Waverley” was. Romances, relating alike to the history of Scotland, England, France, Switzerland and Palestine, covering a wide range of life and character, with a varied record of eight hundred years, followed each other so rapidly that the reading world opened its eyes in wonder, until the “great unknown” was finally regarded the “great magician.” His books, as they came wet from the press, were literally devoured by the story-loving people of England and Scotland; and packages, shipped across the Atlantic, were regarded the most valuable part of the cargo. I have heard elderly people of New England speak of anxiously waiting for the next ship which was to bring to their hands a new novel by the “Author of Waverley.” Never before had the pen of any man awakened such responsive interest in his own generation. The publication of Waverley marked a new era in romantic literature.

During the eighty years that have followed that publication mankind has had its hopes, longings, ambitions and jealousies mirrored in works of fiction. Hundreds, ay, thousands of novels—most of them unworthy of their high lineage—have contended with each other for the world’s approbation; writers without number have flooded the century with romance; but through all these years Walter Scott stands the acknowledged master, the purest-hearted, the noblest-minded of them all; the man who could say upon his death-bed: “I have not written one line which I would wish blotted.”

No words of re-invitation are necessary to those who have once read the pages of Sir Walter, but it will be a “consummation devoutly to be wished” if I can turn the coming generation of your readers away from the sickly sentiment of the day to the works of him, whose influence, like that of King Arthur of the Round Table, inspires the soul with

“High thoughts and amiable words,

And courtliness, and the desire of fame,

And love of truth, and all that makes a man.”

Some years ago, while preparing a lecture on “The Landmarks of Scott,” I found myself confronted with twenty-six novels and five well-known poems, besides innumerable essays and histories, all demanding at least a passing word. I saw that two minutes devoted to each would more than fill my lecture hour, and leave no room for the frame-work, viz: Loch Katrine, Loch Lomond, the Trosachs, Melrose, Edinboro, the Yarrow, the Ettrick, the Tweed, and the Border Country, where the Percy and the Douglas fought. It then occurred to me that Scott had unconsciously prepared a panoramic history of Europe from the time of the Crusades to the year 1812. Acting upon this suggestion I examined the novels and poems and found to my great delight, that with here and there an absent link of fifty or a hundred years the chain was almost perfect. I condensed the prominent features of eight hundred years, tracing their connection with Scott’s graphic pictures into a pen-sketch of ten minutes, and I have been gratified to see that this idea of chronological order has been recently followed by one of the leading New York publishers. It is my object in a series of articles to elaborate this historical sequence from the time of “Count Robert of Paris” (1094) down to “St. Ronan’s Well” (1812), and to point out in passing some of the beauties of the great author.

If the reader of these articles will follow with me the romances to which I refer, I think he will say, at the close of the series, that he has found in the Waverley Novels a vivid picture of the events and customs of Europe, from the days of the crusades down to a time within the memory of men still living. M. Augustin Thierry, one of the most philosophical essayists of France, has eloquently said: “There are scenes of such simplicity, of such living truth, to be found, that notwithstanding the distance of the period in which the author places himself, they can be realized without effort. It is because in the midst of the world which no longer exists, Walter Scott always places the world which does, and always will exist; that is to say, human nature, of which he knows all the secrets. Everything peculiar to the time and place, the exterior of men, and aspect of the country and of the habitations, costumes and manners, are described with the most minute truthfulness; and yet the immense erudition, which has furnished so many details, is nowhere to be perceived. Walter Scott seems to have for the past that second sight, which, in times of ignorance, men attributed to themselves for the future. To say that there is more real history in his novels on Scotland and England than in the philosophically false compilations, which still possess that great name, is not advancing anything strange in the eyes of those who have read and understood “Old Mortality,” “Waverley,” “Rob Roy,” the ”Fortunes of Nigel,” and the “Heart of Mid Lothian.”

Allison says in his essay on Chateaubriand, published in Blackwood’s Magazine, March, 1832: “We feel in Scott’s characters that it is not romance, but real life which is represented. Every word that is said, especially in the Scotch novels, is nature itself. Homer, Cervantes, Shakspere, and Scott, alone have penetrated to the deep substratum of character, which, however disguised by the varieties of climate and government, is at bottom everywhere the same; and thence they have found a responsive echo in every human heart. He has carried romance out of the region of imagination and sensibility into the walks of actual life. He has combined historical accuracy and romantic adventure with the interest of tragic events; we live with the heroes, and princes, and paladins of former times, as with our own contemporaries; and acquire from the splendid coloring of his pencil such a vivid conception of the manners and pomp of the feudal ages, that we confound them, in our recollections, with the scenes which we ourselves have witnessed. The splendor of their tournaments, the magnificence of their dress, the glancing of their arms, their haughty manners, daring courage, and knightly courtesy; the shock of their battle-steeds, the splintering of their lances, the conflagration of their castles, are brought before our eyes in such vivid colors, that we are at once transported to the age of Richard and Saladin, of Charles the Bold and Philip Augustus.”

The four novels, which deal with the history of the Crusades, are “Count Robert of Paris,” “The Betrothed,” “The Talisman,” and “Ivanhoe.” It is a singular fact that the one occupying the first place in chronological order was written last, and hardly completed by the author when he died. “Ivanhoe” is, without doubt, the great favorite. I have often thought that “Ivanhoe” bears the same relation to Scott’s novels that “The Merchant of Venice” does to the dramas of Shakspere. “Old Mortality,” and “Hamlet,” may show deeper insight; but neither Scott nor Shakspere ever surpassed the two I have associated in dramatic interest. The three novels which precede “Ivanhoe” in point of time will give us a complete knowledge of the times and manners of the Crusades, and lead us, as it were, from one picture-gallery to another, until we come to the master-piece of the great artist.

“Count Robert of Paris” opens with a description of the court of Alexius Commenus—a wily monarch, who had ample need of all his strategy in dealing with foes that menaced him from every side: the Franks from the west, the Turks from the east, the Scythians from the north, the Saracens from the south. The wealthy city on the Bosphorous, enriched by the spoils of nations, whose golden gate symbolized the wealth and magnificence of seven hundred years of prosperity, was on the great highway of travel, where, so to speak, the “cross-roads” of Europe met, and presented a tempting prize to the restless and barbarous hordes from the shores of the Caspian to the German Ocean. “The superb successor of the earth’s mistress,” decked in borrowed splendor, gave early intimations of that speedy decay to which the whole civilized world, then limited within the Roman Empire, was internally and imperceptibly tending. Intrigue and corruption in the palace had compelled the Greek sovereigns of Constantinople, for many years, to procure foreign soldiers to quell insurrections and defend any traitorous attempt on the imperial person. These were known as Verangians—a word signifying barbarians—and formed a corps of satellites more distinguished for valor than the famed Prætorian Bands of Rome.

The second chapter of the book reveals the hatred and jealousy existing between these foreign soldiers and the crafty civilians. The Verangian, to whom the reader is introduced, is an Anglo-Saxon too proud to bow his head to a Norman conqueror, a wanderer from his father-land, a soldier in search of better fortune, soon to discover by lucky chance among the crusaders the fair Bertha of his early love. Upon this slender thread the novelist hangs the romantic elements of the story. But Count Robert of Paris is in no sense a love drama; in fact it can hardly be termed a romance. It is rather a historic sketch, placing in sharp contrast the wild enthusiasm of western Europe, her castles of rude masonry, her mud hovels, her rude simplicity, with the over-refined manners and tapestried chambers of the eastern court hastening to its decay. It is living Europe confronting the dead centuries.

The third chapter introduces us to a richly furnished drawing room, where the Princess Anna Commena—the first lady historian—sits reading to a sleepy group her prolix history of the glory of her father’s reign. At this gathering Scott brings together with great art all the leading actors of the drama; the Emperor Alexius and his wife Irene; Nicepherous Briennius, the intriguing son-in-law, husband of the fair historian; the crafty philosopher Agelastes; Achilles Tatius, master of the guards, and the faithful Verangian. This is the real commencement of the story, and to this gathering the news is announced of another body of the great Crusade, consisting not of the ignorant or of the fanatical like those led on by Peter the Hermit, but an army of lords and nobles marshaled by kings and emperors. Against this mass of steel-clad warriors the East had no power to oppose save the inherent cunning and strategy of Commenus. Craft and wealth meet stupidity and avarice. The more powerful chiefs of the Crusades are loaded with presents, feasted by the emperor with the richest delicacies, and their thirst slaked with iced wine; while their followers are left at a distance in malarial districts, and intentionally supplied with adulterated flour, tainted provisions, and bad water. Neglected by friends and insulted by foes, they contracted diseases and died in great numbers “without having once seen a foot of the Holy Land, for the recovery of which they had abandoned their peace, their competence, and their native country. Their misfortunes were imputed to their own wilfulness, and their sickness to the vehemence of their own appetites for raw fruits and unripened wines.” By promises of wealth and long-practiced arts of diplomacy, the Emperor Commenus at last even induces the leaders of the crusade individually to acknowledge him—the Grecian Emperor—originally lord paramount of all these regions, as their liege lord and suzerain.

Scott takes advantage of this historical fact to draw one of his matchless pictures, which in color and incident rivals the best pages of his more dramatic romances; and it is here that Count Robert, when the emperor left his throne for a single moment, dismounted from his horse, took the seat of royal purple, and indolently began to caress a large wolf-hound, which had followed him, and which, feeling as much at ease as his master, reposed its grim form on the carpets of gold and silk damask which tapestried the imperial footstool. It was a picture of modern liberty looking worn-out despotism in the face. That sublime audacity revealed the mettle of the race which was to make individual conscience supreme; and his haughty and fearless speech was the prologue of Magna Charta, the Bill of Rights, and the Declaration of Independence. We must pass over the meeting in the garden of Agesilaus, the entertainment at the palace, the drugged cup, the dungeon experience of the count, and his miraculous release, the fortitude and virtue of his Countess Brenhilda, the meeting of the Verangian with Bertha in the garden of the philosopher, the treachery of Briennius, his imprisonment and death-decree, and many other incidents of interest, for the remaining space of this article must be given to a brief consideration of “The Betrothed;” but the reader will be happy to know that, after the conquest of Jerusalem, Count Robert of Paris returned to Constantinople en route to his native kingdom. Upon reaching Italy the marriage of the Verangian and Bertha was celebrated in princely style; and on his return to England a large district, adjacent to the New Forest, near the home of his ancestors, was conferred upon him by William Rufus, where it is presumed they spent their declining years in peace and happiness.

“The Betrothed” opens with the year 1187—the time of the Third Crusade—when Baldwin, Archbishop of Canterbury, preached the crusade from castle to castle, from town to town, awaking the inmost valleys of his native Cambria with the call to arms for the recovery of the Holy Sepulcher. As a connecting link between the stories we will say that the soldiers of the First Crusade, after years of hardship and suffering, at last accomplished their vows. Antioch and Jerusalem yielded to their arms, the Holy Sepulcher was redeemed from infidels. Those who returned to their homes recounted their triumphs, and all Europe was aglow with new zeal. Forty-five years later, in the year 1142, a Second Crusade was organized against the impending dangers which threatened Palestine and Jerusalem. The warlike West was again in arms; but this crusade was more unfortunate than the first. The crusaders were again compelled to endure the outrages and perfidies of the Greek. As in the First Crusade, the Christian armies dragged in their train a great number of children, women, and old men, who could do nothing toward victory but greatly augmented the disaster of defeat. The piety and heroism of the First Crusade had degenerated into a love of show and military splendor. “That which was still more injurious to discipline,” to quote from the admirable “History of the Crusades,” by J. F. Michaud, “was the depravity of manners in the Christian army, which must be principally attributed to the great number of women that had taken arms and mixed in the ranks of the soldiery. In this crusade there was a troop of Amazons, commanded by a general, whose dress was much more admired than her courage,” and whose gilded boots procured her a name which we will not copy from the historian’s pages. Forty years of struggle pass away in Palestine, and at the time of the opening of our story Henry the Second of England, Richard the First, and Philip of France, determine on renewing the Holy War. Moved by the eloquence and enthusiasm of Baldwin, there is a general cessation of hostilities between the Welsh princes and their warlike neighbors on the Marches of England. But one castle, known as the Garde Doloureuse, was not so fortunate. Its owner was Raymond Berenger. The hand of his daughter was asked in marriage by one of the Welsh chieftains. The compliment was declined. Raymond Berenger, in accordance with a rash promise, gave battle upon the plain and was slain. The castle was assaulted, but faithfully defended by an honest Fleming, inspired by the heroism of the orphaned daughter. Before the battle, Scott gives us a fine picture of the Welsh bards, and an admirable idea of life in the mountain fastnesses of Wales. His description of the defense of the castle is so graphic that we seem to walk the ramparts with the soldiers, and listen to the counsel of its defenders. Hugo De Lacy, Constable of Chester, arrives in time to raise the siege of the castle, and at once lays siege to the heart of the fair Eveline, to whom it seems she had been promised, when a child, by her father. From a sense of duty, rather than love, she accepts his proposal. She visits her Saxon aunt—a cruel and demented relic of the house of Baldringham; and is compelled to sleep in a haunted chamber, known as the “Room of the Red Finger.” The picture of Saxon life here presented is in strong contrast with the life of the Norman nobles. The century that had followed the Norman invasion of England had irritated wounded pride. Overcome by superstition and terror, Eveline sees in her dreams the spectre, and hears the fatal couplet, which gives name to the romance:

“Widowed wife and married maid,

Betrothed, betrayer, and betrayed.”

Eveline goes from her aunt’s to the abbess of a convent, a near relative, and Hugo De Lacy, having signified his intention of going to the Holy Land, asks a remission of his vow for two years; but the rigid prelate Baldwin was inexorable: “The advancement of the crusade was the chief business of Baldwin’s life, and the liberation of the Holy Sepulcher from the infidels was the unfeigned object of all his exertions. The successor of the celebrated Becket had neither the extensive views, nor the aspiring spirit of that redoubted personage; but on the other hand, saint as the latter had become, it may be questioned whether, in his professions for the weal of christendom, he was half so sincere as was the present archbishop.”

The interview between De Lacy and Baldwin shows the great power of the Church in the eleventh and twelfth centuries. He was compelled to leave Eveline before wedlock had united them indissolubly, and the first line of the couplet: “Widowed wife and married maid,” seemed already in the course of fulfillment. Hugo de Lacy sets sail for Palestine with these good-by words: “If I appear not when three years are elapsed let the Lady Eveline conclude that the grave holds De Lacy, and seek out for her mate some happier man. She can not find one more grateful, though there are many who better deserve her.”

Eveline returns to the castle of her father; the care of the country against Welsh invasion is assigned to Damian de Lacy, who had already by acts of bravery won the esteem of Eveline. The days and months of indolent castle life wear slowly away, with the occasional visit of a strolling harper, or a hawking expedition near the castle, which Scott, with his love for out-door amusements, enters into with apparent relish. On one of these excursions Eveline is made prisoner by a party of Welsh soldiers, and she is led away blindfolded through the recesses of the hills. She is rescued by Damian de Lacy, who however is seriously wounded, and taken against the advice of friends to the castle. Unfounded rumors poison the minds of the people, the castle is attacked by the king’s forces, led on by a traitor of Hugo’s family. Damian is taken prisoner and condemned to death. More than three years had passed away, and now Hugo returns in poverty, and completely broken in spirit. Damian is released, and Hugo waives his claim to the hand of Eveline, and Damian wins one of the noblest women that Scott has made immortal in the world. So much for the brief outline of the story, which reveals the manner of life on the Welsh borders during the time of the Third Crusade. The two novels which follow, “The Talisman” and “Ivanhoe,” portray even in more vivid colors the sufferings of the crusaders in Palestine, and the every day life of Merrie England.

[THE IVY.]

By HENRY BURTON.

Pushing the clods of earth aside,

Leaving the dark where foul things hide,

Spreading its leaves to the summer sun,

Bondage ended, freedom won;

So, my soul, like the ivy be,

Rise, for the sunshine calls for thee!

Climbing up as the seasons go,

Looking down upon things below,

Twining itself in the branches high,

As if the frail thing owned the sky;

So, my soul, like the ivy be,

Heaven, not earth, is the place for thee.

Wrapping itself round the giant oak,

Hiding itself from the tempest’s stroke;

Strong and brave is the fragile thing,

For it knows one secret, how to cling:

So, my soul, there’s strength for thee,

Hear the Mighty One, “Lean on me!”

Green are its leaves when the world is white,

For the ivy sings through the frosty night;

Keeping the hearts of oak awake,

Till the flowers shall bloom and the spring shall break;

So, my soul, through the winter’s rain,

Sing the sunshine back again.

Opening its green and fluttering breast,

Giving the timid birds a nest;

Coming out from the winter wild,

To make a wreath for the Holy Child;

So let my life like the ivy be,

A help to man and a wreath for Thee!

—Good Words.

[C. L. S. C. COMMENCEMENT.][A]

CLASS OF 1883.

A special dispensation of weather seemed to have been prepared for the accommodation of the second graduating class of the Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Circle on Saturday. A bright warm day was benevolently shaded and cooled by nature’s great sunshade of cloud during all the out-door exercises, and promptly upon the entry of the multitude under the cover of the Amphitheater it began to rain to still further cool the air. Everything was opportune, and the surroundings faultless.

The management terrestrial was equally good. There were four different processions, in five divisions, moving from different rendezvous in the grounds and converging and articulating with each other. Each of them started on time “to a tick,” got to and dropped into place, and everything moved with the smoothness and precision of a well-adjusted machine. The program, as prepared, was carried out to the letter and second.

The attendance was as immense, the feeling as good as the day and management. The unprecedented crowd of the night before was augmented in the morning by boat-loads and train-loads, and when the signal-bells for beginning the day’s movement sounded the avenues were thronged.

Punctually at the hour the “Guard of the Gate,” H. S. Field, J. J. Covert, Miss E. E. Tuttle, W. H. Rogers, Charles B. Wood, S. J. M. Eaton, Miss Myrtie Hudson, A. M. Martin, J. G. Allen, A. M. Mattison, and the “Guard of the Grove,” Miss Annie E. Wilcox, A. Wilder, Miss M. F. Wells, Miss E. Irvin, Miss Eleanor O’Connell, E. C. Norton, Mrs. E. Howe, De Forest Temple, Mrs. Isaiah Golding, George Seebrick, in charge of Marshal S. J. M. Eaton, formed at the cottage of Lewis Miller (Auditorium), the right resting on Hedding Avenue.

The keys of the Golden Gate having been delivered by President Miller to the Messenger, Rev. A. H. Gillet, the division marched up Hedding Avenue to Clark, and out Clark to the Hall of Philosophy, and were distributed to their proper positions in charge of the inclosure of St. Paul’s Grove.

The second division, consisting of fifty-two little girls, the youngest, Jennie Templeton, four years of age, heading the procession, beautifully garlanded and bearing artistic baskets laden with flowers to their very brim, conducted by Mrs. Frank Beard, superintendent, assisted by Miss M. E. Bemis, Miss Minnie Barney, Messrs. Garret E. Ryckman, and W. H. Burroughs, and Miss Blanche Shove, was formed at the Children’s Temple, the right resting on Clark Avenue. The “Society of the Hall in the Grove,” (the graduates of the class of 1882, C. L. S. C.) were thus escorted by this beautiful company of prospective Chautauquans through Clark Avenue to Hedding, down Hedding to Simpson, through Simpson to Park Athenæum, through Park Athenæum to Lake Avenue, to Dr. Vincent’s cottage.

The sixth division, consisting of the graduates of the class of 1883, and the graduates of the class of 1882, who had not last year passed through the Golden Gate, and under the Arches, met at the gate of St. Paul’s Grove, on Merrill Avenue, each provided with a ticket, a garnet badge, and a copy of the commencement service. A portion of the Guard of the Grove stood within the gate, and a portion stood in waiting without. The Messenger stood at the portal, holding the keys of the gate. The Guard of the Gate took their places in order, near the Messenger, while the leaders of the graduating class, Rev. H. C. Farrar, chairman, and Rev. George C. Wilding, took their stations, one on the right and the other on the left of the gateway, that at a given signal the class might read responsively the form of service provided. The classes were arranged in parallel columns stretching from the portal itself to the middle of Miller Avenue, a block and a half.

At precisely 9:45 the Chautauqua Band, headed by Frank Wright, Marshal, marching up Lake Avenue, reached the cottage of Dr. Vincent. Here the banner of the C. L. S. C., with the “Guard of the Banner,” Mrs. M. Bailey and Mrs. Delos Hatch, were escorted to their places in the line. Four little children, Chippie Firestone, Edna McClellan, Nellie Mallory and Bobbie Davenport were conducted to their places as “streamer bearers,” while the beautiful fabric itself was borne by Mr. W. E. H. Massey and Mr. Will Butler. The Superintendent of Instruction, Dr. Vincent, took his place in the line.

The procession took its order of march, moving through Lake Avenue to Haven Avenue, and up Haven to the Hall of Philosophy, which it entered, and the band departed to escort thither “The Chautauqua Procession.” (Division V.) This division formed at the Hotel Athenæum, Frank Wright, Marshal, the right resting on the north main front of the hotel, in the following order:

Band.
Chautauqua Board of Trustees, led by Lewis Miller, Esq., President.
The Faculty and Students of the “Chautauqua School of Languages,” J. H. Worman, Marshal.
The Normal Alumni, carrying their banners for the various years since 1874, Frank Beard, Marshal.
The members of the classes of the C. L. S. C. for the years 1887, 1886, 1885, 1884, Mr. Copeland, Marshal.
The guests of the Assembly, Rev. Frank Russell, Marshal.

The procession, thus constituted, moved at ten o’clock from the piazza of the Hotel Athenæum, across the north side of the Park Athenæum, to Lake Avenue, out Lake Avenue to Cookman Avenue, up Cookman to Clark, halting on Cookman, the right resting on Clark, in open order, the Hall of Philosophy being on its right flank.

At this time the entire neighborhood of the “Hall in the Grove” was filled with interested crowds of spectators, whose eyes saw for the second time the “Recognition Services” of the immense class in the “People’s University.”

More than a hundred and fifty of the “Society of the Hall in the Grove” (graduates of the preceding year), entered the Hall, and were seated in its western side.

Precisely at ten o’clock, as the booming of the great bell at the Point indicated the hour, the members of the Class of 1883, with such members of the Class of 1882 as had not last year passed the Arches, standing at the gate of St. Paul’s Grove, read responsively the devotional services, Rev. George C. Wilding acting as precentor of the first section, and Rev. H. C. Farrar as the precentor of the second section.

The “Messenger,” Rev. A. H. Gillet, in slow and solemn utterance gave the announcement as follows:

I come to inform all candidates for enrollment in the “Society of the Hall in the Grove” that the hour appointed for your reception has arrived; the Hall has been set in order; the Path through the Grove has been opened; the Arches under which you must pass have been erected; the Key which will open this Gate has been placed in my hands. And to you who, as members of the Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Circle, have completed the four years’ Course of Reading, and now hold in your hands a pledge of the same, I extend, in the name of the authorities, a welcome into St. Paul’s Grove, under the First Arch—and let the watchman guard carefully the Gate.

After the announcement by the Messenger, he turned and opened the gate. The first to enter was Mr. Miner Curtis, an invalid, borne in a wheeled carriage by the advance members of the class of ’83, and accompanied by his wife and son, who were graduates of last year.

Having entered the Gate, and the Gate having been closed, the class proceeded very slowly toward the Hall, passing the second and third Arches. As they walked up the beautifully decorated way, the “Choir of the Hall in the Grove” stationed at the fourth Arch, and led by Prof. C. C. Case, sang “A Song of To-day:”

“Sing peans over the Past!

