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[Vou. VII. No. 3. 



The conceptions of primitive peoples have always been, 
and