We bury the dead years tenderly.”

At the entrance to the Hall stood the Superintendent of Instruction to welcome the coming class, and as they passed by the Arch nearest the Hall, the fifty-two little girls standing in double columns, scattered the way of the coming graduates with the beauteous flowers, emblematic of the flower-strewn paths of intellectual light which they may hope to tread in the coming years.

On entering the building the “Society of the Hall in the Grove” received their brothers and sisters with the most marked tokens of good cheer, waving their handkerchiefs and vocally expressing the kindly feeling of the seniors of the year agone.

At precisely 10:20 the “C. L. S. C. Glee Club,” Prof. W. F. Sherwin, conductor, led the classes (which filled the Hall to repletion), as they sang

“A sound is thrilling thro’ the trees

And vibrant thro’ the air.”

After the reading of the responsive services came the “Recognition,” by the Superintendent of Instruction, Dr. J. H. Vincent, as follows:

Fellow Students of the Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Circle of the Class of 1883:

Dearly Beloved—You have finished the appointed and accepted course of reading. You have been admitted to this sacred Grove. You have passed the Arches dedicated to “Faith,” “Science,” “Literature” and “Art.” You have entered in due form this Hall, the center of the Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Circle; and now, as Superintendent of Instruction, in behalf of my associates, the counselors, who are this day absent, I greet you, and hereby announce that you, and your brothers and sisters absent from us this day, who have completed with you the prescribed course of reading, are accepted and approved graduates of the “Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Circle,” and that you are entitled to membership in the “Society of the Hall in the Grove.” The Lord bless and keep thee; the Lord make his face to shine upon thee and be gracious unto thee; the Lord lift up his countenance upon thee, and give thee peace.

I may say on behalf of the only counselor who is on the ground, Dr. Lyman Abbott, that his indisposition renders it unsafe for him to be here, but at my cottage he will join the procession, and go with you to the Amphitheater. We will now unite in singing

“Bright gleams again Chautauqua’s wave,

And green her forest arches.”

During the singing of the ode, according to the direction of the Superintendent of Instruction, the class of 1882, under the marshalship of W. A. Duncan, quietly marched from the Hall in double column, taking their position on Haven, Clark, and Cookman avenues, that the graduating class might pass through their ranks at the close of the service of recognition.

The Superintendent of Instruction, Dr. Vincent, Lewis Miller, the Messenger, the Secretary of the C. L. S. C., preceded by the children (flower bearers) and the Banner of the C. L. S. C., headed the procession, which passed out of the south side of the Hall, around Clark to Cookman Avenue, and passed down through the opened ranks of the classes of the C. L. S. C., from whom they received constant marks of recognition and affection, the classes in some cases waving their Chautauqua salute to the Chief as he passed by.

When the head of the procession reached the cottage of Dr. Vincent, a halt was made for a few moments, during which Dr. Lyman Abbott, one of the counselors of the C. L. S. C., and the orator of the day, took his place in the ranks.

As the procession marched up the long walk to the north door of the Amphitheater, immense throngs filled all the available standing room on the slopes of the ravine, and the “Blooming of the Lilies” (the Chautauqua salute) was given by all the opened ranks of the classes as the head of the procession passed through.

The Chautauqua Band, stationed at the entrance of the north gate, discoursed sweet music during the passage of the long cortege.

All the officers, invited guests, members of the board of Chautauqua trustees, officers and members of the Chautauqua School of Languages, the Normal Alumni, and the various classes of the C. L. S. C., passed into the great Amphitheater, when the ropes were dropped, and sooner than we write it, all the remaining seating space was filled to overflowing.

The platform was filled with distinguished Chautauquans and others; the organ gave forth its sweet harmonies under the manipulation of Prof. Andrews; the Chautauqua Banner of the C. L. S. C. was stationed in full view of the vast throng; and after the devotional exercises Dr. Vincent introduced Dr. Lyman Abbott, who delivered the Commencement oration, as follows:

THE DEMOCRACY OF LEARNING.

Fellow Chautauquans:—I see in some of your eyes triumph. You have run in four years a race with uncertainty whether you could ever reach the goal. You have carried on your work under difficulties and discouragements, such as are never known to him who has perfect and continual leisure for the pursuit of studies; but in the midst of employments which were incessant and imperative in their demands upon you; and your courage, your patience, your hope, have vanquished the obstacles, and you are here to-day to receive the outward sign and symbol of your inward victory. In other eyes I see expectation. You have commenced a course and you are hopeful of achieving a result, which has been made possible to you within the last few years, that the fruits and results of study might be yours though you could not give yourself to a life of study, still less to the persistent and professional pursuit of scholarship. In other eyes I see desire dimmed by fear and doubt; you do not know whether this great realm is open to you or not; you wish that you could be assured that it is. Is this all a mistake? Is your triumph a false one, your expectation a delusive one, your hope and your desire one impossible of attainment? This is so asserted. There are not a few in our times who are of the opinion that learning is of necessity only for the few, or at all events if the many can enter a little upon the realm, they must always live upon the border and never can enter into the heart of the country.

I desire, if I may this morning, to meet and to answer this objection of skepticism, and to show that learning is within the possible reach to-day of the great body of industrious, hard-working, perplexed, and driven people of America; that it is not the privilege of the few; that it is the prerogative of the many. I desire to show you that we are entering into an epoch which I may call the “Democracy of Learning.” We have already entered into the epoch of democracy in religion. The time has gone by, at least for all Protestant people, of believing that religion is for the few, or that even the higher and larger privileges of religious life are for the few. It has been established for all those who believe in an open Bible and in the universal religion of Jesus Christ that the innermost sanctuary of the temple is for every one. The great wall that before separated the court of Israel from the court of the priests has been broken down; there is but one court. The great veil that hung between the holy of holies and the court of the priests has been torn asunder, and every one of us is not only priest but high-priest, free to enter into the very holy of holies. And we have entered into the epoch of democracy in public affairs. The time has gone by when political power belonged to the few, and political intelligence was believed to be the prerogative of the few. We have come into an epoch in which political power is lodged in the hands of the great masses of the people; and it is lodged there because we believe that, on the whole, political intelligence is lodged in the hands of the great masses of the people. I desire to show you this morning that we are entering upon an epoch of the Democracy of Learning, in which the highest and best fruits of scholarship are also the privilege and the prerogative of the many. When we have entered upon that land, then we shall be ready to enter upon the last and the completest phase of the triumphant democracy, the Democracy of Industry. Then, when intelligence shall be universally diffused, and when all men shall have the power at least of acquiring the largest and the best and the ripest fruits of knowledge and of intelligence, we shall come into that epoch in which no longer the few will control the industries of the many, but in which industry will be the controlling power, and wealth will be its servant.

I have a three-fold object this morning—I desire in the first place to show you that the fruits of learning are fruits which hang on the lower boughs of the tree where we may all pluck them; to show you not only that, but that the ripest and the best fruits of learning hang there. I desire to show you that it is not necessary that men should go through a college course and should have four years of leisure and of quiet for college study in order to reap the best fruits of a college education. The process of investigation must always be carried on by the few. The results of education may be, yea! are already becoming the property of the many. Only a few explorers can bear the perils of the Arctic Sea and investigate the mystery of the North Pole; but we can all have the fruits of their investigation. Only a few men can labor and toil in the great libraries searching out the course and progress of history and its sacred events, but we can all have the garnered fruits of their toil and their industry. Not only may we pluck a single blossom, and here and there a single half-ripened fruit from this tree; but the ripest, the best, that which has hung the longest in the sun-light, that whose cheeks are painted the most rosy red, and whose heart has in it the most saccharine juice, that is ready to-day to fall into our open palm if we will but extend it.

In endeavoring to show you this, I shall also necessarily ask you to consider with me what are the ripest and best fruits of learning. What is the object of education? It is not an end, it is a means to an end. It is a great pity that our colleges do not understand this better; for if they did better comprehend that education is a means, and that the end lies behind, fewer students would come out with empty diplomas when the college course is ended.

And incidentally I shall hope also to answer one argument which is sometimes used, and oftener, I think, lies secretly in the minds of people, against a popular and universal education. Some satirist has said that “Ignorance is the mother of devotion.” If that were true, we might well doubt whether universal education is worth the price we should have to pay for it. If it were true that God held out in one hand devotion to us and in the other hand education, and said, “You must choose between these two; if you become educated you must be skeptical, if you would be devoted you must remain ignorant”—it would be a difficult question for most of us to decide whether we would have intelligence without piety or piety without intelligence. I shall show you that it is not learning, but a little learning which is a dangerous thing; and that if our work is thorough, the broader the culture, the profounder the piety.

For our purpose this morning, learning may be divided into four provinces: literature, history, science and philosophy, to which must be added in any complete topography of the realm, pure mathematics. By pure mathematics I mean arithmetic, algebra, geometry, logarithms, the calculus and the like. But pure mathematics is simply an instrument by which the scientific mind reaches certain results. I shall not therefore consider this department at all; it is not necessary for our purpose. Some one must look through the telescope, some one must know how to use the spectroscope in order to tell us what is the size of the sun and its constituent elements; but we do not need to examine the telescope or the spectroscope. Some one must be skilled in pure mathematics in order to tell us how many miles the sun is distant from our own earth, but we may take the result without going through the process. This instrument must always be left in the hand of the specialist. I wish to show you that all that is best, highest and most important in literature, history, science and philosophy lies within the power of your acquisition. I wish to show you the spirit with which you must study, and the purpose with which you must acquire it; and I wish to show you that if you acquire in that spirit and with that purpose you can not but gain in your religious nature.

I. In the first place, then, what is literature, and why do we study it? Literature is the expression of human life, in its innermost experiences, and in its outward forms. Sometimes it is the expression of social life, sometimes of the intellectual life, sometimes of the emotional life; but always and everywhere literature is a mirror held up either before society or before the human heart; no, not a mirror, but the sensitized plate in a photographic apparatus; and the picture, now of society, now of the brain, now of the palpitating heart with its fears, hopes, joys and experiences, is given upon the plate; and literature is the picture brought out for us to examine. To study literature is not to study language. Language is merely the instrument which we use for the study of literature. To study literature is to study life—life in its outward semblance or life in its inward experiences. It is to study the life of the community and of society as we study it in Thackeray; or it is to study the life of the brain and the thought as we study it in Plato and Bacon; or it is to study the life of the inward emotions as we study it in Tennyson or Wordsworth. Now, in order to study life as it is portrayed in literature it is not necessary to know the original language in which that life was portrayed. Some one must have studied the Greek language in order to bring Homer to our intelligence; some one must have studied Latin and brought Horace within our horizon; some one must have studied French and brought Molière within our knowledge; some one must have studied Italian in order to introduce Dante to our acquaintance; but it is not necessary for us to do so. Some one must have taken the negative and printed the picture on the paper for us; but we need not all be photographers in order to get the picture for our own enlightenment. I hold a silver dollar in my hand. Some one must have gone to the mines and dug out the ore with a pick; some one must have put it under the great stampers and beaten it out in the stamping mill; some one must have put it in the sieve and shaken it and shaken it until the grosser dross was washed away; some one must have put it into the furnace and heated it until the finer dross was eliminated; some one must have carried it to the mint and put the stamp of the United States authority upon it; but we need not all be miners digging in the mines; we need not all be workers in the stamping mill; we need not all be toilers in the furnace room; we need not all be masters or mechanics in the mint. The money was coined by those who have wrought for us, and to whom our gratitude is due, but the coin is ours; it is not merely for those who worked in producing it.

I hold in my hand an extract from Taine which expresses that which I desire to express better than I can perhaps express it myself. Let me read it: “What is your first remark on turning over the great leaves of a folio, the yellow sheets of a manuscript, a poem, a code of laws, a confession of faith? This, you say, did not come into existence all alone, it is but a mould like a fossil-shell, an imprint, like one of the shapes embossed in stone by an animal which lived and perished. Under the shell there was an animal; and behind the document there was a man. Why do you study the shell, except to bring before you the animal? So you study the document only to know the man. The shell and the document are lifeless wrecks, valuable only as a clue to the entire and living existence. We must get hold of this existence and endeavor to re-create it. It is a mistake to study the document as if it were isolated. This were to treat things as a simple scholar, to fall into the error of the bibliomaniac.”

You do not need to have traversed the ocean beach or climbed the mountain-top and gathered the shells; you may go into the museum where they have already been gathered, and study their history there. You do not need, with dictionary and grammar, to work out the secrets of the language; you may take the products of those who have thus wrought, and learn the man that lies behind the document.

Not only is it not necessary that a man should study language in order to study literature; in innumerable cases the study of the language has absolutely interfered with the study of the literature. In innumerable cases, men at college have ground away, day after day, and month after month, and year after year, over cases and nouns and parts of speech, and rules of syntax and rules of grammar—working only at the grammar, and utterly oblivious of the great light that lay behind it. Mr. Adams, of Massachusetts, has recently told us how hard a man may study Greek and how little he may know of it after he gets through with it, for he assures us that he does not know the Greek alphabet to-day, although he studied Greek six years, four years before college and two in it. I confess I should not have thought it possible for a man to have studied so much and yet know so little when he got through; but I am very certain of this, that my own experience reflects the experience of many college students. I learned more of Homer—of his life, of his character, of the lessons he has to teach, of the man himself—from reading in the “Ancient Classics for English Readers,” the Iliad and the Odyssey, and from reading Bryant’s translation, than I ever received from reading Homer himself in the original Greek in my college class. That which is highest, and supremest, and best in literature, you may obtain without a college education. You may learn the life, you may learn the man, you may learn the sacred truth; and you can not do that without broadening your sympathies and developing your charity. When you have read Homer and Virgil and Horace; when you have read Dante and Milton; when you have read Molière and Shakspere; when you have read Wordsworth and Tennyson, and when, out of all this reading, you have gathered their fruits, you will find this to be true, that, though you have one picture of Greek life, one of Italian life, one of French life, one of English life, one portraying the life of four centuries before Christ, and one portraying the life of eighteen centuries after; yet in all these languages, in all these epochs, in all these civilizations the great heart of hope and joy and love and fear and reverence and faith was one. And you will learn to know that humanity, in all its nationalities, in all its epochs, in all its civilizations,—aye, and under all the varied forms of its religions, true and false—that humanity is one in all its brotherhood, and one in its great Father in heaven.

II. What is the object of studying history? What is history? It is not a mere record of dates, not the mere annals of actions, not merely the account of what men have performed or what nations have wrought. A man does not know history because he can recite glibly, beginning with Alfred the Great and coming down to the present time, the dates of the chief events and the chief epochs in English history. History is the record of God’s dealing with the human race. History is the account of the great laws under which this human race has been evolved from its lowest condition to its highest condition. As the tree grows from the seed planted in the ground—first the little bud peering above the surface, then the stalk, and then the branches, and by and by the completed oak; as the child grows from the babe in the cradle, taking on one new faculty and one power after another till he comes into as yet incompleted manhood—for the completion of manhood lies afar off in the dim, distant and invisible future—so the nations of the earth, and so the whole race of man has been developed from the seed to the oak and from the babe in the cradle to manhood in its maturity; and to read history is to read the process of this development.

What, for example, is English history? To know English history is to know that in the Bible, way back years and years before the birth of Christ—fourteen centuries before—were planted all the seeds of a free representative government; to know that in the Mosaic statutes is to be found the outline of a perfect political economy; to know that the Mosaic commonwealth had in it all the elements of those institutions which have made America a free nation; popular suffrage, representative assemblies, political government divided into three departments, executive, legislative, and judicial; a carefully framed system of laws, with a carefully framed system of penalties, a universal system of education, and a religion that was national. To know history is to know that Alfred the Great was a devout believer in the Bible as the word of God, that he studied it and found in this Old Testament, fourteen centuries before the birth of Christ, these seeds of a free government buried and forgotten. It is to know that he gathered them out of this old book, as men have gathered wheat seeds out of old mummies in the tombs of Egypt, and planted them in the more fertile soil of an Anglo-Saxon community. It is to know how the Anglo-Saxon Witenagemote grew to be an English Parliament; it is to know how the people came to be represented in it under Simon de Montfort; and how they came to be supreme in it under Charles the First, and Cromwell. It is to know how the nation was at first a congeries of conflicting tribes, partially brought together by Alfred the Great, and consolidated together under one national sovereignty by William the Conqueror, and growing thence into unity under successive statesmen, until these latter days, when William Gladstone, the greatest statesman of them all, is perfecting the Christian unity of the empire by Christian justice and equity. It is to know how, in the earlier history of this nation, the Pope of Rome assumed authority and control over the nations. It is to know how, through the centuries, the war went on between the Anglo-Saxon love of liberty and this claim of the Church of Rome; how it was begun under Augustine, continued under Thomas à Becket, brought to the beginning of the end under King Henry the Eighth, until finally under Elizabeth the bonds that bound England to Rome were severed forever, and England was made free from every foreign prince and potentate. It is to know how this seed—the sovereignty of the people in the nation, the sovereignty of the nation against the anarchy of feudalism, and the liberty of the nation against the Pope—grew into a tree, as yet but a young sapling; it is to know how then God carefully dug this sapling up, and transported it three thousand miles across the ocean and planted it in the yet more fertile soil of America. It is to know that because of the battle and bloodshed, and the long suffering endured on that soil, to-day there floats over us the banner of liberty and justice. The seeds were there in that old Bible, the culture was there in that English history; the fruit we rejoice in here to-day.

One does not need to work in the Spanish libraries with Prescott, nor in the Dutch libraries with Motley, nor among the old manuscripts of the British museum with Froude, nor among the pamphlets of English literature with Macaulay, in order to gather for himself these highest and supremest fruits of historical learning. The processes of historical research must always be carried on by the few; we must always have in this country some men who have leisure to pursue them. Alas for us, if the time ever comes when we grow careless or indifferent respecting our colleges or universities, and the kind of culture which they give; but they give culture that the cultured may give us fruit. The few garner; the heaviest are for all.

Nor is it possible for one thus to study the history of the human race, to see how, little by little, liberty has grown, education has grown, humanity has grown, and not grow himself in faith in an overruling Providence, and in hope in the Supreme God.

As the broad, comprehensive, interior study of literature will give breadth of sympathy, so the broad, comprehensive, and large study of history will give hope. When the fog covers the ocean, and the mariner befogged knows not where he is, and can not tell whence his course has been, nor where it shall be, he sometimes goes aloft and from the top-mast, looking above the fog, discerns the coast in the distance and the entrance into the harbor. In history we rise out of the fog that environs all in the lower level; we look above the fog and over it, and know then the courses we have traced, and see the harbor and the haven not far before us.

III. What is science, and for what purpose do we study it? I use, of course, the word science in its restricted sense, meaning natural science. For two purposes. Nature is a vast and wonderful machine; its mechanism may well arouse both our astonishment and our admiration. If you have a watch that keeps time so that it does not vary more than two or three minutes in a year you are proud of it, and if you should by chance have a watch that did not vary more than one minute in a year you would be a remarkably humble man if you did not boast of it to your acquaintances. But in the heavens the sun and the planets round it have been keeping time for the centuries, and as yet astronomy has not detected an appreciable variation in its time. What a wonderful mechanism is this! If an inventor should construct a furnace which would keep us warm in winter and cool in summer, no manufacturer would be able to supply the orders. But you have within you a furnace such that although you may go from the land of the Esquimaux with the thermometer 40° below zero, to the tropics with the thermometer 110° above zero, this furnace does not allow the habitation in which you dwell to vary more than four or five degrees. What a wonderful mechanism is this nature which we study! And we study this mechanism partly that we may use it, that we may lay hold on these great forces of nature and make them subservient to our will by understanding the laws which regulate and govern them. But nature is more than a machine; nature is also a book, and a wonderful book, written all over in hieroglyphics that require study for their apprehension. It is more than a mechanism. It is a revelation; and it reveals wondrous things to him who knows how to read it aright. Edison and Morse, Copernicus and Newton—they have interpreted nature on the one side; but Wordsworth, and Longfellow, and Bryant—they have interpreted nature on the other, and the one class of interpretations is as valuable as the other. We study nature as a mechanism that we may know how to use it; we study nature as a book that we may know how to read it.

Now, all that which is most valuable in nature, as a mechanism, we lay hold of and use without going through the labor necessary in the original examination by the first investigator. We do not need to understand the laws of heat and steam to use them; some one has learned the laws, and has brought fire and water together and has pronounced a nuptial blessing over them, and a child has been born of the marriage, and we take steam for our slave without knowing the ritual which married the father and mother. Some one must have learned how to reach his hand to the cloud, and bring down the electricity, make it run our errands and serve the purpose of our illumination; but we do not need to know the processes in order to sit under the light. Not only is it true that the mechanical uses that come from natural sciences we get without going through the processes, but the literary and spiritual we get also. Others have been turning over the pages of this marvelous book and have been reading it to us, and unconsciously, unknowingly, almost without the sense that we have been learning anything, we have learned great lessons in this book of nature. Scientists on the one side and theologians on the other have put science and religion into antagonism with one another. But they are sister teachers of the race; science has received all its life from the late comprehended revelation of the first chapter of Genesis that nature is man’s servant, not his god; and theology has learned some of its profoundest lessons from the book of nature which science has interpreted. Consider for one moment what a fundamental religious lesson we have learned in the school-room of science almost without knowing that she was our teacher. The ancient Hebrews believed that Palestine was the world; all the rest was a mere outlying district environing it, the back yard as it were. The Mediterranean was the Great Sea, the little pond of Galilee was the Sea of Galilee, the sun and moon and stars were torches for man’s illumination—that was their conception of the universe. With that conception it is not strange that they had an equally insignificant and unworthy conception of the God of the world, a conception against which the inspired writers were continually struggling, and from which they were continually endeavoring to lift the people up. When the Philistines fought against the Israelites and captured the ark of God they were in triumph. “We have captured God,” they thought; and the Israelites were almost equally in despair, for they also half thought that Jehovah had been carried off a prisoner. Now, science, even more than revelation, has been enlarging our conceptions of this universe. The Holy Land, a province about as large as Vermont, is no longer the earth; the Atlantic and the Pacific are the great seas; this globe on which we live is but one of the smaller globes of the planetary system; and the great planetary system itself is but a smaller one of the great planetary systems which are circling around some vast and distant sun. Science has taught us too that all this universe is linked together, bound together by a common law, bound together by a common order of phenomena. It has investigated the sun and the stars, it has analyzed their light, it has shown us that the substances of these bodies are identical with the substances of ours. It has taught us the unity of nature, it has taught us the vastness of nature. There are stars in the firmament which you can see with the naked eye, on which if a man were standing with a telescope fine enough and powerful enough to see what is transpiring on this globe, and should look through it to-day, he would see not this congregation assembled under this roof, but the first outbreaking of the revolution, so long does it take light to traverse from our globe to the stars, light that takes but eight minutes to travel from the sun to the earth. There are stars so distant that he would see not Chautauqua gathered here to-night, but the crucifixion of Christ taking place on the hill of Calvary; stars so distant, that with a telescope powerful enough to carry the message of this world to his sight, he would see Abraham coming out of the land of his idolatry into the promised land; stars so distant that he would see this earth first taking on its brightness in the birth-day of its glory. So vast is our universe that the mind can not attempt to comprehend its majestic distances. It is not theology, it is not religion, it is not even the Bible that has unfolded this vastness; it is science. It is impossible that men who have once learned anything of this greatness of creation, or anything of this unity of creation, should ever bow down again before idols of wood and stone. So long as men thought that the laws of the material universe were antagonistic and anarchic, that the universe was made up of warring tribes and provinces, so long it was not strange that they should worship many gods. So long as they thought that it was a little province on which they lived, the boundaries of which they could themselves measure with their tape-line, they might well worship before images they had formed with their utterances or with their hands. But to-day you might burn every Bible in the land, you might burn every church and Sunday-school house, you might put all the priests and ministers in America on the great bonfire, and consume them as well, and then you might erase from every mind every lesson that had been learned from church or Sunday-school, from priest or minister, and this nation could not go back to idolatry, unless it went back to the utter barbarism of utter ignorance. That which is highest and supremest in science you can learn without becoming a scientist; and you can not learn it without learning the large reverence that is the very foundation of religion.

IV. What is philosophy? The study of philosophy is the study of the laws which govern the spiritual realm, as the study of natural science is the study of the laws which govern the natural and the physical realm. It is not studying Hegel, and Kant, and Schleiermacher; it is not studying Hickock or Hopkins; it is not studying what philosophers have thought—they are the mere translators, the mere “ponies.” Philosophy is the law of humanity, either social or individual. The study of philosophy is the study of the laws which God has ordained for the binding of men together into a common organism, or for the government of their individual lives. Men believed that the foundation of the State was a compact, and that each citizen gave up something of his rights for the common welfare; they believed that the foundation of the Nation was a compact in which each State gave up something which it had of right to secure the advantage of a commonwealth. So believing, they concluded that any State might withdraw from its allegiance, and they might have easily concluded that any individual might withdraw from his allegiance. It is only as we learned that we are born into the government and made a part of the State from the beginning by the ordinance of God, that we have learned what is the bond that has bound the nation together. Revolting from the Romish doctrine that marriage is a sacrament, Protestantism has been teaching for years that it is merely a civil contract. We are reaping the result of this false teaching. To-day in Puritan Connecticut, the minister can not tie the marriage bond much faster than the courts across the street can dissolve it. We have yet to learn that marriage is more than a civil contract, that it is an ordinance of God; that he who made man and woman made them that these twain should become one flesh, and made the home to be the first Church and the first State. When we have learned that, we shall have learned the foundation of the home as we have learned the foundation of the State. To study philosophy is to study the laws which govern society in its organism. All text-books are only instructions to teach us how to study life itself, which is the great text-book. To study philosophy is also to study the laws which govern the individual. It is to know that God has made you body, soul and spirit; that he has given you a physical organism, wonderful, but simply a mechanism in your hands; that he has given you a mental power wonderful in its reasoning qualities, but with its partial parallels in the animals about you; it is to know that far above the body and the mind is the spirit—reverence, and love, and hope, and a living faith—that makes you one with God, and that points you to your eternal habitation. This it is to study mental and moral philosophy. It is to know how to read the secrets of your own soul. It is to know how to read the inner life of the souls of others. Books will help; scholarship will help; but the great book is the human soul, and we need not have scholarship to read that book. Burns and Shakspere were not great scholars; but no scholar ever surpassed Burns and Shakspere in the reading of the human soul.

No one ever exerted so profound an influence on the life of humanity as Jesus of Nazareth. You may think that Jesus was simply a man; you will not doubt that from the teachings of Jesus have gone forth an influence greater by far than went forth from Plato, or Socrates, or Confucius, or Buddha. You may think with me that he was the Son of God; you surely will not doubt the potency of the influence that proceeded from the incarnate Son of God. Jesus, the son of the carpenter, what did he know of literature, of science, of philosophy? Rather, what knowledge did he employ? He was thoroughly familiar with the literature of his day—that is, the Bible; but he never displayed or employed any critical or literary knowledge respecting it. He never discussed questions of authorship, he never debated questions of origin or date, he did not touch that which lay on the surface. He read the interior and spiritual truth. He saw in that which to their mind was a mere annal, and a mere law the beating heart of the inspired prophet telling of God. He tore off the wrapping and made the world see it. He plucked from the psalm of David this bud, “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want,” and in his hand it blossomed into the parable of the Good Shepherd. He plucked from the psalm of David this utterance, “Like as a father pitieth his children,” and in his hand it blossomed into the parable of the Prodigal Son. He knew the life back of literature. He invented no machine, gave no hint of any, suggested no steam engine, no steam boat, no electric light. What he knew I say not. I may say what he used, and knowledge of nature as a mechanism he never used; but he looked into nature as a book, read her teachings, and interpreted them; in the sower going forth to sow, in the fisher gathering his fish from his net; in the bird’s song in the air he heard the sweet note of trust; in the flowers blossoming from the ground he read the sweet promise of God’s providing care. Things which men having eyes saw not and ears heard not be brought to their vision and their hearing. He propounded no scheme of political philosophy, none of psychology, or theology, but he taught that “One is your father, even God in heaven, and ye all are brethren;” and the great laws that are to bind together, rather the one great law of order, the law of love, this law he expounded. The son of the carpenter lived that he might teach, among the other lessons, this lesson of the democracy of learning; that learning, in its higher and more valued forms, is for the mechanic busy at his bench, for the smith grimy with toil at his forge, for the mother busiest of all, with hands and brain and heart filled with her children.

Kings of the earth have fought that they might hold the power in their own hands, and the many might be subject to them. The people have risen, and grown strong, until at last they have trampled the king and the army under their feet, and have rushed into the citadel and the palace and taken possession, and the citadel of oppression and the palace of luxury have become the temple of liberty. The priests have fought long that they might keep the people out of the temple and hold the mysteries of religion an exclusive possession. But the people have surged up against the priests and trampled them under foot, and occupied the temple of religion. The temples of earning are open; the kings of learning stand at the door, and with their scepters beckon you to come and share their coronation and their crown. The priests of learning bid you come, that they may open to you the mysteries of literature. For in the republic of letters there is no aristocracy but that of service. And they only are great who have learned how best to serve their fellow-men.

The triumph that I read in your eyes is not a false triumph. You have plucked the first fruits, and all the other brightest and best are before you for your plucking. The expectation that I read in your eyes is not a delusive expectation. The fruit is yours. The desire that I read in your eyes is not a cheating desire. The aspiration that burns within you for learning may have its gratification. You have no money? Literature is cheap. You have no time? You have as much time as Schliemann had, who stood in the long line before the postoffice and studied his Greek while waiting for the letters. You have as much time as Mary Somerville had, who wrote the volume which gave her a princely reputation among astronomers, while tending with motherly care the children in the nursery pulling at her skirts. The forces of nature come out of the ground and offer themselves to you to do the drudgery which aforetime was left to human hands, that you may have time to learn the truth of God, and the works of God, and the will of God. We stand to-day on the mountain height. We look just across the valley. The Jordan is no longer overflowing its banks, but is a narrow and shallow stream. The promised land lies there in all its richness and brilliance, and God’s providence utters its promise to us Americans in this nineteenth century: “Be strong and of good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed; for the Lord thy God has given thee this land for a possession forever.”

Another immense audience assembled in the Amphitheater at two o’clock to listen to the addresses delivered to the graduating class by President Lewis Miller, and Dr. J. H. Vincent.

ADDRESS OF PRESIDENT LEWIS MILLER.

Chautauquans:—In these days of popular education, it may be profitable to examine the different sources of culture and development. First among these are books—the treasures that lie hidden in them may well awaken our inquiry and admiration, may well be worth the many hours of toil spent in preparing the mind, so that it can converse with the masters of the past and present. I do not wonder at hunger after the hidden treasures of books, for in them are power, wealth and pleasure. We need but watch the interested audiences that gather in this Amphitheater, to realize the power there is in the rostrum, how in all ages peoples have been confirmed or changed in their opinions by that mere persuasive power of words. Your mind now runs over the histories you have studied, and you recall the orators who, through the power of speech alone, have revolutionized empires, advanced or checked civilization. What pleasure to the mind and heart, to be able in our leisure hours to sit with Herodotus, Macaulay, Motley, Bancroft, and a host of others, and hear them tell their historic stories! or with David, Homer, Shakspere, Whittier and Bryant, and let them fill our minds with the beautiful and soothing words of poetry! Does not art, in a still more condensed form, give us the history of the nations of the past? Does it not give us a clearer idea of thought? What descriptive words could give us so clear a view of the golden candlestick, around which clusters so much of interest to the Bible student, as can be had by a look at the plaster mould of the arch of Titus, in the Museum? What more rapidly moulds, and more powerfully influences, the present age than do the pictures on the walls, and the books in the libraries of our homes?

May I venture to bring before your mind that other phase of art, known as the mechanic art? That art, on which the educator has placed so small an estimate that when an apparently dull boy is found in the school or family, he is turned over to it, in the notion that stupidity can here find subsistence and compensation.

Now, give this art the power to express itself in words and in the fine arts, and I will bring back to you the days of Raphael and Michael Angelo, in which thought was expressed in words and on canvas and stone, in such purity that the student in the schools of to-day is carried back to these times, to study the perfection and beauty of expression. In the line of a better educated labor lies the settlement of the great labor question. Will it be as Garfield suggests, for Chautauqua to provide not only for the leisure, but secure the leisure by some system of education that will make it possible?

If by any means the mental energies can be combined with the muscles, the product of labor will be greatly increased, and the time producing the same quantity lessened. Struggling labor hardly sees that in the short space of about thirty years the time has been lessened from thirteen and fourteen hours to ten hours per day, and the wages enhanced from fifty and seventy-five cents per day to an average of two dollars per day. In most of the prominent manufacturing establishments throughout the North we are at a near approach to a reduction of time to eight hours—and may God speed the day. Take the advance in quantity of products for ten years only, and by the aid of machinery, and more intelligent labor, we have gained more than two hours. Why should not labor get its due proportion? We are fast turning the drudgery of labor to pleasure. You need but visit the dish-washing and laundry-rooms at the Hotel Athenæum to witness the truth of what I state.

Some years ago I made an estimate of the number of inhabitants it would require to do by hard labor that which was done at that time by twelve thousand inhabitants by the use of steam and water power. It reached the enormous number of three hundred thousand inhabitants. From this we may learn that it will not be a great hardship to give to labor more leisure and more pay, not rashly as by strikes, but by prudent and gradual measures.

Ah, the wealth of nations rests in this art! The power to subdue forests and belt empires with railroads and telegraphs, and ignore distance is in its hands.

This art sends forth its missionary in its manufactured products to all quarters of the globe; every different product is a copy of a volume on some subject, carrying with it some Christian’s impress and prayer. So true is this that it needs no great expert to tell an article made by Christian hands from that made by heathen.

This power of the individuality impresses with interest and wonder. How readily thoughts in words are detected from others, even on the same subject. Every workman of a manufactured article in some such sense makes his individual impress on the work he performs, and it is as readily told. The Christian, liberty-loving intelligence is pressed into every article and sent forth on its mission of preaching the gospel to every creature, even gaining entrance where the missionary is refused. With this truth in mind, with what renewed pleasure must the liberated laborer make still greater impress of his individual mind. This thought can be carried into all that we do. Our walk, our talk, and the expression of our faces all enter into our products of whatever kind. How important that it should be imbued with the spirit of intelligent Christianity.

Class of ’83, you have only opened the doors to wider range, to fields of greater usefulness. All about you lie sleeping elements to be quickened into activity. Have your accumulated mental development well stored, and constantly add more. The purpose of the study was more to create an appetite for knowledge than to give a thorough or finished education.

We are glad as officers of the C. L. S. C. to present you with diplomas having places for many seals. May there be no laxity of effort until the crowning seal will emblazon over the whole its rays.

The Rev. Dr. Vincent said:

A large number of salutations from members of the C. L. S. C. have been received, some of them breathing a simple prayer of benediction on the Circle and its officers, others testifying to the value of the Circle to them intellectually, socially, and spiritually; many are too long to read at this time, but every line has been carefully read by the Superintendent of Instruction, and a few of the sentences are here reported:

From Sacramento, Cal.: “We long to be with you at the Assembly; but since we can not be, be assured that as we read of Commencement Day our hearts beat in sympathy with those of the C. L. S. C.”

From Washington, D. C.: “Hearty thanks for so splendid an opportunity of living more abundantly, as I have enjoyed through the noble conception and sensible management of the C. L. S. C. I hope to add many of its seals to my diploma.”

From St. Paul, Minn.: “The day in which ’83 passes through the Golden Gate you, who are present amidst the jubilee, will most likely forget the distant ones; but I for one will put on my C. L. S. C. badge, take out two faded maple leaves, kept in remembrance of last summer, and in imagination march with the proud class under the Arches, while I will pray the good Lord to bless Chautauqua.”

From Brooklyn, N. Y.: “The salutation, as recorded in Malachi iii:16, ‘Then they that feared the Lord spake often one to another, and the Lord hearkened and heard it; and a book of remembrance was written before him for them that feared the Lord and thought upon his name.’”

From San Francisco: A New Yorker writes: “I found The Chautauquan on a planter’s table in the Sandwich Islands, and learned of a circle in Honolulu.”

A member writes: “The royal road to learning is no terra incognita. Our route en roi is called via Chautauqua.”

From Amsterdam, N. Y.: A poem closes:

“I would like very much to Chautauqua to go;

It would certainly give me great joy;

But my duties are such that I linger at home:

I’ve a year-old Chautauqua boy.”

From Elkhorn, Wis.: One who sees through the lenses of the C. L. S. C., the Chautauqua University of the future, writes: “In 1904, A. D., I shall be fifty years old. At that time I hope to graduate at the Chautauqua University. This will give me just twenty-five years from the beginning of my course in 1876 to complete the work, and I intend to work diligently every year.”

From Massachusetts: “Language would be left a beggar if I were to tell you all that the C. L. S. C. has been to me. It has been a song and a poem, when life was beginning to read like prose. It has been sunshine on many a cloudy day. God bless our alma mater, and make her days long in the land.”

From New York: “When the history of the successful men and women of the next generation shall be written, may it be found that the members of the Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Circle of 1883 are among the number.”

From Santa Barbara, Cal., comes the greeting of Mrs. M. P. Austin, who prays that “the C. L. S. C. may do as much for others as it has done for me.”

From St. Paul, Minn., a graduate writes: “Although in middle life, I have rejoiced like a child at the prospect of graduating. My studies have been precious to me; and, although I have carried them on alone, the enthusiasm has never grown less. May I boast of the dozen recruits whom I have brought into the work, not for the name of it, but because I want everybody to be benefited as I have been. Saturday will find me in a white dress and blue ribbon, and I shall try to catch the spirit which ascends to our Father, and have something of the blessings which are invoked upon the graduates of that day. May his blessed spirit be with you, and may he be precious not only to them who believe, but to many who never before have called on his name.”

From Massachusetts a member writes: “I have heard this objection to the C. L. S. C., that it leads to neglect of Bible study. My personal experience has been that I never spent more time in Bible study or loved it more than during the past four years.”

From Dakota a mother writes: “Although my boy is but eleven years old, he has done the greater part of my reading this year, and dear little Maggie, nine years of age, is greatly interested in what she calls mamma’s course. She also often reads for me, patiently spelling out the hard words.”

William C. Wilkinson, of Tarrytown, New York, writes:

“I send greeting, congratulation and God-speed to the class of 1883. A persistence on your part of four years in a course of volunteer reading and study has not only created character in you, but also proved that you possessed character to begin with. It was not perfectly easy for you to do what you have done. There have been times, more than once, during these four years, when the temptation was strong to abandon your undertaking. But you did not abandon it, simply because you would not abandon it. Your will was strong enough to overcome the strong temptation. Now your will is stronger for having been strong. Go forward in this added strength to add strength again. The will conquers by conquering, until it becomes at length unconquerable. Conquer is a proud word. Let us change it and say something meeker and truer. Let us say, obey. We conquer only when we obey. You have obeyed your conscience in accomplishing your appointed course. That obedience is your victory. When the will is perfectly obedient to conscience, conscience being at the same time perfectly enlightened by the Word and by the Spirit of God, then we are omnipotent. We reign then with Christ. All things are ours. Go on, alumni of Chautauqua. Carry forward the banner. Let it float in your hands ever farther and higher. I do not say plant it anywhere. I say bear it onward and upward. There is always, amid the Alps of our glorious endeavor and struggle, a peak above and beyond. Climb that, and then—forward still. The goal is never attained, but the race itself is better than would be rest at the goal. Remember the ranks that are behind you, year after year, in the future. Give them a generous lead. Remember the one pioneer rank in advance of you. Tread close on their heels. Follow, so that it will be hard for your leaders to lead. Lead, so that it will be hard for your followers to follow.

“God bless and crown the Class of 1883!

“W. C. Wilkinson.”

Bishop Henry W. Warren writes:

“Top of the Rocky Mountains, August 1, 1883.

“Dear Chautauquans:—Pausing to take a farewell look at the Atlantic slope before going down that of the Pacific, my mind passes over many a place of interest and rests on Chautauqua. There is no more interesting place on the continent. How many faces rise for recognition! But I can not indulge in personal greetings, for the friends are so many and so dear that time would fail me to speak of the institution that is the outcome of the inspiration and labor of all these friends. William Cullen Bryant said Chautauqua exemplified the spirit of mutual encouragement. President Garfield said that it taught what to do with the result of civilization’s first fight, leisure; and Bishop Wiley said it was a Christian center, able to save the gospel if there was nothing else left.

“Unquestionably, Chautauqua is the grandest inspiration and quickening of mind in this century or any other. It is the consummate flavoring of our Christian republican principles. It offers all opportunities for growth to all men. It seems to present as good a chance to every man as comes to any man. This development of mind is our chief wealth. We turn auriferous quartz into coin, iron ore into a body for the soul of electricity, but mind had to be developed and refined first. Rome sought wealth by the robbery of other nations, but she never gained as much wealth in a decade as we develop from nature in a year. What we need as a nation is a perpetual push and effort of the masses of men to rise. They drag down none of the few that are already eminent, but, by surpassing them, incite to greater attainments. Let there be no fear that there will be too many great men, or men too great. These vast glittering snow-peaks about me find room enough, as well as the mole hills. ‘There is always room at the top,’ for the top is larger than the bottom, as these bending heavens are larger than the earth, and eternity longer than time.

“Would that I could set one of these mountains near Chautauqua and let its grassy base, its wooded slopes, its masses of ore, its glittering crown of glorious light say to every beholder: Here is an object lesson worthy of God’s giving to his child, here is a symbol of the eternal power of the God-head of your Father, here are hints of what his child may be. All things are for all men; whosoever will, let him come and take.

“Dear members of the C. L. S. C. of 1883, I commend you to the baccalaureate sermon of Dr. Vincent to-morrow for higher and grander utterances than these heights can give; to Dr. Abbott also for grander foundations than those of these mountains; even those of the Christian faith, for the mountains shall melt with fervent heat, but the word of God standeth forever.

“Yours in Christian knowledge and faith,

“Henry W. Warren.”

Dr. Vincent then read the following:

Let Framingham Chautauqua hail,

The child the mother greet!

O’er intervening hill and dale,

Oh, courier, be fleet!

Say, “Brothers, fellow-students, friends,

Ne’er turn to look behind;

For they whose pathway upward tends,

The sun-crowned summits find.

“The outlook broadens, even now,

A vision rare and grand;

Hope in each heart, light on each brow,

Join welcome hand to hand!

“And while the kindly grasp gives strength,

Repeat along the line:

‘We’ll turn from earthly lore, at length

Beloved, to things divine.

“‘Bright with perennial health and youth,

When that glad time shall be,

Our guide the way, the life, the truth,

Immortal pupils we!’”

After the reading of the congratulations and greetings, Dr. Vincent and President Miller presented the members of class ’83, present at Chautauqua, their well-earned diplomas. Out of this wonderful class of graduates, numbering nearly 1,400, over 300 were present. The class has representatives in all of the following States and Territories:

California, Maine, Virginia, Florida, Tennessee, Pennsylvania, Massachusetts, New York, Ohio, Minnesota, Maryland, Iowa, Illinois, Georgia, Indiana, Michigan, Kansas, Rhode Island, Wisconsin, New Jersey, Texas, Vermont, West Virginia, Connecticut, Missouri, District of Columbia, New Hampshire, Colorado, Dakota, Kentucky.

Canada is also represented, and in far-away China there is one graduate. Thirteen different denominations are represented, as follows: Methodist, Presbyterian, Congregational, Episcopal, Baptist, Christian, United Presbyterian, Reformed, Unitarian, Universalist, Friends, Roman Catholics, Seventh-day Baptists.

The following occupations were represented: Teachers, housekeepers, ministers, lawyers, clerks, students, mechanics, farmers, merchants, dressmakers, milliners, music-teachers, and stenographers.

SOCIETY OF THE HALL IN THE GROVE.

At 4 o’clock p. m., the Society of the Hall in the Grove assembled in the Hall for counsel in regard to its future work. It was clearly seen by all that the prosperity of the organization, if not its very existence, required accommodations for its meetings, such as Chautauqua could not now supply. After considerable discussion of many suggestions, the following committee was appointed to consider plans for the erection of a building, or of a series of buildings, in the near future for the use of the society: R. S. Holmes, of Auburn, N. Y.; A. M. Martin, of Pittsburgh, Pa.; A. H. Gillet, Prof. Mattison, and S. J. M. Eaton, D.D. A committee on constitution, aims and plans of the organization was appointed, consisting of J. H. Vincent, D.D.; J. R. Pepper, of Memphis, Tenn.; L. C. Peake, of Toronto, Canada; R. S. Holmes and J. G. Allen. J. G. Allen and A. D. Wilder were appointed additional members of the Guard of the Banner.

After the Society of the Hall in the Grove had completed the business, a social followed, and song and chat ruled the hour.

About 9 o’clock, under the direction of A. M. Martin, the camp fires were lighted. In the midst of a light which was nearly as bright as day, R. S. Holmes, I. I. Covet, of Pittsburgh; J. H. Kellogg, of Troy, N. Y.; Lewis C. Peake, of Toronto; Rev. J. H. Warren, of Tennessee, and A. M. Martin, of Pittsburgh, made speeches, containing reminiscences of the past, interspersed with song, and the great crowd appeared to listen as attentively as if it had not heard a speech during the day.

But the fires have burnt low, the people surround a bed of hot coals, and the time for corn roasting has come. The boys are ready, and some not boys in years are equally eager for the “green corn dance.” Without coarseness or rudeness the fun commenced, and continued till the night bells called to repose. Thus closed the graduating exercises of the C. L. S. C. Class of 1883. From morning till night the tide of life ran high, shared in by ten thousand people of all ages, from the tiny girl to the veteran of many years.

ORDER OF THE WHITE SEAL.

A meeting of the members of the Order of the White Seal was held on Saturday evening at 7:30 o’clock in the Hall, Rev. Dr. Eaton in the chair. In the absence of the secretary, the minutes of last meeting were read by the chairman. On motion, the Rev. S. J. M. Eaton, D. D., Franklin, Pa., was elected president for the ensuing year, and Mr. L. C. Peake, Toronto, Can., secretary. Rev. W. H. Rogers reported on behalf of the Committee on Individual Effort, Mrs. E. F. Curtiss for that on Local Circles, and Miss Carrie C. Ferrin for that on the Round-Table. On motion these reports were accepted. Committees for the ensuing year were appointed as follows: On Individual Effort, Rev. W. H. Rogers, Sodus, Wayne County, N. Y.; Miss Emily Raymond, Toledo, O., and Miss C. Dickey, Geneseo, N. Y. On Local Circles, Mrs. E. F. Curtiss, Geneseo, N. Y.; Miss Fannie E. Roy, Atlanta, Ga., and Clarence H. Bean, Varysburg, N. Y. On the Round-Table, Miss Carrie C. Ferrin, Ellington, N. Y.; Mrs. A. W. Briggs, Elma, N. Y., and Miss M. C. McGowan, Cincinnati, O.

FOOTNOTE:

[A] At Chautauqua, Saturday, August 18, 1883.

[MONTEREY ASSEMBLY.]

The Pacific Grove Assembly, held near Monterey, California, devoted Friday, July 13, to the commencement exercises of the C. L. S. C. We give a full report of the celebration:

Friday was a perfect Monterey day. The Chautauquans gathered according to program in the large public parlor of the railroad building and fell into line for a procession. The choir sang a cheerful Chautauqua song, in which many others joined, and then “processed.” First came the president and officers of the society, then the graduates, then all members of the C. L. S. C.—then everybody. All members wore an oak leaf, which is the regulation badge, but members of the graduating class wore for a decoration a broad badge of dark garnet-colored ribbon, fringed with bullion, and with the unfailing “C. L. S. C.” and the figures “1883” printed upon it in gold. They marched toward the Assembly Hall, passing under the motto-inscribed and garlanded arches, and entering the building proceeded to the front seats, which had been reserved. The hall, under the care of the decorative committee, had broken out into fresh verdure and bloom, while the letters “C. L. S. C.” and the class dates, “1879-1883,” had blossomed out in gold and scarlet upon the white wall behind the speakers’ platform.

The hall was full to overflowing. Everybody on the grounds had been invited to be present, and the greatest interest was manifested by all. The exercises began with an inspiring Chautauqua song. An earnest and appropriate prayer was offered by Rev. Dr. Heacock, of San Jose, and then a beautiful letter of greeting from Dr. Vincent, the founder of the society, was read. It was full of cordial friendliness, outlined briefly the benefits which he trusted all had received from pursuing the C. L. S. C. studies, and pointed out the catholicity and wide helpfulness of the Chautauqua Idea. It closed with words of stimulus and encouragement, as well as congratulation. Prof. Norton now made a brief but admirable introductory address. He spoke of the Chautauqua enthusiasm and interest as an intellectual revival. It is a work for the masses, differing from that of the great universities of whose benefits only a few favored ones can avail themselves. It goes to homes of poverty, to workshops and kitchens as well as the libraries and parlors. It is food for the hungry wherever they may be. It comes to lives which have been arid and desolate through monotonous toil. He spoke of the great increase of insanity among our farming population, owing, no doubt, to the lack of healthful mental occupation. The C. L. S. C. course of reading and plans for neighborhood circles may help these lonely, overworked people to new and broader horizons of thought and life. Prof. Norton closed with a pathetic and poetic comparison between our real lives and our temporary sojourn by the great sea which tosses and surges before us. Our footsteps on the shore here are washed away by every incoming tide, so with our “footsteps on the sands of time.” The great sea of eternity will soon efface all our little earthly deeds. Let us live for eternal things. Let to-day be a commencement indeed—a beginning of grander and better living, of deeds which shall survive in the long years of God.

The quartet choir sang another beautiful song, and then three essays were read from the graduates.

A delicate little prose-poem called “Childhood in Literature,” by Miss Myrtie Hudson, of San Jose (a post-graduate of our society), was read by Miss Lydia Bean. The diplomas were presented by Dr. Stratton, who remarked when giving them that these diplomas do not confer degrees, but something better than a degree, for they represent mature study, habits of fixed thought and life-long intellectual growth.

There were more than forty C. L. S. C. graduates in our State this year. The following were present: Mrs. Lydia A. French, Stockton; Mrs. H. J. Gardener, Rio Vista; Miss E. A. Wood, Riverside; Mrs. A. J. Bennett, San Jose; Mrs. M. E. McCowen, Ukiah; Mrs. E. M. Reynolds, San Jose; Miss M. McBride, Dixon; Mrs. C. C. Minard, Evergreen; Mrs. Estelle Greathead, San Jose; Mrs. Lucy N. Crane, San Lorenzo; Mrs. S. E. Walton, Yuba City; Miss Cornelia Walker, San Jose; Mrs. S. F. Gosbey, Santa Clara; Mrs. F. W. Pond, Los Angeles; Miss Alice M. Wells, Dixon; Mrs. M. H. McKee, San Jose; Miss Henrietta Stone, Mrs. Mira E. Miller, Santa Barbara; Dr. C. C. Stratton, San Jose.

After the commencement exercises the crowd dispersed, and the friends of the graduates gathered around them to congratulate and exchange friendly greetings. But it was late lunch-time, and the keen demands of appetite were never keener than here at Pacific Grove. So, with the understanding that all were to reassemble at 2 o’clock p. m., those who had lingered hastened away. The hour for meeting soon arrived, and the Chautauquans mustered in force at the beautiful cove near Prospect Park. After a lively social time, President Stratton called the meeting to order and pointed out a suggestive-looking traveling photographer, armed with the usual camera and other implements, who had been hovering about a neighboring cliff, and evidently had intentions of immortalizing the C. L. S. C. Assembly. Everybody was requested to assume a graceful attitude and a pleased expression, which they made haste to do. The beach was covered with people, standing, sitting, reclining. It was very hard work to be sober and proper, and look as dignified as future ages will demand. Our president reclined upon the sand, as befitted “the noblest Roman of us all;” the secretary sat upright and faced the music; the modest vice-president tried to get away, but was restrained by his numerous admiring friends; the small boys in front were entreated to keep still; the photographer removed the pall-like black cloth, and the deed was done. The result was quite successful, and the picture may yet hang in the “Hall in the Grove,” that eastern Chautauquans may see how their transcontinental comrades look when disporting themselves by the sunset sea.

The photograph business being disposed of, the next thing in order was the Round-Table. There was no table to speak of, but a great deal of “round”—an informal all ’round talk in a pleasant, familiar fashion. Everybody was seated upon the shining white sand, a soft gray sky overhead, a mild, warm atmosphere enfolding all, and the illimitable sea stretching out before us and breaking in soft murmurs at our feet. Members from all over the State gave, in brief conversational style, cheering reports of their various circles, and the utmost interest was manifested by all in the common weal. The tone of the meeting was decidedly inspiring, and all seemed ready to promise improvement and renewed effort.

The next evening was the mussel-bake. A blazing fire had been built upon the sand, but far from the assemblage, and much vigorous muscle was displayed in stirring the embers and piling on driftwood and resinous pine cones, but as to the mussels, perhaps the less said about them the better. There were, indeed, mussels baked, and they were passed around upon a board in the most approved style, but it must be confessed the supply was not very abundant. The whole mussel-bake was a little like Hamlet, with the part of Hamlet left out. The explanation lay in the fact that mussels can only be gathered in certain places and at very low tide, and there had been a little misunderstanding. Nevertheless, brethren, we had a grand time, an unlimited supply of apples and freshly-roasted peanuts, and we fully propose to have a mussel-bake every year!

At a business meeting held during the assembly, Rev. Dr. Stratton was re-elected to the presidency of the Pacific Coast C. L. S. C.; Dr. C. L. Anderson, of Santa Cruz, was elected vice-president; Mrs. M. H. Field, of San Jose, general secretary and treasurer; Miss Mary Bowman, of San Jose, secretary of the Assembly, and Mrs. Eloise Dawson, of San Jose, treasurer of the Assembly. Votes of thanks were given to many benefactors and to retiring officers, especially to Miss M. E. B. Norton, who has given our Branch the most faithful and untiring service.

Our newly elected executive committee consists of Rev. C. C. Stratton, D.D., San Jose, president; C. L. Anderson, M.D., vice-president, Santa Cruz; Mrs. M. H. Field, general secretary, San Jose; Mrs. Eloise Dawson, San Jose, treasurer; Rev. J. H. Wythe, D.D., Oakland; Prof. H. B. Norton, San Jose; Rev. I. H. Dwinelle, Sacramento; G. M. Ames, Oakland; Miss Lucy Washburn, San Jose; Prof. Josiah Keep, Alameda; Mrs. L. J. Nusbaum, Sacramento; Rev. C. D. Barrows, San Francisco; Mrs. S. E. Walton, Yuba City; Mrs. Julia Leal, Los Angeles; Mrs. E. M. McCowen, Ukiah; Clarke Whittier, M.D., Riverside; Mrs. E. A. Gibbs, Santa Rosa; Miss M. E. B. Norton, San Jose.

[MONTEAGLE ASSEMBLY.]

By Rev. J. H. WARREN.

Monteagle Assembly is located at Monteagle, Grundy County, Tenn., on the top of Cumberland Mountain, fifteen miles from Cowan, between Sewanee and Tracy City, immediately on the railroad owned and managed by the Tennessee Coal, Iron and Railroad Company. Cowan is a small village on the Nashville and Chattanooga Railroad, eighty-four miles from Nashville and sixty-four miles from Chattanooga. The ride up the mountain from Cowan to the Assembly grounds is one of the most picturesque in this country. The ascent for the first nine miles is 1,100 feet. The Assembly owns a hundred acres of land, which have been laid out into parks, drives, avenues, and building lots. About twenty-five acres have already been improved, and quite a number of lots have been sold to individuals upon which to build cottages. An amphitheater, capable of seating 2,000 persons, on the plan of the one at Chautauqua, has been erected. Within a very short distance of the Assembly grounds is some of the most magnificent mountain scenery to be found in any country. The elevation is 2,140 feet above the sea level. The Assembly is strictly undenominational. Each Christian denomination is entitled to four members in the board of trustees, provided they have as many members of the Assembly. The charter prohibits it from being managed for the pecuniary interest of any person or persons.

The first annual meeting of the Assembly has closed. It was a success beyond our most sanguine expectation. The Normal School and Teachers’ Retreat opened July 2, and closed August 4. These schools were all well attended. More than one hundred and fifty teachers attended the Normal alone. About fifty-two studied elocution. These teachers were from several States, and a more intelligent class I have never seen collected together anywhere.

The Assembly opened July 17, and closed August 6. At the opening service there were 1,000 people present. The attendance was good during the entire Assembly. At one time on the grounds there were twenty-one States and nineteen Christian denominations represented.

In the program, two days were given to temperance, one day to Y. M. C. A. work, two days to missions, foreign and domestic, and two days to education. The meetings throughout were of great interest.

Out of the large number of speakers on the program only four or five failed to attend.

The Sunday-school normal instruction, the children’s meetings, and Mr. Van Lennep’s “Oriental and Biblical Museum” were interesting features of the Assembly.

But I desire to call special attention to the work of the C. L. S. C. at Monteagle. We recognize this as an institution in this country. It is fast finding its way into many of our Southern homes, and bringing sunshine and blessings to many hearts.

At our solicitation, Dr. J. H. Vincent was present two or three days of the Assembly, and represented the C. L. S. C. His words of wisdom and cheer were a joy to many hearts. There were twenty members of the C. L. S. C. present to greet him. This number was increased to seventy before the Assembly adjourned.

A permanent organization was perfected, with Miss Emma Brown, Memphis, Tenn., president, and Miss Anna W. Thomas, Memphis, Tenn., secretary. The idea is to have annual meetings at Monteagle.

Each member went away determined to organize local circles at their homes, so that when we return next year, if permitted to do so, the members will have swelled from fifty to five hundred. We hope Dr. Vincent will favor us with his presence each year.

During the Assembly a number of C. L. S. C. Round-Tables were held, which were profitable, socially and intellectually.

On the evening of July 21 was held the first C. L. S. C. camp-fire at Monteagle, under the leadership of Dr. Vincent. The speeches and songs were full of inspiration and good cheer. We only regret that hundreds of our people in the South were not present to enjoy the meetings with us, and take fresh courage and inspiration for the work of life.

Miss Thomas, our secretary, has been instructed to correspond with all members of the C. L. S. C., who were at Monteagle, and all others whose names and post-office addresses she can get. She would be glad to have the names of all who are interested in this work. We desire to arrange for some organized effort to push this work out into the many homes of our country. Let every city, town, and village, and neighborhood, organize a circle.

Those members of the C. L. S. C., who were at Monteagle, have determined to erect a Hall of Philosophy, that we may have a place in which to hold our meetings each year. This can be done very easily by a little co-operative effort.

All things considered, the Assembly was quite a success. The outlook is encouraging. Although located in the South, it is not a Southern institution, it is for the public good. Let the people come from the North, South, East, and West; all will be equally welcome. Life is too short to harbor animosities. Let us enter the struggles and conflicts of life like heroes and heroines. As a nation, we have a grand work before us to elevate our people socially, morally, religiously, and intellectually. Monteagle proposes to do her part. Will the good people of this country stand by us in this noble work? If you will, success is sure. There is no other enterprise of the kind in the South. The people are united. Give us your prayers and co-operation. If you desire to do good with your money, take hold of Monteagle Assembly.

To the sister assemblies over the land, we send words of greeting. To all the members of the C. L. S. C. throughout this broad land we extend the right hand of fellowship. For the unity, peace, and the uplifting of our people, and the establishing of Christ’s kingdom, may we all be united, heart and hand, in Christian love and sympathy.

[MONONA LAKE ASSEMBLY.]

No one can estimate the extent to which the C. L. S. C. is growing. One State after another surrenders to its influence. During the past year Wisconsin has taken hold of the work, and is now showing a wonderful interest in the studies of the “home college.” The little text-books have found their way into many a quiet family, and are beginning to revolutionize society in every city, village, and country neighborhood.

This fact was shown very clearly at the Assembly held at Monona Lake, near Madison, Wisconsin. Many local circles sent representatives to this gathering to receive, through them, inspiration and strength for the work of the coming year. The total attendance from various localities was nearly two hundred. C. L. S. C. Day was the best of the whole session. Although an entirely new feature, yet the people became so enthused that about a thousand called for circulars of information, and many joined the Circle before they left the grounds.

Rev. A. H. Gillet, the president of the Monona Lake Branch, delivered the annual address, in which he explained most admirably the object and aim of the Circle. Twelve persons, who had completed the four years’ course, were present to receive their diplomas, and notwithstanding the absence of the “Golden Gate” and the “Hall of Philosophy,” everything had the Chautauqua appearance, and the very atmosphere was filled with classic odors.

The camp-fire in the evening was a feature that will never be forgotten by those present. After the feast of solid food during the day, this evening hour was filled with real enjoyment, and many humorous speeches that were made as the flames ascended and the sparks disappeared in the starry dome above, served to lighten every heart, and to close the day with the feeling that it was indeed the best of the season.

The round-table conferences, conducted by Rev. A. H. Gillet, were full of interest. Some very important questions were discussed, and the members present prepared for successful work in their respective homes. The Chautauqua Songs were sung at all of these meetings, and never did “Day is Dying in the West” sound more sweetly than at Monona Lake.

But of all the exercises connected with the Circle, the Sunday evening vesper services were the best. Here was shown the real secret of Chautauqua success. Nearly every member, engaged during the week in gathering knowledge of art, science and literature, was found in his place on Sunday evening, lifting his heart to God, and showing thereby that we “keep our Heavenly Father in our midst.”

The organization of Monona Lake Branch was perfected by the election of Rev. A. H. Gillet as president, and Mrs. William Millard, of Milwaukee, secretary. An executive committee was appointed to arrange the plans for next year. We look forward to good reports from this daughter of Chautauqua, and give her a hearty welcome.

[ISLAND PARK ASSEMBLY.]

Unusual interest was manifest this season at Island Park, near Rome City, Indiana. The Assembly, conducted by Rev. A. H. Gillet, of Cincinnati, Ohio, was a great success. The place is growing in favor each year, and the fire kindled there will not only continue to burn, but to spread, until every hamlet within a radius of many miles shall receive the light and warming influences that come from such gatherings. The attendance this year was larger than ever before, the people were of a better class, and the program, as carried out, gave universal satisfaction. The singing of the Wilberforce Concert Company delighted everybody. Among the lecturers were Drs. O. H. Tiffany and C. H. Fowler, of New York City; Dr. Justin D. Fulton, of Brooklyn, N. Y.; Drs. Stocking and Alabaster, of Detroit, Michigan, and Dr. P. S. Henson, of Chicago, Illinois. Dr. W. C. Richards, of Chicago, gave several very interesting lectures on “Electricity.” The Island Park Branch of the C. L. S. C. was regularly organized this year, with Rev. A. H. Gillet as president, and J. L. Shearer, of Fort Wayne, Indiana, secretary. There were over two hundred members in attendance. The daily round-table conferences, conducted by Rev. Gillet and Dr. J. L. Hurlbut, of Plainfield, N. J., were highly appreciated by the members present, and many valuable suggestions given and received by these mutual discussions. The circle is enlarging continually in Indiana and Michigan, so that there is scarcely a town or village in which there is not a local circle, or at least a few individual members. Many have joined the class of ’87, and quite a large number, having completed the four years’ course, were present to receive their diplomas. C. L. S. C. day was the best of the session. Dr. C. H. Fowler, of New York City, delivered the annual address. The camp-fire was the grandest ever seen at Island Park.

Plans for the erection of a C. L. S. C. building are under consideration, a reading-room for the benefit of the Circle, an Island Park lecture association, and many other novel features are things of the near future.

The Music College, under the direction of Prof. C. C. Case, of Akron, Ohio, the school of languages, the department of elocution, the art school, and the secular teachers’ normal were also well attended. It is the intention of the managers to lengthen the time of these departments next year, and to offer additional facilities to those who wish to improve their vacation by carrying on some line of study. On the whole, we can say that Island Park Assembly is a fixed fact, a thing that has come to stay, and we are glad that the people are beginning to appreciate and to value the educating and refining influences of these gatherings.

[LAKESIDE ASSEMBLY.]

A regular “C. L. S. C. Day” was provided for in the program at the Lakeside, Ohio, Sunday-school encampment, and the “recognition of the Class of ’83” arranged for. The absence of Rev. J. H. Vincent, D.D., was an unexpected and greatly lamented interruption to our plans. But the inspiration of the “Chautauqua Idea,” which Lakeside has caught and thoroughly incorporated into its own fiber, did not allow a dampening of ardor, and so the “day” went on as days will, and especially such sunny days by Lake Erie as that was. Happily Lewis Miller, Esq., President of the C. L. S. C., was persuaded to remain a while and lend his cheery face, his wise words and his authoritative presence to the occasion.

A large audience, filling the capacious Auditorium, assembled, the members of the Class of ’83 took seats on the platform, and President Miller occupied the chair. After opening exercises in the use of the responsive services provided, copies of which were distributed among the audience, addresses were delivered by Rev. Dr. Hartupee, Rev. Dr. Worden, Prof. Frank Beard, and Rev. B. T. Vincent. After these had concluded, President Miller called the members of the class to their feet, and in a neat and appropriate address “recognized” them thereby as graduates of the Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Circle, as part of the great class of fourteen hundred for the current year. A round-table was also held, conducted by Rev. B. T. Vincent, at which the subject of C. L. S. C. work was taken up by those present, and treated in a most practical manner. Representatives from several local circles gave outlines of their plans of work, and questions from interested students as to methods, etc., brought forth suggestive answers, awakening new interest in the subject of study, and stirring the uninitiated, of whom many were present, into an interest in the work. A Sunday evening C. L. S. C. vesper service was also most interesting. On the last evening of the encampment, Bishop Hurst, who was present, applied the subject of general reading as represented in the C. L. S. C. in its relation to a firmer religious texture in Christian character, in a ringing address which did much toward awakening new interest in this great work. The enthusiasm excited by the meetings in this behalf was cordially felt by Lakeside people, and it is determined to make the “recognition” of the class of the current year, and also the round-table, features of the annual program hereafter.

Surrounded as Lakeside is by an immense area filled with studious and enterprising people who are taking hold of the C. L. S. C. readings, and who are finding their special center of summer gathering there, this provision will be a source of great gratification to them, and a means of extending these benefits to many who only thus are brought into contact with this agency of Christian intelligence and popular culture.

[MOUNTAIN LAKE PARK ASSEMBLY.]

The fifth annual session of this Assembly lasted ten days, August 7-17. Some will recall the fact that the institution was established in the Cumberland Valley, Pennsylvania, and was held there for three successive years. Last year the experiment was made of holding the meeting in the Glades, at the new resort called Mountain Lake Park, Maryland. The new field was so full of promise and hope that it was at once determined to make it the center of the movement henceforth. The place is unique in some of its features, situated in the midst of a series of table-land glades, between the peaks of the Alleghenies, in the vicinity of some most romantic and stirring scenery, and possessing an atmosphere abounding in stimulation and vigor. Two years ago the region was an uninhabited wilderness, with the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad resort, Deer Park, on one side three miles away, and Oakland, the county seat of Garrett County, two miles to the west. Now it is a summer settlement abounding in picturesque cottages, beautiful drives, and linked to a Sunday-school Assembly and to “summer schools” of various sorts for all time to come.

The lecture course of the session just past was of a high order. It included three superb addresses from Dr. Lyman Abbott, full of vigorous thought, religious ardor, and primed and charged with suggestiveness—“Why I believe in God, in Christ, and in the Bible.” Prof. Cumnock gave two magnificent entertainments in the shape of readings and recitations. Prof. Young, of Princeton, delighted us with three illustrated astronomical lectures; and the Rev. Jesse Bowman Young gave three tours, illustrated also with the stereopticon: “The Marvels of Colorado,” “London and Paris,” and “From Dan to Beersheba.” Prof. Harris, on the “Wrong side of the Moon,” Dr. Huntley, on the “Amen Corner,” Bishop Andrews, on “The Method of the New Testament Law,” and Dr. Payne, with two lectures, all did their best work, and earned and received high appreciation.

The normal classes were under the instruction of Rev. J. B. Young, Rev. J. T. Judd, Rev. J. Vance, and Prof. Elliott of Baltimore. The lessons were chosen in part from Dr. Vincent’s “Normal Outlines,” and in part were prepared by Mr. Judd.

Rev. Mr. Young conducted two enthusiastic and interesting services during the closing days of the Assembly, developing the “Chautauqua Idea.” Drs. Frysinger, Van Meter, and Leech, Messrs. Judd, Vance, Baldwin, Lindsey, and others, made capital addresses, bringing out as phases of this “Idea” the following elements: home study, Bible study, normal work, study of the classics, of literature, of the sciences.

On the last night of the Assembly at Mountain Lake Park the C. L. S. C. was organized, with over fifty members, Rev. J. T. Judd, of Harrisburg, Pa., being elected president, and Miss Jennie M. Jones, of the same city, secretary.

Thus from the tip-top of the Alleghenies we send out greetings to other Chautauquans, and join in the glorious work which is in marvelous measure leavening the land.

[NEW ENGLAND ASSEMBLY.]

The “Chautauqua Idea” is taking deep root in the soil of New England. Four years ago the first Assembly was held on the grounds of the Framingham Campmeeting Association. There was a fair attendance, and considerable enthusiasm. Each year has been an improvement. The number in attendance has been greater, and the interest has been on the increase. This year has been the best of all. Almost from the first the lodging accommodations were taxed to their utmost in providing for the unexpectedly large numbers. The gentleman in charge of the dormitory stated to the writer that he had a greater rush the first day of the Assembly, this year, than he had the first week of last year. Thus it continued during the ten days. It is therefore safe to conclude, that in a financial way, the meeting was a success beyond its predecessors.

The work of the various departments was done efficiently by Dr. Vincent, in charge, assisted by Dr. Hurlbut, and Prof. Holmes, at the head of the normal classes; Prof. Sherwin at the front with a magnificent chorus of nearly two hundred voices; Frank Beard with a drawing class of one hundred and fifty; and the platform occupied by such men as Prof. Richards, Dr. Lyman Abbott, Dr. Angell, Wallace Bruce, Dr. Hull, Dr. J. B. Thomas, Dr. Tiffany, Prof. Young, A. O. Van Lennep, and others. A feast of good things was to be expected, and we were not disappointed.

One of the enjoyable features of the Assembly was Rev. O. S. Baketel’s lecture on “Sights and Insights at Chautauqua,” illustrated with eighty stereopticon views. They were shown with the calcium light, and an audience of four thousand people sat for an hour and three quarters, hearing and seeing. It created a great deal of interest, both with old Chautauquans and the many who have never seen Chautauqua.

Prof. Sherwin had several very excellent soloists, and his chorus was exceptionally fine.

One of the new buildings this year is the C. L. S. C. office. This is a very neat structure, and greatly appreciated by those having in charge the C. L. S. C. It was usually crowded during office hours. About five hundred members of the Circle were present during the Assembly. One hundred and sixty-five joined the Class of 1887. Thirty-eight members of the graduating class were present and received their diplomas from the hands of Dr. Vincent. The Class of 1884 are thoroughly organized, and are looking forward to a grand time when next year’s bells shall ring in their festal day.

As usual, Mrs. Rosie M. Baketel had charge of the C. L. S. C. office. This is her third year in this position. She is one of the hardest workers on the grounds.

The presence of Dr. Vincent is always an inspiration to a Framingham audience. Though compelled to return to Chautauqua after the opening, he gave us a grand “send-off,” and his presence and labors when he returned again were greatly enjoyed.

One of 1882.

[HOW WE CAME TOGETHER.]

[The following poem, from Counselor W. C. Wilkinson’s volume, recently published by Messrs. Charles Scribner’s Sons, tells the story of the author’s first meeting with a friend of his, who is also a friend of every reader of The Chautauquan—the Rev. John H. Vincent, D.D. The friendship thus formed, not less than twenty years ago, endures yet between the two as vivid as ever. It is bearing fruit not then anticipated in the associated labors which they perform for the Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Circle.]

Thorwaldsen’s Lion, gray and grim,

Rock in his rocky lair,

On who would rend his lily from him,

Glowered out with dying glare.

I mused awhile the sculptured stone,

My pilgrim staff in hand;

Then turned to hold my way alone,

And lone, from land to land.

But God had other hap in store:

Even as I turned I met

A manly eye ne’er seen before—

I seem to see it yet!

Vanish the changeful years between,

Like morning-smitten rack;

As, morning-like, that crescent scene

Comes dawning swiftly back.

Again, above, that mellow noon

And soft Swiss heaven doth yearn;

Frowns still on us in pilgrim shoon

The Lion of Lucerne.

Once more each other’s hands we take,

The pass-words fly betwixt;

Though slack the speed that speech may make,

When heart with heart is mixed.

I see the green Swiss lake asleep

With Righi in her dream;

We cross the lake, we climb the steep

To watch the world agleam.

The paths are many up the slope,

And many of the mind,

We catch the flying clue of hope,

And wander where they wind.

The paths are fresh, the pastures green,

In walk or talk traversed;

The Alpland meadow’s grassy sheen

With many a streamlet nursed,

And the fair meadows of the soul

Forever fresh with streams

From the long heights of youth that roll,

The Righi-Culm of dreams.

We speak of summits hard to gain,

And, gained, still hard to keep;

Of pleasure bought with glorious pain,

Of tears ’twas heaven to weep;

And of a blessed Heavenly Friend

Who, struggling with us still,

Would break the blows else like to bend

The lonely human will;

Or with some sudden vital touch,

At pinch of sorest need,

Would lift our little strength to much,

And energize our deed.

Our talk flows on, through strain or rest,

As up the steep we go;

Each untried track of thought seems best

In hope’s prelusive glow.

We loiter while the sun makes haste,

But we shall yet sit down

To watch the gleams of sunset chased

From mountain crown to crown.

Too long, too late—the splendor went

Or e’er we reached the goal;

But a splendor had dawned that will never be spent

That day on either soul.

[VEGETABLE VILLAINS.]

By R. TURNER.

THE PLANT COMMUNITY AND ITS VILLAINS.

No paradise could be complete for us without a pervading freshness of green in wood and field. In lazy moods and calm sunshiny weather there are few men who will not condescend to stretch out their limbs under a spreading beech, or at least to envy one who is taking life easily for a time in the shade. We all know what a pleasant faint rustle of leaves there is above, and what a flickering of mellowed sunlight comes over the eyes, and how these steal into the heart with a sense of soft content, till we are apt to become like little children, enjoying without much thought, yielding ourselves up to the delight of the mere living, letting our consciousness float along lazily on the current of being. But if we can in such circumstances nerve ourselves to reflect just a little, we shall—if we possess even a very slight knowledge of the processes of nature—become conscious that there are great silent energies and activities at work around us in every blade of grass, and above us in the cool green foliage. The leaves have myriads of invisible little mouths eagerly drinking in the unseen air, and the minute grains that give the green color to these leaves are all the while laying hold of the infinitesimal percentage of carbonic acid impurity in that air, and, invigorated by the quickening sunlight, are able to tear this gaseous impurity to pieces, to wrench the two elements that form it asunder, making the one into nutriment for themselves, and letting the other go free in its purity into the wide atmosphere. What man—with all his sound and fury, his hammering and clanking—has never achieved, is thus quietly done in summer days by every green leaf in God’s world, and inorganic matter is forced to live. While the sun shines these honest workers are striving with all their might to lay hold of every atom of this gas that fouls the atmosphere for animals, and thus, while finding food for themselves, they are keeping the air sweet and pure for other living things. The necessity is laid on them to maintain themselves by honest work; and it is interesting to reflect how massive are the material results that gather round their task. We are apt to forget that by far the greater part of the solid matter of vegetation—of the giant trees of California as well as of the tiniest grasses and green herbs—is thus gathered atom by atom from the atmosphere. One eats his potato thankfully, usually without bothering himself much as to how it came to be a potato; how the green leaves labored away, seizing the scanty atoms of an invisible gas and making them into starch; how this insoluble starch became a soluble thing, and melting away into the sap flowed through the stem to the tubers, there to form again into little grains and be laid up for future use. The rest of the nourishment of such honest plants is usually derived from the soil. The more stimulating food—within certain limits—that crops, for instance, take up by the roots, the harder do their green parts work in the sunlight, making starch and kindred substances out of what they can snatch from the atmosphere. Hence the value of manures; they are stimulants to increased endeavor. Such honest, hard-working plants form by far the greater bulk of vegetation, and of those that grow on land nearly all are conspicuously green. Sometimes—but rarely—the green is disguised a little by another color associated with it, or some tint that is but skin-deep. Take a leaf of the copper beech, for instance, scratch the surface, and you will find the honest green beneath. Even the despised field-weeds, that come up wherever man digs or plows, and linger lovingly about his agriculture, so be it that they are green, are honest in their way, and only take hold of what earth they can find to root in, that they may participate with their fellows in the blessings to be got and given by keeping the atmosphere pure. Man wants to grow grain, or something of the kind, where they prefer to grow, and so, as they foul his husbandry, he ruthlessly roots them out, or tries at least. It is their misfortune that man does not wish them there; but still, contemned creatures as they are, they have honest ways about them, and every green grain in their being is struggling hard to do something genuinely useful. It is only an earnest striving to hold their own against man and brute, that makes humble nettles clothe themselves with stings full of formic acid and fury, and rude thistles bristle with a sharp nemo me impune lacessit at every prickle point. They are armed for defense, not aggression. It is not of stuff such as this that vegetable villains are made.

Since there is so much honesty, however, in the plant world, rogues, and thieves, and pilferers must abound. Consider the animal kingdom. Where herds of deer roam in the wilds there beasts of prey are on the prowl, or sportsmen stalk with murderous guns in hand. Where herrings and pilchards crowd in shoals clouds of gulls and gannets hover, and porpoises with rapacious maws tumble and roll about. Where earthworms abound there moles with ravenous appetite are furiously driving mines, or birds that have sharp, quick bills keep watch with keen eyes. And so in this honest plant community, preying on it and pilfering from it, live and flourish hosts of vegetable villains; some without a trace of green in their whole being, living by theftuous practices alone; some with just the faintest suspicion of green and the slightest indications of a true nature; others with a good deal of the better color about them, but still only indifferently honest. There is something of marvel and mystery about these plant pilferers—of strange peculiarities in their modes of life, and in their adaptations for plundering and preying, which can hardly fail to interest intelligent minds, even when brought before them in a sketch such as this, which does not profess to take in more than the outermost fringe of a wide field. Without terms and technicalities and a strange jargon of crabbed words that would be dry as dust, and meaningless to most readers, little professing to be thorough can be done; yet, after all, something more generally comprehensive may ooze through in comparatively plain English.

With regard to their pilfering habits, such plants are usually proportioned off into two great groups. They either attach themselves to other beings and absorb their juices, in which case they form a mighty host of plants of prey usually known as parasites; or they seek their nurtriment, and find it, in dead and decaying organisms, and are then known as saprophytes, a somewhat hard word to begin with, for which I can not find a popular equivalent, but which merely signifies plants that grow on decomposing matter. All land plants that are not blessed with a true green color belong to one or other of these groups, and are villains in their various degrees. They make no effort to free the air from the gaseous impurity that haunts it, but, like animals, they keep fouling it instead. With a very few exceptions, all of them subsist on organic matter in some form, and this they usually draw from the plants, living or dead, on which they grow, or from decaying matter in the soil. But many of these vegetable villains run into half-honest vagaries, and succeed in raising themselves slightly above the common ruck. If they can not seize and break up carbonic acid gas, they may do a little toward atmospheric purification of a kind by laying fast hold on such organic particles as are floating in the air or brought to them in falling moisture. Plants such as these are sometimes found growing on barren sand, on hard gravel, on parapets of bridges, on leaden cisterns, on plastered walls, on slag, and in like inhospitable places, where they are compelled to turn mainly to the atmosphere and trickling moisture for food. Some such haunt mines like phosphorescent ghosts, others make themselves at home on places like the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral. In a mass two feet in length, similar strange plants were one morning long ago found by a smith on a piece of iron that he had taken, on the previous night, red-hot from his fire, and laid on his water trough. Many similar vagaries they run into that would in the telling sound almost incredible. Indeed, the whole group of the saprophytes is not to be accounted so utterly abandoned as that of the parasites. To these they are certainly nearly related, but there is more of the useful scavenger about them than of the useless thief. No sooner has death overtaken any plant than a host of them set to work to clear away the now useless organism from the world, breaking down herbaceousness into putrescence, timber into touchwood, and all at last into vegetable mould. Their mission is to seize upon decaying matter and endow it with life in a new form; and thus out of rottenness often comes wholesomeness, decay moulding itself into pleasant mushrooms, or into things unfit for human food perhaps, but that may bring the blessings of abundance to many little living creatures. If such as are edible are to be considered villains, then people of delicate palate who smack their lips over some of them have a right to insist that these should be specially classed as dainty little rogues.

Still this useful scavengering habit is nearly allied to the pilfering one. Decay attacks part of a tree, for instance, and saprophytes set to work at the dead branch, but they are apt to extend their operations to the adjoining living tissues, which die, too, and decay, till in the end the tree may be entirely destroyed. The scavenger, we can thus understand, is apt on occasion to relapse into the thief and the out-and-out villain.

To one or other of these two great groups, or occasionally to both, belong, besides a few flowering plants, the whole extensive division of the fungi, and it is to be noted that none of this curious class of plants is ever blessed with leaf-green or starch in any part of its substance. Whether minute even under powerful microscopes or measuring several feet across; whether hard as wood or a mere mass of jelly; whether horny, fleshy, or leathery; whether resisting the action of the elements for years or hardly able to outlive a puff of wind; whether beautiful, commonplace, or ugly; whether sweet-scented or otherwise, in this they agree, that in all of them is wanting that greenness which makes honest work possible, and those little grains of starch that come from honest work done.—Good Words.

I am afraid that a lightsome disposition and a relish for humor are not so common in those whose benevolence takes an active turn as in people of sentiment, who are always ready with their tears and abounding in passionate expressions of sympathy. Working philanthropy is a practical specialty, requiring not a mere impulse, but a talent, with a peculiar sagacity for finding its objects, a tact for selecting its agencies, an organizing and arranging faculty, a steady set of nerves, and a constitution such as Sallust describes in Catiline, patient of cold, of hunger, and of watching. Philanthropists are commonly grave, occasionally grim, and not very rarely morose. Their expansive social force is imprisoned as a working power, to show itself only through its legitimate pistons and cranks. The tighter the boiler, the less it whistles and sings at its work.—Oliver Wendell Holmes.

SLAVONIC MYTHOLOGY.[B]

By ADLEY H. CUMMINGS.

The mythology of various tribes and races has of late attracted much attention, while that of our own ancestors of the North has been studied with the greatest care.

Little attention, however, has been devoted to the religious belief of the ancient Slavonic race, and yet it is replete with interest for all who yield to the fascination of ancient myth.

We unfortunately possess no Slavic Edda, or Veda, to throw illumination upon the ancient creed of the tribes, but a few scattered facts have come down to modern times—principally contained in popular songs—but sufficient to enable us to observe the similarity between Slavonic mythology and that of the other members of the Indo-European stock—all pointing to that immensely ancient time when the ancestors of the combined race could have been gathered within the circuit of the same camp; when they passed the same lives and worshiped the same divinities; wept when the “serpents of the night” strangled the god appointed to preside over the day, and rejoiced together with an exceeding great joy when the day-god, victorious over his foes, gilded the hills again.

In Slavonic tradition Swarog is represented as the most ancient of their gods, as the one who was originally—before Perkunas—the supreme deity of those tribes, corresponding to Sanskrit Surya, like Helios in Greece, the dweller in the orb of the sun. Swarog was the pervading, irresistible luminary, the solar deity, par excellence, of the race, and vague recollections of him still exist. In some places Swarog seems to have yielded to another solar deity, Dazhbog, the god of fruitfulness, represented as the son of Swarog.

The etymological signification of Dazhbog is the “day-god.” With him, as a representative of the sun, was a god named Khors—probably, however, but another name of the day-god.

Ogon, answering closely to Sanskrit Agni, Latin, ignis (fire), was the god of fire, brother of Dazhbog; his worship was principally connected with the domestic hearth.

But the deity who stands out most prominently, who became the supreme divinity of the race, though corresponding to the Scandinavian Thor, was Perkunas, or Perun, whose name, yielding to certain laws of phonetic change, may correspond to Greek Keraunos (thunder), but more closely to Sanskrit Parjanya, called in the Rig-Veda, “The thunderer, the showerer, the bountiful, who impregnates the plants with rain.” This god was forgotten by the Hellenic Aryans, who exalted Dyaus (Zeus, Jove) to the supreme position, but the Letto-Slavonic tribes bestowed upon him the endearing appellation of the “All-Father,” a title which they only conferred upon the creator of the lightnings. It is said that the Russians still say, when the thunder rolls, “Perkuna gromena;” in Lithuanian, “Perkuns grumena.”

The South-Slavic term for the rainbow is “Perunika,” “Perun’s flower,” or “beauty.”

“White-Russian traditions,” says Afanasief,[C] “describe Perun as tall and well shaped, with black hair and a long golden beard. He rides in a flaming car, grasping in his left hand a quiver full of arrows, and in his right a fiery bow.”

He is also represented as carrying a mace, answering to Thor’s hammer, mjolnir.

After the introduction of Christianity the prophet Elijah became credited with many of the honors and functions of Perkunas. He was termed, “Gromovit Ilija” (Thunder Elijah), and the origin of the notion, and the strange metamorphosis of that sweet spirit into a Boanerges, undoubtedly lie in his flight to heaven in a chariot of fire, and in his power, when on earth, of calling down fire from heaven, and of bringing the rain. Thus, II. Kings, i:10, he says, “If I be a man of God, then shall fire come down from heaven and consume thee and thy fifty.” Again, Kings, i., 18:41, “And Elijah said unto Ahab: Get thee up; eat and drink, for there is a sound of abundance of rain.”

The Slavs considered that the thunder and lightning were given into the prophet’s hands, and that he closed the gates of heaven, i. e., the clouds, to sinful men, who thus might not share in his blessed reign. There is evidence of the same belief among the Teutonic tribes, and in the old High-German poem, “Muspilli,” a form of that saga which prevailed throughout all the middle ages with regard to the appearance of anti-Christ shortly before the end of the world. Elijah takes the place which Thor assumes in Scandinavian myth at Ragnarok, and fights the evil one:

“Daz hôrtih rahhôn dia werol trehtwison,

Daz sculi der anti-Christo mit Eliase pâgan.”

I have heard the very learned say,

That anti-Christ shall with Elijah fight.

The poem then proceeds to say that Elijah shall be wounded, and recounts the many signs and wonders that shall occur before the Muspell-doom, the Judgment Day.

Volos, or Veles, was another solar deity. It has been held that the Greek Helios appears in this name, while others have identified him with Odin, or Woden, pronounced with an epenthetic l, and with other changes, but the etymology seems far-fetched.

He was the special protector of cattle. The name survives to Christian times in St. Blasius. Mr. Ralston says: “In Christian times the honors originally paid to Volos were transferred to his namesake, St. Vlas, or Vlasy (Blasius), who was a shepherd by profession. To him the peasants throughout Russia pray for the safety of their flocks and herds, and on the day consecrated to him (February 11) they drive their cows to church, and have them secured against misfortune by prayer and the sprinkling of holy water. . . . Afanasief considers that the name was originally one of the epithets of Perun, who, as the cloud-compeller—the clouds being the cattle of the sky—was the guardian of the heavenly herds, and that the epithet ultimately became regarded as the name of a distinct deity.”

By the names of Volus and Perun the Russians used to swear and confirm their sayings and treaties by oath.

Stribog was the wind-god. According to Russian ideas the four winds are the sons of one mother, and in the Old-Russian Igor song the wind is addressed as Sir. These winds are called Stribog’s grandsons. So in India, the winds are regarded as sentient beings; thus in the Nalopákhyánam:

“Thus adjured, a solemn witness, spake the winds from out the air.

*************

Even as thus the wind was speaking, flowers fell showering all around,

And the gods’ sweet music sounded on the zephyr light.”

Byelbog and Chernobog, the representatives of light and darkness, are of antagonistic nature—the warring principles of good and evil. Byelbog is the white, shining god, the bringer of the day, the benignant Phœbus, while Chernobog, a black god, belongs to the diabolical order.

The goddess of spring and love was Lada—corresponding closely to Freya in the Scandinavian traditions. Lovers and the newly married addressed their prayers to her, praising her name in songs. Lado, the Slavonic counterpart of Norse Freyr, has many of the same attributes as the goddess Lada, to whom the same adoration and praise were offered. Mr. Ralston says that “one Lithuanian song distinctly couples the name Lado with that of the sun. A shepherd sings, ‘I fear thee not O wolf! The god with the sunny curls will not let thee approach. Lado, O Sun-Lado!’ In one of the old chronicles Lado is mentioned as the god of marriage, of mirth, of pleasure, and of general happiness, to whom those about to marry offered sacrifices in order to secure a fortunate union.”

Kupàlo was the god of harvests, and before the harvest—on the 23d of June—sacrifices were offered to him. Young people lighted fires and danced around them in the evening, adorned with garlands of flowers, singing harvest ditties to the god. This custom still survives in the fires kindled on St. John’s eve, through which sometimes the people jump and drive their cattle. The Poles and other Slavonians, especially in remote districts, keep up many of their ancient heathen rites.

The 24th of December was sacred to the goddess Kolyada, a solar deity, to whom songs were sung in celebration of the renewed life of the sun after the winter solstice “when the gloom of the long winter nights begins to give way to the lengthening day.” This festival became blended with the Christmas celebration upon the advent of Christianity, and songs are still to be heard at that time containing the name of the goddess, as

Kolyada! Kolyada!

Kolyada has arrived

On the eve of the Nativity.

These ditties are called Kolyadki.

Inferior deities were believed in and many supernatural beings were supposed to haunt the woods and waters. The Russalkas, which are naiads, though no more seen, are still believed in, and are of a nature similar to the elves and fairies of western nations. “They are generally represented under the form of beauteous maidens, with full and snow-white bosoms, and with long and slender limbs. Their feet are small, their eyes are wild, their faces are fair to see, but their complexion is pale, their expression anxious. Their hair is long and thick and wavy, and green as is the grass.” The Russians are very superstitious in regard to them, fearing to offend them, while the maidens go into the woods and throw garlands to them, asking for rich husbands in return.

Then there are Mavkas, or Little-Russian fairies and water-nymphs, wood demons, house spirits and numerous other minor spirits and powers which teem in the folk songs of the peasants.

Among the eastern Slavs there seem to have been no temples or priests, while the contrary was true of the west. They burned their dead and greatly reverenced the spirits of the departed, in whose honor festivals were held.

A form of Sutteeism undoubtedly prevailed, widows destroying themselves in order to accompany their husbands to the spirit land, while slaves were sometimes sacrificed upon the same occasions—a practice common to most barbarous states of society.

Upon a general view of ancient Slavonic mythology we observe the same characteristics as among all the other Indo-European tribes—the same nature-worship and inclination to personify the powers of the air and sky; to worship the beneficent sun, which brings to man prosperity, light and happiness; to execrate the night, the enemy of the bright, the beautiful god of day. Men in the childhood of the human race were as simple as children ever have been. The same characteristics mark them. When the mother leaves her child for a moment, the babe with piteous cries calls on her to return. Why is this so? Because in the mind of the child there is no connecting link between the ideas of her going and returning; in other words, the child cannot reason enough to consider it possible—not to say probable, certain—that she will return.

Thus in the simple pastoral days of extreme antiquity, when the glorious sun, the light of men’s eyes, the joy of their hearts, sank below the horizon, the idea of its return failed to suggest itself to their minds. Each sun-setting was a grief, each rising of the blessed orb a joy unspeakable.

And thus upon the plains of Iran, in the flowery meads of Asia Minor and on the Russian steppes, when man beheld the sun, his joy appeared, he fell on his face and thanked the regent of the sky for his light again.

Had the earth been nearer to the sun the face of Comparative Mythology had been changed; the sun-myth would have had to seek a different origin and home, and the history of that greatest of all studies—the study of man—would have had a different course.

It is sincerely to be hoped that the future of the Slavonic tribes may be such as God and nature have intended for them, and that their name may be changed again from slaves to Slavs—“men of glory”—is the aspiration of all who have hopes for the race; in short, of all who wish well to our common humanity.

FOOTNOTES:

[B] Extract from a lecture delivered at Pacific Grove Assembly, July, 1883, Monterey, California.

[C] Ralston, “Songs of the Russian People,” from whom much information contained in this sketch is gained.

[FROM THE BALTIC TO THE ADRIATIC.]

By the Author of “German-American Housekeeping,” etc.

We hesitated quite awhile before deciding to expend fifty thalers for a trip from Berlin to Danzig, finally concluding that the historical interest of Marienburg, through which we would pass on our return, and the reputed picturesqueness of Danzig would compensate us for the time and money. At an early hour one September morning we drove across the busiest portion of Berlin (and most unknown to the traveler), to take our train at the ost bahn. I had seen this portion of the large city once before, when we started to visit the country of the Wends, the original people in all the region by the Baltic.

The tedious stretch of sand (broken here and there by a peasant’s house with red tile roof), was the same we had traversed so often in leaving Berlin for a neighboring town or city, the inevitable “plains of Moab” which discouraged Frederick the Great’s French gardeners. How such a thriving, populous city as Berlin has ever asserted itself in the sand, is a curious study. We passed Bismarck’s estate in Pomerania, “Schönhausen,” and one of the party reflected upon the great statesman, the largest factor in German political life; while the other remembered the sad and dejected royal pair which was driven by Napoleon’s fury to take this same route to Memel. The lovely Queen Louise and Frederick William III. were there with their royal children, praying that the tyrant’s hand might be stayed, and they brought back to their rightful kingdom. Alas! death claimed the beautiful queen before the peace for which she prayed was restored to Prussia. But in her son, the present emperor, there has been perpetuated the spirit of his mother. Prussia’s high position to-day has been secured not altogether by the might of her great army, nor the tremendous genius of her great statesmen, nor the ambition of her king, but by the growth of sentiment during the reigns of Frederick William III. and IV., and by the precept Queen Louise instilled into her sons during those dark and sorrowful days of exile in Memel: “My sons, let the spirit of Frederick the Great animate you,” etc.

Memel, Tilsit, and Königsberg were passed, and finally the blue Baltic and Danzig were in sight. We had almost looked for amber-colored water, so long had we associated the beautiful display of amber jewels in the Berlin shop windows with the Baltic, from which it is taken. Even Homer refers to the Baltic as the resting place of amber, its bed being laid with the sunny stone.

A multitude of ship-masts rose from the coast, and from beyond the pointed gables of the old city, lessening in altitude as the vista lengthened. This first glimpse was a more fascinating picture than we were afterward able to find. Yet the hotel helped the preconceived idea that Danzig was really a second Nuremberg.

The broad stone steps, or stairway, which started from the portecochère, were whitened by ashes, as one so often sees them in Germany—a pretty state of things for a lady descending in a black dress. The room we were to occupy was an immense ball-room, utilized in quiet times for a bed-room. Two candles burned in their tall candlesticks on the center-table, and by the light of the twilight we could see across the street some beautiful and curious carvings in the opposite gabled houses. The price paid for accommodations was large enough to have enabled us to see castles in the air, and to have our ball-room illuminated with gas until morning. We concluded they seldom had guests in this hotel, and therefore made heavy profits when some did come along.

That evening we wandered around the old crooked streets—paved in cobble-stones, which wore our shoes almost in pieces—until we were glad to pause in front of the great old red-brick cathedral. Its towers cut the big yellow moon in two at every angle we could see them. We stretched our heads to take in the tremendous dimensions of the cathedral, and the ornamentations of some of the best houses, until we suddenly remembered that it was nearing midnight, and that we had been in actual service at sight-seeing and traveling since an early hour that morning, so we returned to our ball-room and two candles. The next morning, we imagined, we would have a great treat in hunting up old carved furniture, for which Danzig, we had been told by our German friends, was equal to Augsburg; but the antiquarians had left no place unexplored. No trace of massive-legged table or curiously-carved chairs was to be found, save in the Museum and the Rathhaus (Council Hall). The stairway of the Council Hall remains indeed a monument to the ingenious designer and skillful carver, and the judge’s chair is most curious.

A fine old convent has been turned into a museum. Its kreuz gänge, or cross-passages, give the place a most mysterious, sequestered air, and they are gradually collecting some great pictures and treasures within its walls. But the Rathhaus, in its architecture, surpasses everything in Danzig, excepting, perhaps, its fine old gateways.

The most distinguished houses in Danzig have on either side of the entrance, at a distance of five feet, immense stones hewn out of solid rock. They are nine feet, probably, in circumference. A chain is attached, which is given a graceful swing before being fastened again to either side of the front door, about as high up as the brass knocker. As these big round stones grow smaller in perspective, they give a peculiar air to a street. They seem to be peculiar to Danzig, unless one or two dwellings in Edinburgh have them. The big stones, the large chains, the tremendous brass knockers, and the innumerable windows in the six stories of the pointed gables, suggest aristocratic dwellings, and surpass the houses in Nuremberg.

An important political meeting at Stettin defeated our intention of seeing Marienburg on our return to Berlin. Marienburg is a place few foreigners find out, but Lübke, in his “History of Art,” represents the architecture of the palace occupied by the knights, or crusaders, for two centuries, as one of the most exquisite ruins in all Germany. Thorn and Königsburg were also homes for this order of knights.

The following day at noon it was rather refreshing to drive into so modern and gay a place as Berlin, and forget that so many people must exist in places like Danzig. Mediæval life seems still to enwrap them there as in a garment. Their eyes are closed to any modern idea or project.

Berlin contains all that is new and progressive in Germany. That day as we sat in the garden of the “Thiergarten Hotel,” eating delicious salmon, the old emperor drove by in his open carriage, with his faithful jäger. He was still a subject for curiosity, as it was so soon after the attempt had been made to assassinate him, June 7, 1878. He was fired on as he drove by in this same open carriage with this same faithful jäger. The sight of the old emperor recalled the previous months which had been so full of political stir in Europe. The session of the Berlin Congress, and the occupation of Bosnia by the Austrians had taken place.

To describe Berlin to those who have not visited it, is simply telling, generally, the size of palaces, the number of art collections, the width of streets, the squares occupied by statues, the places of amusement, etc., but even when these objects and interests are put in writing they leave little impression until the place is seen. But there is another aspect of the great Prussian capital. It is a wonderful place just now, attracting so many foreign students to its university, the best musical talent to its conservatories, and the first military genius within its walls. No matter what branch of study one may choose, the instruction and illustration is right at hand. To the student of politics it is a most fruitful field, not only because distinguished statesmen frequent its streets every day, but because grave problems in political science are discussed in the Reichstag or taught in the University. The student of physics or of natural science can work under Helmholz and others; the student of music can secure Joachim or Clara Schumann, or the student of art, Knaus, or Richter. Berlin has no pulpit orator. The Dom is more frequented because of its tombs than for any living influence it extends. It contains the coffins of Frederick William the great elector, and Frederick I., king of Prussia. The Mendelssohn choir chants its anthems, and the emperor and empress bow at its communion table; but St. Hedwig’s Church is better attended. The American Chapel, built by the efforts of Mr. Whright, our American minister to the Prussian court, a devout Methodist, is still occupied and attended by travelers of the American-English type.

The annual exhibition of pictures in the academy, the many fine concerts, the treasures in the old museum, the Royal Library, the palaces, and the lovely drives along “Unter den Linden,” are only mentioned to show what Berlin does contain in the way of sights and pleasures. This Unter den Linden, the street so well known, was planned by Frederick William, in the seventeenth century, and is now worn by many royal carriages and busy hurrying mortals. The street about the opera house is crowded every morning by the eager buyers of tickets, which must be secured in the morning.

Surely life in Berlin can be made very attractive, but after a long residence there I am convinced that it has little religious life. The climate is depressing, the expense of living great, two other detractions. Potsdam, Sans Souci, Charlottenburg Tegel, and many other places in the suburbs, are, historically and naturally, charming resorts.

It is more compensating in Europe to go from place to place with some special work or subject in view than to go for mere sight-seeing. Your special work brings you nearer the people. If your landlady asks you what it is, and you take the trouble to tell her, she or some of her friends will at once see that you know all their acquaintances who are engaged in the same line of inquiry, and while the new acquaintances may not be socially or intellectually your ideals, yet their conversation will help you in the language and give you many opportunities.

Dresden I only know through hard work in the galleries, as though all its sights are familiar—the Schloss, Green Vaults with their immense treasures, the Military Museum, Museum of Natural History, the Grand Opera House, the Frauenkirche, Japanese Palace, cafés, coinages and statues; yet the picture gallery, with its priceless “Madonna di San Sisto” of Raphael is to me the starting point of interest and the essence of Dresden life.

From eight o’clock in the morning until four o’clock in the afternoon faithful copyists labor in the gallery. The price received for their work scarcely keeps them from starving. To go in among them for a time and work and feel as they do, enlarges one’s sympathies, and teaches one to love the masterpieces of the great artists. To the uninitiated in such matters it may be well to explain that before the permission is given to copy a picture in any of the European galleries, a good deal of red tape must be looked after, especially in Germany. The director demands a specimen of the applicant’s work, which must be a study from nature, either figure or landscape or still life. It is with considerable trepidation that the office of the “Herr Director” is entered. If the applicant is successful, he or she comes out with an elaborate paper containing the agreement, the name of picture to be copied, the number, room, etc., with the director’s name and the seal attached. One of the gallerie diener, as they are called in Germany, takes you under his care, arranges an easel, a piece of carpet, a rest-stick and table. You are recognized among the copyists, and the hat of every gallerie diener is raised at your approach or departure. When you have finished, the inspector is allowed to criticise your work. You must pay the diener who has waited upon you some trink geld, or a fee, as we would express it. At noon you can eat your cold lunch, in company with the other copyists, in front of a Raphael or a Correggio, a Titian or a Rubens, scrutinize its merits or laugh at its blunders, or speculate on the old master’s methods of using their pigments, without being amenable to any court. An artist’s life is a life of liberty—of thought, at least. Many of these copyists spend their afternoons in sketching, thus establishing their originality and emancipating themselves from servile observance of other men’s methods. In company with these plodding, intelligent artists, I have spent many delightful hours sketching in the “Alt Markt,” or the Zwinger, or at Sans Souci or Charlottenburg.

I have often wondered if the little Greek church in the suburbs of Dresden was as attractive to all travelers as to me. It is surrounded on one side by golden wheat fields, with red poppies and dark blue corn flowers growing among it. Its gilded dome, semi-domes, and minarets, shine like blazing lights against the dark blue sky. The style is such pure Byzantine and the inside so perfect in its appointments, and yet so simple; the service conducted in so solemn and devout a spirit, there seems to be much to impress the looker-on. There are no seats. On one side stand the women and on the other side the men, and before the altar the patriarch, or priest. The service is short, consisting almost entirely of singing by the men and boys, without the aid of an instrument. When the plate is passed for the collection it contains a roll of bread, the meaning of which I have never discovered, although James Freeman Clark may give it in the account of the Greek church in his “Ten Great Religions.” Their belief that the Holy Ghost proceeds from the Father, and not from the Father and Son, seems to be the most essential difference in prayer between the English Church and the Greek.

A summer in the Harz Mountains, taking in Weimar and Eisenach, and the “Wartburg,” is a charming experience. To find out that one can live in this age in so interesting a retreat as Weimar, for twenty dollars a month, gives back some of the simplicity to German life.

To a student of Goethe, Schiller, Wieland and Herder, no spot offers more pleasure than the quiet, old streets and groves and houses of Weimar. A mere drive through the park, passing Goethe’s summer house and on out to “Tiefert,” where the Grand Duchess Amelia held her little court, and the open air theater attracted a charming coterie to listen to Goethe or Schiller in some representation, re-awakens the genius of the times and arouses the appetite of the traveler for more acquaintance with the place. The next drive or stroll through the park will prove that every stone contains some rhyme, and every bench some association with those great men. There is a line to Frau Von Stein in the garden of Goethe’s country house, an elegy engraved on the stone as one ascends to the Roman house in the park. The front approach to this house is not so attractive, but the back is a fascinating place. It contains on the first floor an open room with round table and benches, where the Duke and his poets sat for hours, looking over the old stone steps into the park. A short stroll from there brings one to the large open space, in the middle of the park, which was laid out by Goethe, and represents precisely the dimensions of St. Peter’s in Rome. The immense ground plot of that church is here to be recognized more definitely than when one stands under its dome.

The grand ducal palace at Weimar contains one unique room, while all the others are handsome. The one which differs from similar palatial apartments is frescoed with scenes from the works of Weimar’s great poets. The halls are silent and one longs to see little fat Karl August step out of a saal or the Duchess Amelia greet Goethe or Schiller on the stairway as in days of yore. Mr. Lewis, in his life of Goethe, portrays such scenes with a graphic pen.

In 1832 the house in the Goethe-platz was left vacant by its great occupant. Its art treasures, its library, its various collections, showing how comprehensive Goethe’s mind was, and how many things he had investigated, were abandoned, as all human efforts must be abandoned, when the silent messenger calls the soul into the presence of its Great Creator. If self-denial is required of those on earth who hope to enter into his rest, then who can answer for Goethe? But surely the choir of angels in “Faust” sing beautifully of it:

“Christ is arisen,

Praised be his name;

His love shared our prison

Of guilt and of shame;

He hath borne the hard trial of self-denial,

And triumphant ascends

To the hills whence he came.”

This house still stands as he left it, and is shown every Friday afternoon to visitors. It has been occupied by his grandson for years.

The church in which Lucas Cranach’s great picture is to be seen, and in which Herder preached, is a cold, heartless structure to a stranger, but its very stones and walls must respond to the prayers of the old inhabitants. The brunnen, or town well, in front of Lucas Cranach’s house, when surrounded by a crowd of peasants offers a genre picture for an artist. The picture gallery is new and good. A large fresco representing Weimar celebrities is in the front entrance. Bettina Von Arnim is the only woman in the group. Perhaps her correspondence, which is by many considered spurious, will make the artist regret that he has given her so important a position in this fresco. To take an early breakfast in some lovely arbor, overlooking some historic grounds, then spend the morning in the gallery and the afternoon in the park, and the evening at the concert, is about the happiest program one can follow in a small German town.

Eisenach, the capital of Saxe-Weimar, a town of 10,000 inhabitants, will always remain associated with Martin Luther. It is the principal town in the Thuringian forest. The old “Wartburg,” one and a half miles south of the town, is famous for its architecture and history. Martin Luther, the Elector of Saxony, who rescued him, and earlier the saintly Elizabeth and her cruel husband, are only a few names which are associated with it. Of course the story of the Elector of Saxony rescuing Luther, after the Diet of Worms, is well known. Yet who can resist dwelling upon this bold character at this period. After the Pope’s excommunication Luther defies all threats and starts out on his return journey, with the emperor’s promise of a safe-conduct; the decree for arrest follows closely every step. What a picture! to have these armed knights attack him and carry him prisoner to the old Wartburg. Then to discover afterward that a friend’s hand, and not an enemy’s, had done this thing. There he remained ten months, and there still remain the traces on the wall of the ink he threw at the devil. Perhaps the chapel, where he preached on Sundays, is a more becoming and decorous place to associate him with than this little room, always pointed out first.

The Wartburg has been so beautifully renovated of late at the expense of the government, it is really worth a second visit to those who may have seen it years ago. The banquet hall is certainly superb, and the St. Elizabethangeng, with its beautiful frescoes and long narrow proportions, almost enables one to see the good woman walking up and down with her prayer-book, in deep meditation, before starting out through the forest with her attendants, and her apron full of provisions for the poor. It is told that once, when her liege-lord met her, and inquired what she had in her apron (he had strictly forbidden her taking things to the poor), she, with legendary faith, opened her apron and forthwith the bread became roses.

Taking your faithful donkey which has brought you up the hill, and your Wartburg album collection of photographs, you find yourself soon wandering through the lovely and fantastic Annenthal, and finally resting near the depot at Eisenach. There the untiring finger of your old guide points to Fritz Reuter’s house, and at last to his own little bill, which he has carefully prepared and which he expects you as carefully to pay. Never goes money from your pocket more liberally!

The Harz Mountains, their legends and songs, have been so often written of there is danger of stupid repetition if one goes over the ground.

A novel experience for an American is to have an attack of rheumatism in the house of an old Polish major in midsummer, in Wernigerode, and be attended by the physician of Count Von Stolberg. To inform those who may be so unfortunate as to meet with a similar fate what will become of them, I would simply remark that the subterfuge of every German doctor, when he finds a case getting beyond his control, is to recommend a water-cure. The one at Magdeburg being the nearest to Wernigerode, is the one which Count Von Stolburg’s physician would be best acquainted with, so off to the old city and farewell to the Harz! What rheumatic patient cares for a view of a fine old cathedral from a window, or to be informed that the city has existed since the eighth century? Do these facts lessen the pain or quiet the nerves? After the bath has restored the patient, and he or she can walk out and examine the cathedral, and read of the sufferings of the people in the sixteenth or seventeenth centuries, and again how the Austrian army was resisted by Wallenstein for seven months, and how the French besieged and took it in 1806, and again in 1813—thus there is diversion in finding oneself on such historic grounds and picturesque surroundings.

[To be continued.]

[IN FLOWERY FIELDS.]

By MARY HARRISON.

Ye flowers in your wonderful silence,

Ye birds with your wonderful sound,

The love of my God are declaring;

For ye are the language he found.

Ye smile to the eye of my spirit,

Ye sing to the ear of my soul;

Ye waken soft echoes of anthems

Which over God’s Paradise roll.

Ye bloom as ye bloomed once in Eden,

Make holy and sacred the sod;

Ye sing as you sang when in rapture

Man counted you angels of God.

By you—common things of the desert—

God’s love has this miracle wrought:

Ye fill me with exquisite gladness,

With worship which silences thought.

—London Sunday Magazine.

Republics where high birth gives no right to the government of the state, are in that respect the most happy; for the people have less reason to envy an authority which they confer on whom they will, and which they can again take away when they choose.—Montesquieu.

[FAILINGS.]

By J. MORTIMER GRANVILLE.

We all have our failings, and for the most part we regard them tenderly. They do not count as offences; scarcely are they held to be faults. It is always a probable conjecture that an error of omission has been unintentional; not unfrequently it seems possible it was unavoidable. A sentiment of pity for, and even sympathy with, weakness overpowers the sense of grievance; the voice of the inward monitor is silenced, and the self-excused conscience sleeps. Meanwhile failings are the worst and most mischievous, the deadliest and least curable, of the ills to which the moral nature of man is heir. They are the sources of evil whence spring the blackest vices of human character, the false roots that nourish and sustain its parasites, and steal the sap of its inner life. A failing is not merely negative; its sinister aspect is one of positive wrong-doing, wherein some behest of the will is disobeyed, a measure of moral power wasted, a rebel habit formed or fostered. To compassionate failings in others is to beg the question of fact for the sake of politeness; to look with leniency on the errors which self would fain palliate, by assuming that they are unavoidable, is to play the traitor to Truth, and let the enemy into the citadel; whereas conscience is set to guard the nature of man from treachery not less carefully than to protect it against assault.

Failings may be moral, mental, or physical, as they show themselves in the character, the intellect, or the bodily habit and powers. It generally happens that what strikes the observer as a failing is compounded of errors in feeling, thought, and action combined. The practical question is how the overt evil came into existence; or, if happily the failing should be detected in an earlier stage of growth, before it has betrayed its presence by ugly consequences, we may ask: what are the mischievous forces, where are they at work, how can they be counteracted? Why has this person the “failing” of a tendency to excessive indulgence in drink or the gratification of some unbridled passion; and that individual a seeming inability to recognize and pursue the right and honest course of conduct in the presence of any so-called “temptation” or difficulty?

Some of the most regrettable and injurious failings which disfigure and defame the character run through families, appearing in successive generations and seeming to be inherited. This theory of their perpetuation is well founded; and it has been adduced as conclusive evidence of the truth of the hypothesis that mind, and, of course, character, is the mere outcome of matter. The force of the argument obviously rests on the assumption that nothing more than, or outside, matter can be transmitted from parent to child; that a particular constitution of brain and nerve centres, a special arrangement or combination of the elements which compose the mind-organ, may be reproduced, and, if it is, a similarity of character will be entailed; but as for the independent existence of mind, or spirit, that is a pure figment of the imagination, which science will sooner or later drive beyond the pale of credulity, and to which, even now, only a few thinkers avowedly cling!

Let us examine this proposition at close quarters. It may be stated thus. All we know of mind is expressed, and understood, by physical agencies and in the formulæ of material force. Speech communicates thought, and we think in words. The faculty of forming and employing words is a brain function. If a particular region of the brain be injured or diseased, the power of using language, at least in speech, is generally lost. The materialist argues from this and many similar facts that mind is the product of matter. He fails to perceive that the only warrantable deduction from his own data is that mind or spirit, call it what we will, can only express itself through the brain as an instrument. As well deny the skill or independent existence of a musician because he can not play the full score of an opera on a flute, as infer the non-existence of a soul from the fact that man cannot perform intellectual work without the organ of thought—the brain!

The capacity of the instrument doubtless limits the expression, but it supplies no measure of the power or skill of the performer, except in so far as the use he makes of the instrument may be a bad one. This exception is of great significance, and there will be something more to say about it presently. Meantime it is evident that, while the range of brain-power determines the manifestation of mind, it neither measures, nor affirms, nor disproves the independent existence of mind. The anatomist, the physiologist, and the chemist declare their inability to discover the traces of a soul in the physical organism. That no more proves the non-existence of a soul than the failure to recognize more than a certain number of planets at any stage in the history of astronomy demonstrated that there was nothing further to find.

The appeal against materialism lies to the instinct of common sense. If mind were the mere outcome of matter, science would long since have discovered some tolerably constant relation between peculiarities of physical development and manifestations of character; whereas every step onward in the progress of research tends to disprove the existence of any certain dependency or connection between morals and matter. Even such links as compose the stock-in-trade of the physiognomist and phrenologist are shown to be illusory, except in so far as they may be the effects, rather than the causes, of character, and are produced by culture—witness the effects of education on facial expression in the case of criminals. The theory of a criminal conformation of cranium has been abandoned like the silly affectation of being able to detect an offender by his “hang-dog” or “murderous” look.

“Failings” must be studied in the light of the lessons these facts and considerations combine to teach. The moral question involved is one of responsibility for the use each individual may make of the brain-power allotted to him. The neglect to employ gifts and capacities is as grave an error, from an ethical point of view, as their application to a bad purpose. The servant who buried his talent in the earth was held accountable for the failure to use it, and thereby increase its value. The parable sets forth a truth of the highest practical interest. We are responsible for the development, by use, of the faculties vouchsafed to us. If they are allowed to remain in abeyance, or a rudimentary state, we are to blame for the deficiencies and the failings to which this neglect gives rise, and are without excuse. The obligation to act up to the level of known duty cannot be avoided. A “failing” is an act of contempt for the law of development by use. It is disobedience to an understood command. The fact that it is recognized makes a failing an offence. There may be short-coming in the performance of a good resolve. Few, if any, merely human efforts are entirely successful; but the failure which occurs when an endeavor is made in the energy of a resolute and well-aimed purpose is not so much a fault as insufficiency. The rising tide reaches its highest level by successive efforts. Self-improvement is effected in the same fashion. The motive power of persistent good endeavor is accumulative—ever advancing like the great tidal wave of the ocean—though the ground is conquered by short and seemingly only half-successful advances.

Failings, however, as we are now regarding them, are excused faults in the character which the individual makes no serious effort to repair. Some defects, as we have seen, are inherited, and upon them it is the custom to bestow great commiseration and little blame. Now, in truth, these are the least pardonable, because, if they are known to have been transmitted from parent to child, the latter has, generally, the advantage of an example, ever present to memory, by which to correct his personal deficiencies. If the “failing” be a vicious propensity, he can recall its hideousness, and thus stimulate will and conscience to aid him in eradicating the fault. If it be some form of deficiency, as indolence, lack of perseverance, want of principle, or the like, he can study, as in the pages of history, the evil consequences entailed by the defect, and with diligence order his own conduct in better courses. Inherited failings are the least excusable. Even the materialist, who claims them as the fruit of physical peculiarities, must concede that by special culture they can be remedied, the healthy organism being susceptible of increased development in any particular direction when the proper stimuli are intelligently applied with a view to its improvement. The apologist for failings which have been inherited can find no comfort in the philosophy of materialism.

Failings which are peculiar to the individual may be less easy to detect, and the subject of these defects is, in a measure, dependent upon experience and the monitions of those around him for the information needed to correct them. This should keep the wise teachable and apt to profit by the lessons life is ever reading for their instruction. A self-reliant spirit is manly, and therefore commendable; a self-sufficient spirit is unreasonable, and therefore despicable. It is strange how few of us grow really wiser as we grow older. The work of self-improvement is seldom commenced until forced upon the judgment by some awakening experience, and this is rarely vouchsafed until the ductile period of youth has gone by. Early in the adult age of man his habits become rigidly formulated, and failings are then hard to mend. A world of unhappiness and disappointment might be spared the later years of life if the young would be warned to begin the business of training the character before it is firmly set in the mould of circumstances, with all the coarse elements—inherited and contracted—uneliminated, and the errors of inconsistency and imperfect development uncorrected.

It is in the period of youth and adolescence that the mind may be most hopefully cultivated and the moral character intelligently formed. No greater mistake can be made by a young and vigorous mind than to treat the faculty of reason and the instinct of moral judgment as parts of the being which may be left to their own devices. The young man bestows some thought on his muscular system—he trains his eye, cultivates his ear, and takes credit for prudence when he strives to develop the vigor and to foster the healthy growth of his body. Is it wise—nay, is it not rather the worst of folly and shortsightedness—to neglect the ordinary development of those higher powers which man possesses in a more exalted degree than any of the lower animals? Taking care for the body while the mind is neglected is the worst of failings—the most calamitous and the least excusable.

[GONE!]

By E. G. CHARLESWORTH.

Alas! and have I lost thy voice,

Lost the sweet face that in my youth

Shone from my breast on things to be—

Hope-making, changing hope to truth,

Thy face, sweet love,

That madest beautiful the plainest thing

Below, above?

No; like the priest in times of old,

Who drew the temple’s sacred veil,

Thou art gone into an inner fold;

And now, thy face turned heaven’s way,

A paler face, and yet not pale,

Looks for the sunset in the west;

Thy form appears with outspread wings,

I hear thee from thine altar say,

With angel-breath o’er former things,

How beautiful is rest!

—London Sunday Magazine.

[SOCIAL WRECKAGE.]

By ELLICE HOPKINS.

Mr. Francis Peek has recently published a useful but saddening little book, whose title I have attached to this article. Not that it tells anything new to one who has studied deeply the pages of that terrible book of modern life, with its gilded leaves, but its unutterably dark contents; it only focuses the scattered knowledge into alarmingly clear vision. Indeed, in reading it, it is difficult to resist the old nightmare feeling, that after all this little planet may be the small rotary Vaudeville theater of the universe, where we poor actors in life’s scene are playing out a series of farces for the amusement of the angels, or more probably of darker and more distant visitants. The admirably logical social life that religiously shuts all the museums and picture-galleries on the Lord’s Day, and opens all the gin-shops; that is never tired of iterating that the proper sphere of woman is home, and brings up its 20,000 female orphans in large pauper barracks, from which the last touch of home-life has disappeared; that goes to meetings and loudly preaches thrift to the people, and then gruffly whispers in their ear by guardians of the poor, “Only be drunk and spendthrift enough, and we will house you and provide for your old age;” that goes to church and preaches that the body is the temple of the Holy Ghost, and leaves the people to litter down like pigs at night—men and women, girls and boys, together in tenements where no rich man would think of stabling his horses; that goes to school and teaches its children the three R’s, and leaves them in dens of infamy to learn a fourth R, by every sight and sound of the day and night, ruin of body and soul; that virtuously declaims against the harlot, yet leaves its little girls to be brought up in brothels; that believes a fatal disorder is undermining the national health, and shuts the doors of its hospitals against it, and denies it the public means of cure; that legally protects the heiress up to twenty-one, and refuses to protect the poor man’s daughter, even at sixteen, from the trade of vice; that holds that the man is the responsible head of the woman, and throws the blame and disgrace on the woman—alas! alas! what a heap of anomalies is here—what real cause to complain of the methods of our moral life! No wonder that the poor Dissenting minister, much entangled in our social difficulties, and led on all sides to contradictory conclusions, threw in a deprecatory clause in his prayer, “Paradoxical as it may seem to thee, O Lord, it is nevertheless true.”

And what are the results of such methods as these? What must be the results?

That we read that in the wealthiest nation in the world, one in every thirty-one of our countrymen is a pauper; this, moreover, without including any of that vast number of destitute persons who are maintained in charitable institutions or by private benevolence.

That in the richest city in the world there were in one year 101 deaths from actual starvation, in full sight of well-stocked shops.

That there are about 180,000 apprehensions each year for drunkenness, and over 15,000 persons yearly charged with indictable crimes, and over half a million convicted summarily before the magistrates, of which latter nearly 100,000 are guilty of personal assaults, about 2,500 being aggravated assaults upon women and children.

That there are extensive districts in London, Liverpool, and all our large towns, where our people are living in little more than half the area of ground required for a corpse, and which they could claim if they were dead, in tenements which are the graves of all decency and chastity.

That “in Liverpool alone, by a rough estimate, there are some 10,000 or more children who are neither properly fed, clothed nor housed, and surrounded by such evil associations at home, or in the low lodging-houses where they herd, that there is small chance of their leading afterwards a useful life, and we can predict with certainty that many of them will enter our prisons, penitentiaries and workhouses.”

Surely it must create an uneasy feeling in the most careless to realize this mass of misery and sin on which the life of the well-to-do classes in England is based—

“This deep dark underworld of woe,

That underlies life’s shining surfaces,

Dim populous pain and multitudinous toil,

Unheeded of the heedless world that treads

Its piteous upturned faces underfoot,

In the gay rout that rushes to its ends.”

It is impossible for me to deal adequately with the subject in the narrow space of a short article, but let me touch on three of our greatest problems—overcrowding, pauperism, and the care of the young.

First, as to overcrowding. This is a question that distinctly affects the state, and with regard to which we have to “live in the whole,” and to see that the welfare of the community is at stake, and that the state must have an authoritative voice in it. Virtue, sobriety, decency, are physically impossible in the conditions under which a vast number of its citizens are living. The national health and morals are in danger. All the arguments that justified the interference of the state with the rights of the Irish landlord, apply equally to the London landlords, and the artificial forcing up of rents, which has resulted from the necessity many workmen are under of living near their work. Yet this question has been the subject of permissive legislation! The Artisans’ Dwellings Improvement Act, an honest attempt on the part of Sir Richard Cross to deal with the problem, was rendered applicable to all towns of 28,000 inhabitants or upward—that is to say, about eighty towns—but it was entrusted to the municipalities to carry it out, the town councils which we have left to be composed chiefly of men of narrow education, largely swayed by self-interest, and probably extensive owners of the very property to be demolished! It is exactly as if the Irish Land Bill had been permissive, and entrusted to the Irish landlords to put it into execution! Can we wonder that in about sixty out of the eighty towns, it remains a dead letter? In eleven it has led to discussion; in two or three it has led to the demolition of buildings, but not to their erection. Is there not a want of ordinary seeing in our moral life? Could we hope to solve a single scientific problem on the methods on which we are content to live?

“The commercial success,” as Mr. Peek observes, “that has been achieved by several of the Artisans’ Dwellings Companies which, while providing good houses, yet pay fair dividends, shows that the poorest pay rents which give a fair interest on capital, so that the municipality will not be compelled to embark in a ruinous undertaking, or one that will not pay in the long run, to say nothing of the gain to the health and morals of the nation.”

Secondly, let us take pauperism. First of all let us clearly recognize that no system of paid officials, no mechanical workhouse will take the place of human thought and human care. Nothing will do instead of love. Indeed, there are already signs that we are working out a reductio ad absurdum with these portentous and ever-increasing warehouses of the destitute and the vicious that are springing up, throwing the winter support of whole dissolute families on hard-working rate-payers, and systematically discouraging thrift. But the problem has been solved satisfactorily on a small scale, and can be on a larger. The Elberfield experiment, which in twelve years reduced the number of paupers from 4,800 to 1,800, notwithstanding that the population had increased from 50,000 to 64,000, and that great commercial depression existed, has been too often described not to be familiar to all. But a remarkable parallel movement among the Jews is scarcely so well known as it deserves to be. When “Oliver Twist” was published, the leading Jews were so mortally ashamed of the picture drawn by the popular novelist of Fagan and the low Jewish quarters in London, that they formed themselves at once into an organization to remedy so disgraceful a state of things. The numbers to be dealt with amounted to those of a populous town, with the additional difficulty afforded by immigrant Jews arriving in large numbers from the Continent in a state of the greatest destitution. The investigation of every case requiring relief was undertaken by volunteer workers, assisted by skilled officers, and was not in the steam pig-killing style, but patient and exhaustive with true human brotherhood; in deserving cases the relief given was sufficient to make a guardian’s hair stand on end, but was given with the view to helping the man to a means of livelihood. Especially this wise liberality was shown in the treatment of their widows. Whilst Mr. Peek has no better suggestion to offer than that the widows’ children should be removed to the pauper barrack-schools to herd with the lowest children of casuals, a system which Mr. Peek himself strongly condemns, the Jews recognized that the mother, if well conducted, was the proper person to have the care of them, and that her place was at home. They therefore either provided their widows with indoor work, or, when that was impossible, relieved them on a sufficient scale to enable them to look after their children at home; the consequence being that instead of feeding the outcast class, as the neglected children of our widows too often do, they grew up productive and well-conducted members of the community. If, however, a family was found overcrowding, all relief was steadily refused till they consented to live a human life, assistance being given to move into a larger tenement. By these wise and thoughtful methods in the course of a single generation the Jews have worked up the people from a considerably lower level to one decidedly above our own. To be sure the Jew does not drink. Give the most destitute Jew five pounds down, and at the end of the year you will find him a small capitalist, having considerably despoiled the Egyptians meanwhile. But the intemperance of our people is largely caused by overcrowding, and by their amusements and recreation-rooms being in the hands of those who make their profit not by the entertainment but by the drink traffic, and indefinite improvement may be brought about by wiser regulations that have the good of the people, and not the fattening of publicans and brewers at heart. Surely the success of the Jewish and Elberfeld efforts prove that the problem of the reduction of pauperism and the inducing of healthy habits of thrift and self-helping in the people is soluble, and with that army of devoted Christian workers in our midst, to whose untiring efforts we owe it that social disaster has not already overtaken us, it must be possible for us to carry on the same movement, if Birmingham or one of our public-spirited towns would lead the way.

Lastly, we come to the vast, hopeful field, presented by greater care for the young, and better methods of embodying it.

First, let the law protect the young of both sexes up to the legal age of majority from all attempts to lead them into a dissolute life. In most continental countries the corruption of minors is an indictable offense. The English penal code recognizes this principle in property; it is felony to abduct an heiress up to twenty-one, and a young man’s debts, except for bare necessaries, are null and void till he is of age; but, as usual, our English law leaves the infinitely more precious moral personality unprotected. There is no practical protection at any age for an English child from the trade of vice. An unruly child of fifteen or sixteen, or even younger, quarrels with her mother or with her employer, and runs off in a fit of temper. Even if she leaves her parents’ roof, it can not be brought under the law against abduction. No one abducts her; the child abducts herself. Yet the keeper of the lowest den of infamy can harbor that child for an infamous purpose, and he or she commits no indictable offence. It is no wonder, therefore, that the open profligacy of the young forms the very gravest feature of our large towns. Thankful as we are for the honest effort to deal with this monstrous anomaly in English law, shown by Lord Rosebery’s bill, we can not but regret the extreme inadequacy of its provisions, or that the legislature should refuse to extend legal protection from even the trade of vice, to the most dangerous age of a girl’s life, the age of sixteen—the age when, as the medical faculty are agreed, a girl is least morally responsible, and most liable to sexual extravagances, and when we can statistically prove that the greatest number of those who go wrong are led astray. The country will not rest till the legal protection from the trade of vice is extended to twenty-one.

Secondly, let us recognize it as an axiom that parental rights do not exist when wholly severed from parental duties; or, in other words, that the child has its rights as well as the parent, and that its indefeasible right is, in South’s strong words, “to be born and not damned into the world.” Let it be recognized, then, that no child of either sex is to be brought up in a den of infamy, and to attend school from thence to the contamination of the children of the respectable poor, the magistrates being no longer allowed to defeat this beneficent provision of the Industrial Schools Act, and parental responsibility being recognized by the parent being compelled to pay toward the Christian and industrial training of the child; all children living in, or frequenting, thieves’ dens and disorderly houses to be at once removed. Let day industrial schools be formed for the lowest class of children, so as to introduce some classification in our board schools, the want of which is one of their gravest defects. Let us adopt emigration to our colonies for our pauper and destitute children, whenever possible. Any one who has gone into the question can corroborate Mr. Samuel Smith’s statement in his able article in the May number of the Nineteenth Century, that “£15 per head covers all expenses, including a few months’ preparatory training, outfit, passage, etc.” The average cost of each child in the metropolitan district schools is nearly £25 per annum. About 11,000 pauper children are brought up in these large establishments at a cost to the ratepayers of London of £250,000 per annum. Probably each child is kept, on the average, five years, costing, say, £120 in all. Truly Mr. Smith may well add, “with a blindness that is incomprehensible, the guardians have preferred herding them together at a vast expense, and refused till quite lately to allow emigration to be tried.” And for those children who through bad health, or any other disability, are unable to emigrate, and can not be boarded out, as well as children whose drunken and dissolute parents are bringing them up to crime, let there be an order of teaching deaconesses instituted, and a state-aided training college, where educated ladies may receive training in the management of an industrial school, and from which the guardians can supply themselves with mothers for cottage homes on the plan of the Village Homes of Ilford, where the cost of a child is £14, instead of £25. By this arrangement the children would come under higher influence than the uneducated workhouse officials. Hundreds of ladies are wanting remunerative employment, and would gladly undertake this, if they could be put in the way of the work by a little preliminary training, and freed from the necessity of “doing the washing” in the cottage home. And, lastly, let it be a recognized theory that every Christian household has one respectable but rough little girl to train under its own upper class servants, to give her a good start in life, that our houses, with all their culture and refinement, may no longer be strongholds of l’egoisme à plusieurs, but centers for teaching good work, high character, and fine manners—organs for the public good.

And those social atomists who raise their vehement cry about personal rights and the liberty of the subject over all compulsory measures for saving children, I would remind that the question is not of compulsion or non-compulsion; but whether the natural guardians of a child shall be compelled to pay toward its Christian and industrial training, or whether they and I, as ratepayers, shall be compelled to pay for its degradation in prisons, in infirmary beds, and workhouses. Compulsion there is anyhow: but surely no reasonable mind can doubt which compulsion is most in accordance with the true right and true liberty.

And how can I better close than with the impassioned words of Elizabeth Barrett Browning, apostrophizing our material splendor, as shown in the great Exhibition of 1851, by the side of our moral squalor:

“O Magi of the East and of the West,

Your incense, gold and myrrh are excellent!

What gifts for Christ, then, bring ye with the rest?

Your hands have worked well: is your courage spent

In handiwork only? Have you nothing best

Which generous souls may perfect and present

And He shall thank the givers for? No light

Of teaching, liberal nations, for the poor

Who sit in darkness when it is not night?

No cure for wicked children? Christ—no cure!

No help for women sobbing out of sight

Because men made the laws? No brothel lure

Burnt out by popular lightnings? Hast thou found

No remedy, my England, for such woes?

*****

Alas! great nations have great shames, I say.

*****

O gracious nations, give some ear to me!

You all go to your fair, and I am one

Who at the roadside of humanity

Beseech your alms,—God’s justice to be done!”

—The Contemporary Review.

[AT REST.]

By SARAH DOUDNEY.

Ah, silent wheel, the noisy brook is dry,

And quiet hours glide by

In this deep vale, where once the merry stream

Sang on through gloom and gleam;

Only the dove in some leaf-shaded nest

Murmurs of rest.

Ah, weary voyager, the closing day

Shines on that tranquil bay,

Where thy storm-beaten soul has longed to be;

Wild blast and angry sea

Touch not this favored shore, by summer blest,

A home of rest.

Ah, fevered heart, the grass is green and deep

Where thou art laid asleep;

Kissed by soft winds, and washed by gentle showers,

Thou hast thy crown of flowers;

Poor heart, too long in this mad world oppressed,

Take now thy rest.

I, too, perplex’d with strife of good and ill,

Long to be safe and still;

Evil is present with me while I pray

That good may win the day;

Great Giver, grant me thy last gift and best,

The gift of rest!

—Good Words.

Business requires earnestness and strength of character, life must be allowed more freedom; business calls for the strictest sequence, whereas in the conduct of life inconsecutiveness is often necessary—nay, is charming and graceful. If thou art strict in the first, thou mayest allow thyself more freedom in the second; while if thou mix them up, thou wilt find the free interfering and breaking in upon the fixed.—Goethe.

[ECCENTRIC AMERICANS.]

By COLEMAN E. BISHOP.

I.—THE SAILOR, PEDDLER, FARMER, PREACHER.

In mechanics, an eccentric is a wheel that can start all the rest of the machinery with a jerk and a kick, and keep it going. It was the little eccentrics that enabled ten thousand Chautauquans to scatter to every part of the land in a few hours. The cam-motion in human nature starts its machinery and scatters its thought. We ought to thank God for the minds that wabble. Every originator has been counted eccentric—many of them have been pronounced insane. The little Festuses sitting in judgment are always crying to the inspired apostles of truth, “Thou art beside thyself.”

It is finite mechanism and finite thought that invent geometry and theology. Men hang, cunningly and truly, their long counter-shafts of creed, of behavior, of thought, of dress, of consistency, of loyalty; they bolt and key thereto immovably all human characters which are round, “line them up” all true and uniform, lubricate with lucre, put on the steam and away they all go beautifully and all alike. Woe be to one who wabbles in this machine-shop of society! But God uses no plumb-lines, right-angles, levels or true circles. “Nature’s geometrician,” the bee, never made a true hexagon. The old planets go “spinning through the grooves of change” in eccentrics, and never collide. Erratic comets dash through and among them, and never crash. I suppose the most eccentric character that ever walked this earth was that strange boy from Nazareth who confounded the doctors with his unprecedented outgivings. His teachings were indeed so strange that after the world has been for one thousand nine hundred years trying to work its standard up to them, a perfect Christian would to-day be accounted non compos mentis by the rest of Christendom.

So it is not a bad idea to study eccentric characters, especially if they are strangely good and oddly useful. One such, at least, we have at hand for the first study of this series—Rev. Edward T. Taylor, “Father Taylor,” “The Sailor-Preacher,” of Boston and the world.

Born in Virginia, reared on the sea, and adopted by New England. Born a religionist, he preached “play” sermons when a child; born again a Christian, he preached the gospel in the Methodist Episcopal Church until all humanity claimed him. Born a poet, for ten years he studied nature in her tragic and her melting moods upon the sea; studied man in the forecastle, in the prison, upon the farm, in the market. Nature was his university; humanity his text-book; hard experience his tutor. At the age of twenty he had traveled the world over, had sounded the depths of human fortune, passion, misery, and sin; was profoundly learned in his great text-book, and the most inspired interpreter of its unuttered wants—and did not know the alphabet! He had become celebrated throughout New England as a marvelous prodigy in the despised sect of “shouting Methodists” years before he could read a text or “line” a hymn. And to the day of his death his preaching knew no method, his eloquence no logic, his conduct no consistency, and his power no limit or restraint. To this day no one has succeeded in analyzing his genius. He could not himself account for his power, nor could he control it. He seemed to play upon his audiences at will as a master plays upon the harp; yet some unseen, mysterious force played upon him in turn. His brethren in the ministry, who accounted for his strange power by attributing it to the Holy Spirit, were confounded by the rudeness, jocoseness, and at times almost profanity of his speech at its highest flights; and they who undertook to resolve his efforts into the accepted elements of human power were astounded by the more than human resources of a mind uncultured and a nature as wild, as uncontrollable, as bright and as sad as the sea he loved. Surely, if ever man was inspired, Father Taylor was.

His career, like his methods, answered to all the terms that can define eccentricity. Deeply religious as the child was by nature, he ran away to sea at the age of seven. His conversion was characteristic. Putting into port at Boston, he strolled to a meeting-house where a revival was in progress; instead of going in by the door, he listened outside, and when stricken under conviction, with characteristic impulsiveness he climbed in through the window. To use his own sailor words: “I was dragged in through the ‘lubber hole,’ brought down by a broadside from the seventy-four, Bishop Hedding, and fell into the arms of Thomas W. Tucker.” This was at the age of nineteen. Then off to sea as a privateersman in the war of 1812, he was captured and imprisoned at Halifax, and here his preaching of the gospel strangely began. A fellow-prisoner read texts to him till one flashed upon his conception as the cue to his discourse. “Stop!” the boy would cry; “read that again.” “That will do;” and he was ready to pour forth a fervid hour of pathos, wit, brilliant imagery, all supported by perfect acting.

Out of prison at last, he returns to Boston, leaves his seafaring forever, and takes to the road with a tin peddler’s cart: clad in a sailor’s jacket and tarpaulin, talking “sea lingo,” religion and poetry in equal proportions, he traveled over New England as attractive a sight as Don Quixote would have been. He came across an old lady who taught him to read (age 21), and he paid her by gratefully holding meetings in her big kitchen, and exhorting wondering crowds of rustics and weeping crowds of penitents. Next he undertook to learn shoemaking, and then worked a farm for a living—all the time concentrating his intense nature on his grand passion for playing upon the human heart; earning little bread for himself, and breaking the bread of life abundantly to farmers, shoemakers, fishermen; in farm houses, school houses, barns, camp-meetings; over a circuit of his own organization. “He was a youthful rustic Whitefield,” says Bishop Haven, “thrilling rustic audiences with his winged words and fiery inspiration.” He loved to preach from the text, “How knoweth this man letters, having never learned?” Taylor did not know letters, and his speech was rude and coarse, his blunders innumerable: if words failed him out of his limited vocabulary, he manufactured them. Once, completely at fault in his struggle to express the burning thoughts that crowded his brain he cried, with a perplexed but irradiated face: “I have lost my nominative case, but I am on my way to glory!” A few smiled; all wept. His earnestness atoned for many defects; his imagery was even now beautiful, and his magnetism irresistible.

Thus young Taylor preached, unlicensed, for five years. It was the breaking-up and seed-time of New England Methodism. Between the Puritans and Quakers, with their mutual antagonism, the shouting Methodists were as corn between the millstones, a despised and persecuted sect.

About the age of twenty-five occurred three notable events in his life. He was licensed by the Methodist Conference to preach. He attended school a short time and began his education. He married one of God’s noble-women to complete his education. For ten years he continued the life of a circuit preacher, growing in culture, power, spirit, and fame, under that wise and gentle nurture. No one can say how far short of its fullness Father Taylor’s life might have fallen without Deborah Taylor.

All these seventeen years of his ministry he had, as far as possible, kept near to the coast and the haunts of sailors; praying in the forecastle and preaching on the decks of ships about to sail, wherever he could reach them. The salt air was incense to him, and the music of the surf seemed ever dwelling in the nautilus-chambers of his heart. At last his life-work came in the direction of his longings. At the age of thirty-fire he was called to preach to the sailors of Boston. The meetings were a success from the first, and Mr. Taylor went South and solicited the money ($2,100) to buy a house for their Bethel. (More bread cast on the waters to return after many days to the South.) The work grew, and soon an incorporated society was organized, called the “Boston Port Society;” from the first nondenominational, though a majority of its board were Methodists. The work still grew. Soon the merchants of Boston assumed the burden of the work, and in 1833 “The Seamen’s Bethel” was completed at a cost of $24,000. Soon a Seamen’s Savings Bank and then a Seamen’s Aid Society, a Seamen’s Boarding-house, and then a Mariner’s Home (at a cost of $34,000), an Industrial School for Seamen’s Children, and a Seamen’s Co-operative Store, sprang up around this nucleus. These collateral enterprises were largely the inspiration of Mother Taylor, but the burden of them fell upon the Unitarians of Boston, who soon assumed entire control of the noble charity and mission. Here Father Taylor fulfilled his life-mission. “From 1829 to 1871 he trod this quarter-deck, its master.” The fame of the Bethel and its chaplain, one and the same, went to all quarters of the globe. Edward Everett styled him “The Walking Bethel,” and Richard H. Dana in his “Two Years Before the Mast,” said one of the first inquiries of sailors in foreign ports, from him, was regarding the welfare of Father Taylor, the mariner’s preacher in Boston. A sailor declared he had been in ports where the United States had not been heard of, but never where Father Taylor had not. Once, soliciting aid for Bethel before another audience than his own, he glowingly promised: “Drop your gold into this ocean and it will cast a wave on the shores of Europe which will strike back to the islands of the Southern Sea, rebound on the Northwest coast, and so make the circuit of the world and strike this port again.” The realization of this prediction was more extravagant than the bold imagery of it. At the dedication of the Bethel he cried: “America is the center of the world, the center of America is Boston, and the center of Boston is the Bethel.”

The first place of a returning sailor’s thoughts became the Bethel, instead of the groggery. Two of them, seeking it for the first time, spelled out the name on the flag floating above it: “B-e-t, beat, H-e-l, hell; beat-hell! This is Father Taylor’s place,” and they cast anchor. “There he is, Bill,” said an old tar to another, as they entered the Bethel; “there’s the old man walking the deck. He’s got his guns double-shotted and will give it to us right and left. See how fast he travels—fifteen knots on a taut bowline. When he walks that way he’s ready for action.”

There were strange scenes in that vast audience room. The body of the church was reserved for sailors always, while the side slips and galleries were for the general public. When the seats were all filled, he would order the sailors forward like a sea captain, and crowd the altar rail, the pulpit stairs, the pulpit, and the pulpit sofas with the weather-beaten mariners, while the grandest in the land stood and listened in the aisles. “Now,” he would say, with a beaming face, “we have got the hold full and a deck load, and we’ll up anchor and start.” Many of the best critics and reporters have tried to describe and analyze a service after such a “start”—Dickens, Harriet Martineau, Fredricka Bremer, Horace Mann, Ralph Waldo Emerson, and others—but all fail to give us much comprehension of the method of the man; I suspect because they were all so absorbed they forgot to take notes, mental or otherwise. But they recall the effects of the preaching vividly, each in his own way. So much of the power of Father Taylor was in his presence and action, that no report of one of his sermons has been made and preserved. He said himself, “You might as well try to report chain lightning.” Dr. Bellows said, twelve years ago, “Alas! nothing remains of him but his memory and his influence. He will be an incredible myth in another generation.” Why need this be so? He has left a wealth of original sayings behind him unequaled by the utterances of few save Abraham Lincoln; and he may furnish the material for many rare studies in character. We may be forgiven the presumption of attempting to help rescue Father Taylor from vanishing into oblivion. What, then, were the characteristics that lay at the foundations of this remarkable character? I would classify them under four heads:

1. Intensity. This gave him concentration of thought, earnestness of belief, courage and aggressiveness in action. He went into everything with an irresistible impulse. His training on the sea and in the circuit gave free growth to this trait. He was never placed where he needed to be politic or conservative; and his combativeness always had free play. He was the champion of his despised sect, but he fought with the polished weapons of a wit, and the impressive presence of a will which the foes of his cause more dreaded than force. And then his spirit was so lovable that there is no instance on record of any one ever having laid hands on him, fierce disputant as he was.

He was a man born to command. His will was imperious. The last conscious act of his life was to shake his fist at his nurse, who refused to let him rise from bed. Peter Cartwright said there were two cataracts in this country—Niagara and Father Taylor. His brethren called him “the breaking-up plow of the Church.” Miss Martineau spoke of “the prodigious force which he carries in his magnificent intellect and earnest heart.” Another English writer said, “He goes on as energetically as any ‘Praise-God Barebones’ of the old Covenanter times.”

I think one thing all his biographers lost sight of was the fact that his belief became a vital part of him, the very breath of his nostrils. There is a mighty difference between truly believing, and simply accepting a belief second-hand, which latter passes for belief with most people. It is the men who genuinely believe who make others accept and adopt their belief. In the pulpit his action is tremendous. He always comes down wet through with perspiration, and a complete change of wardrobe is necessary with every effort.

2. Imagination. To this quality is to be referred his profound religious nature, his poetry, dramatic power, eloquence, and (in conjunction with his earnestness) even his faults. One called him a poet; another, a born actor. James Freeman Clarke said he was the only man he ever heard to whom the much-abused word, “eloquence,” could be truly applied. But I think none of these terms so accurately classify his genius as to call him a painter. His earnestness made everything his quick imagination conjured up seem realistic to him; and his dramatic power enabled him to make these images realistic to his hearers. His thoughts were entities to him, and they always took the form of objects real and visible. This differs from the poetic imagination, the essence of which is unsubstantiality. The poet sees visions, the artist creates forms. Taylor was an artist, with words for his colors, action for his pencil. One who heard him said: “While he preached the ocean rolled and sparkled, the ship spread her sails, the tempest lowered, the forked lightnings blazed, the vessel struck, her disjointed timbers floated upon the waves. It was all pictured to the eye as positive reality. You could hardly believe afterward you had not actually witnessed the scene.”

He describes a shipwreck, and at the climax, as the ship is slowly settling in the water, and every face in the audience is livid with fear, he roars, “Man the life boat!” and every sailor in the house springs to his feet. Now sailors, under the influence of drink, have killed their captain. He describes the deed. They start up before the audience, creeping down the stairs and into the cabin; he raises the imaginary knife, and half the men in the house jump forward to arrest the blow, while women shriek in horror. Once, however, a matter-of-fact, though possessed sailor, confused Father Taylor. He had depicted the impenitent sinner, under the figure of a storm-tossed ship, with her sails split, and driven by the gale toward the rock-bound coast of Cape Ann. “Oh, how,” he exclaimed, in tones of despair, “shall this poor sin-tossed sinner be saved?” “Put his helm hard down, and bear away for Squam!” bellowed the old salt, springing excitedly to his feet.

So he painted the Mosaic miracles, “till the brethren saw the snakes squirm, heard the frogs croak, felt the lice bite, brushed the flies out of their faces and saw the Israelites march out of Egypt.”

One of his last sermons, when he was old and feeble, ended thus: “My work is almost done. Where are all my old shipmates—they who lay in hammocks beside me and who have fought at the same guns? Gone, gone—all gone! No, blessed be God! not all; there’s one left. [Here he made the picture realistic by pointing to an old salt, gray, bent, and knotty-faced.] Yes, there’s old Timberhead. He and I have weathered many a storm together. It is only a little farther we have to sail. Look, look ahead there! It is only to beat just around that point yonder. Now—now! there is the peaceful, blessful haven and home full in view.” By this time the audience was weeping, radiant with hope.

Even his isolated sentences are full of this imaginary realism. “Sailors ignorant!” he cried indignantly when one depreciated them; “sailors know everything; they grasp the world in their hand like an orange!” The boldness of this language is wonderful. Of superannuated ministers he said: “They are like camels bearing precious spices and browsing on bitter herbs. They were moral giants. When God made them he rolled his sleeves up to the arm-pits.”

It was the activity of his brain, the realism of his imagery and the homely naturalness of his language that made some of his transitions abrupt to grotesqueness and some of his speech border startlingly on impropriety. He really thought aloud—which many a matter-of-fact, heavy speaker would find it unsafe to do. Dissociated from their context and from the earnestness and devout spirit of the man, they sound much worse than when uttered.

It was the combination of these two qualities also which made him extravagant in speech, erratic in sentiment, and inconsistent with himself. He was whatever he thought or imagined for the moment; his genius possessed and controlled him. Thus he was a radical temperance reformer, but he denounced prohibitory legislation and hurled ridicule at those who proposed the use of an unfermented wine in the sacrament; he called it “raisin water.” Of rum-sellers he said: “I wonder that the angels in heaven do not tear up the golden pavements and throw them on their heads;” but he conjured those who should succeed him to “Cast out from this church, in my name, any man that comes up to the altar with his glue-pot and dye-stuff.”

Dr. Jewett says: “I have heard him at times when I have been amazed at the utter inconsistency of his views, not only with any standard of doctrine recognized as sound by other men, but with his own public utterances of perhaps the week previous. His imagination, once fairly excited, could furnish in thirty minutes material for half-a-dozen speeches of an hour each; and, unfortunately, it frequently happened that different parts of the same speech could be used on opposite sides of the same question.”

So he denounced the abolitionists and slavery in the same breath. “Before I would assist one of those Southern devils to catch a nigger,” he shouted, after reading “Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” “I would see them all in hell, and I would shout hallelujah on to the end of it!” “You talk like a rabid abolitionist,” said his interlocutor. “No,” he cried, with even more vengeance; “no, I despise them. They have cursed the land!” He called Foster, the abolitionist orator, “a devil on the platform.” His reverence for the church led him to consign summarily to a hotter climate those who came out on the anti-slavery issue; and he was a vehement advocate of church authority, and evangelical orthodoxy, yet the most of his life he preached for Unitarians; and he openly defied the mandate of the conference regarding Masonry, being a member of the fraternity, and he submitted to church discipline for his contumacy, but refused to withdraw from the order, and prayed in public for the anti-Masons, “O, Lord, make their hearts as soft as their heads are.” Plainly, there was no managing such a tempestuous soul, and he was left to go his own way. Honor be to the church that had the magnanimity and broad charity to let him do his own grand work in his own grand way. It was herein as grand and eccentric as an organization as he was among men.

His sarcasm, wit, terseness, and vigor of speech were the outcome of an energetic and picturesque mind, struggling with a limited vocabulary for its expression. His sentences were explosive. “This fast age,” he said, “would be glad to put spurs to lightning, and blow a trumpet in the ears of thunder.” Again, “Some people think they are saints. If they could see themselves as the just in glory see them they wouldn’t dare to look a decent devil in the face.” “If I owed the devil a hypocrite, and he wouldn’t take that man for pay, I’d repudiate the debt.” He called another minister, who had preceded him, and infringed on his allotted time, “As selfish as a whale who takes in a ton of herring before breakfast.” Again, “It is a great mistake to think of converting the world without the help of sailors. You might as well think of melting a mountain of ice with a moonbeam, or of heating an oven with snow-balls.” He called morality, without religion, “Starting a man to heaven with an icicle in his pocket.” “I am not two inches off heaven!” he exclaimed, in a moment of religious exaltation. He said to Channing, the Unitarian: “When you die angels will fight for the honor of carrying you to heaven on their shoulders.” “Sailors’ hearts are big as an ox’s; open like a sunflower, and they carry them in their right hands ready to give them away.” One of his converts, gifted in prayer, he always called “Salvation-set-to-music.” A colored brother, speaking with the simple pathos of his race, drew from Father Taylor the ejaculation, “There is rain in that cloud.”

But, whether homely or lofty, whether pathetic or witty, he always talked in dead earnest out of his warm heart, out of his seething brain, and everything was gilded by the magic touch of imagination. “A man,” says Stevens, “who could scarcely speak three sentences, in the pulpit or out of it, without presenting a striking poetic image, a phrase of rare beauty, or a sententious sarcasm, whose discourses presented the strangest, the most brilliant exhibition of sense, epigrammatic thought, pathos, and humor, spangled over by an exhaustless variety of the finest images and pervaded by a spiritual earnestness that subdued all listeners.” “His splendid thoughts come faster than he can speak them,” said Harriet Martineau, “and at times he could be totally overwhelmed by them if a burst of tears, of which he was wholly unconscious, did not aid in his relief.” “I have seen a diamond shining,” said Dr. Bartol, “but he was a diamond on fire.”

3. Sympathy. Here was the secret of his power over men. His emotional nature constantly overflowed all else. With a marvelous intuition in reading character, a free-masonry with all phases of human emotions, a magnetism that put him inside of every heart, he became the better self, the ideal longing of each listener. It made no difference how learned or stoical the man was; Father Taylor got hold of him and stirred his heart from the bottom. A man of wit said, “I am always afraid when I am laughing at Father Taylor’s wit, for I know he will make me cry before he has done with me.” People cry and laugh alternately, and sometimes both together. Laughter is the best preparation for tears. “Man, thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear.” [Are we not all inconsistent, eccentric, at the bottom of our natures, i. e., at our very best?] A New York comedian came to study the method of one of whose acting he had heard much report; he was so affected by the unlearned art of this master of the soul that he fairly blubbered behind his handkerchief.

Dr. Wentworth, of another occasion said: “The immense audience swayed in the wealth of his eloquence like a forest of willows. We laughed, we wept, we shouted in turns; and finally, finding myself getting utterly unmanned, and rapidly dissolving into tears and brine, I fled the pulpit and hid myself out of earshot of this extraordinary scene.”

Dr. Wakely, of New York, describes the effects of a prayer by Father Taylor, at the New York Conference: “The ministers wept all over the house like little children. Dr. Capers and Dr. Pitman were in the pulpit with me. Dr. Capers wept and trembled exceedingly; and Dr. Pitman laughed and cried alternately—smiles and tears strangely blended.”

“His pathos is the most awful of his powers,” said Miss Martineau, terrified at his control over her emotions; “I have seen a single clause of a short sentence call up an instantaneous flush on hundreds of hard faces.”

Many would not expose their hearts to hear him a second time; they could not bear the overmastering power.

Dr. Bartol very finely said: “What was the secret but a sympathy, raised to the highest power, so as to exceed all that we conceive under that name, so that he saw out of people as well as into them! He put on their eyes for his eyeglasses, looking at the world as they did, and they found and felt him in them at the core and center.” “He was a master of pathos,” said Dr. Bellows; “rough sailors and beautiful and cultivated Boston girls, and men like Webster and Emerson, and shop boys and Cambridge students, and Jenny Lind and Charles Dickens, and Harriet Martineau, and everybody of taste or curiosity who visited Boston were seen weeping together with Father Taylor. Ah, the human heart, down at the bottom, is one.”

He loved all little children with all his Master’s passion. The baptism of infants was always a baptism of joy and tears with him. He would gather one to his breast and kiss and croon over it like a mother. Taking a beautiful little girl in his arms, he raised her before the whole audience, and said, with streaming eyes, “Look at the sweet lamb! Her mother has brought her to Christ’s fold. A baptism of heaven be on thee, my pretty dove.” All children recognized him at sight for one of their guild. A ragged little girl walked into the church at his funeral, laid a buttonhole bouquet on the coffin, and said timidly and sweetly, “He was my friend,” and so departed. Once when he had been called to several children’s funerals in succession, he said to a friend whom he met in the street, “There is something wrong somewhere. There are storms brewing when so many doves are flying aloft.”

At funerals he was a refuge of consolation. He so entered into the hearts bereaved that he felt their hurt. “Father, look upon us,” he once implored, with mighty and tender supplication, “we are a widow!” “It is no wonder to me,” said Harriet Martineau, “that the widow and orphan are cherished by those who hear his prayers for them.”

Drunken sailors or abandoned women, none were left out of reach of his infinite sympathy; and it reached the uttermost parts of the earth. A sailor boy has died and been buried in South America, and he prays that the Comforter may be near the bereaved father “when his aged heart goes forth from his bosom to flutter around the far southern grave of his boy!” Is Shakspere more dramatic, Shelly more imaginative, Longfellow more pathetic than this?

Out of this fathomless love he preached his gospel of happiness and purity and love; for it was doubtless true, as he declared, that “he never knew the time when he did not love God.” Out of it came his sweet charity and tolerance. His lovers were of all denominations and of none—Catholics, Universalists, Unitarians—for he was “altogether lovely.” When one at a camp-meeting excluded from salvation all these sects, all men who used tobacco and all women who wore jewelry, Father Taylor broke in indignantly, “If that’s true, Christ’s mission was a failure. It’s a pity he came.” “How far apart are heaven and hell?” he was asked. “I tell you,” said he, “they are so near that myriads of souls to-day don’t know which they are in.” “Blessed Jesus,” he prayed, “give us common sense, and let no man put blinkers on us, that we can only see in a certain direction; for we want to look all around the horizon—yea, to the highest heavens and to the lowest depths of the ocean.” “When Bigotry is buried I hope I shall be at the funeral,” he said. His intimacy with the Unitarians, and his remarkable tribute to Channing have been cited. Of Emerson he said: “He has the sweetest soul God ever put into a man. If the devil gets him he will never know what to do with him.” A theologian asked him what he was going to do with the Unitarians; “I don’t know,” he said, confidentially; “if they go to hell they’ll change the atmosphere.” “Is your son-in-law a Christian?” asked a solicitous brother. “Not exactly,” replied Father Taylor, “but he’s a very sweet sinner.”

4. His humor. This kept all cheerful, healthy and bright. He was a “laughing Christian.” I do not think he ever used humor merely to make people laugh, but always with an earnest purpose back of it. He was no joker, and rarely thought his own keen thrusts subjects for merriment.

Of his manliness, his good sense, his improvidence, his sweet and beautiful home life, space does not suffice to speak.

If to be an original character among men is to be eccentric, Father Taylor was indeed odd. “He was in all things himself and not any one else; in this generation there has been but one Father Taylor,” said Dr. Waterstone; and Dr. Bartol declared that, “No American citizen—Webster, Clay, Everett, Lincoln, Choate—has a reputation more impressive and unique.” No one understood his singularity better than himself. “I will not wear a straight-jacket or Chinese shoes,” he declared. Having been invited to lecture, he said: “I can’t lecture; I would not lecture if I could. Your lectures are all macadamized; they are entertainments where those go who dare not visit the theater. I must cross-plow your fine paths. I am no man’s model, no man’s copyist, no man’s agent; go on my own hook; say what I please, and you may help yourselves.”

Like all greatly-eccentric souls, I presume, he felt his own isolation and want of comprehension of himself by others. One who sat far into the night in communion of soul with him, said: “You are a strange mortal!” “Well,” said he, pathetically, “I have made up my mind there never was but one E. T. Taylor and, so far as I have anything to do with it, there never shall be another.”

When we think of his birth, training, and surroundings—the child of the plantation and the graduate of the forecastle—and contrast this with his peculiar powers, his strange career, and above all in rarity his wonderful world-wide mission, it is not too much to say that Father Taylor is without a parallel in American history. “An impulsive, untrained, and erratic genius;” there was a fixed purpose and a continuity of effort, such as is seen in few lives. If extravagant in speech and inconsistent in views, his intensity, vividness, and realism, make all sound like plain common-sense. Haughty and tender, imperious and democratic, grand and simple, splendidly uncultured; a strange, terrible power among men always used for leading, driving, persuading to righteousness. He deserves a paraphrase of a higher tribute than Phillips, the Irish barrister, gave to Napoleon. Such a medley of contradictions and at the same time such individual consistency for right were never before united in the same character. In the solitude of his originality, he was always the same mysterious, incomprehensible self—a man without a model and without a shadow.

“When I am dead,” he pleaded, “I do not want to be buried in dirt. But bury me rather in the deep salt sea, where the coral rocks shall be my pillow, and the seaweeds shall be my winding-sheet, and the waves shall sing my requiem forever.”

And it was not done. Conventionality triumphed in death over the old eccentric, who had defied it as long as he lived.

Observe, the fates of men are balanced with wonderfully nice adjustments. The scale of this life, if it sinks, rises there, while if it rises here, it will sink to the ground there. What was here temporary affliction, will be there eternal triumph; what was here temporary triumph, will be there eternal and ever-enduring despair.—Schiller.

[C. L. S. C. WORK.]

By Rev. J. H. VINCENT, D.D., Superintendent of Instruction C. L. S. C.

May the new year work be promptly begun, faithfully prosecuted, satisfactorily completed!

October 1 is Memorial Day—the day of the beginning of our college year. The bell at Chautauqua will ring at high noon. Listen for its echoes.

One member has already nearly finished two of the books since the meetings closed at Chautauqua. He read on the train; he read at the station; he read at the hotel; he read during the odd minutes at home. This is a good example.

The readings for October are: History of Greece,[D] vol. 2, by Prof. T. T. Timayenis, parts 7 and 8; Chautauqua Text-Books—No. 5, Greek History, by Dr. J. H. Vincent; Primer of American Literature, by C. F. Richardson; required readings in The Chautauquan.

Let the members of the Class of ’83 who were not graduated in August, now begin to read up the required books, and be ready for graduation in 1884.

In the earliest announcement of the course of study for 1883-84, the little Chautauqua Text-Book No. 22, on Biology, was given. Many members suppose that this is the substitute for “Easy Lessons in Vegetable Biology,” an altogether different book. The price of Chautauqua Text-Book No. 22 is 10 cents; the price of “Easy Lessons in Vegetable Biology” is (in the cheapest edition) 25 cents. If they will return to Phillips & Hunt, 805 Broadway, New York, the Chautauqua Text-Book and 15 cents additional, they will forward the “Easy Lessons in Vegetable Biology.”

Students in the Class of 1887 should have Chautauqua Text-Books Nos. 4 and 5, English and Greek History. They have already been read by the other classes. Price, 10 cents each.

Members of the C. L. S. C. are earnestly urged to read Chautauqua Text-Book No. 24, Canadian History. This should have been required in the earlier lists.

All members of the C. L. S. C. should examine carefully the “Popular Education” circular which appears in this number of The Chautauquan, to ascertain if they have the complete list of books for the year.

By the payment of one dollar, all graduates of the C. L. S. C. will be entitled to all communications from the central office for four years, the four white crystal seals, and any additional white seals which they may gain. The one dollar does not, of course, pay for special seals.

The Chautauqua Hand-Book No. 2—known as the “Green Book”—which contains a full account of the C. L. S. C. work, is now ready. Send a two cent stamp to Miss K. F. Kimball, Plainfield, N. J., and you will receive a copy.

The Class of 1884 should send in their back reports as soon as possible. It is so much better to get all ready in advance, and not wait until the close of the year, when the general office is crowded, the secretaries busy, and mistakes easily possible.

FOOTNOTE:

[D] Students of the new class (1887) to be organized this fall, not having read volume 1 of Timayenis’s History of Greece, will not be required to read volume 2, but, instead of volumes 1 and 2 of Timayenis’s, will read “Brief History of Greece.” Price, paper, 60 cents.

[LOCAL CIRCLE NOTICE.]

The full accounts of the C. L. S. C. commencement exercises at the summer Assemblies, which we publish this month, take the place of the reports from the local circles. It is only for this month, however. The department will continue to be a regular feature of the magazine. These reports have been of great service to local circles everywhere, and we earnestly request that full and exact accounts of work should be forwarded us by the president or secretary of each local circle. Let any new feature in the program be fully described; give us all the new plans for social work, give everything that will be suggestive and helpful. Several times last year we were asked how to work up a new circle, or to revive a dying one. Where leaders have had experience in building up these circles let them give testimony through the “Local Circle” column. It may help others in similar circumstances. The new and helpful features are what we want for this department. If the members will co-operate, the local circle reports will be very useful.

[OUTLINE OF C. L. S. C. STUDIES.]

OCTOBER, 1883.

The required readings for October are: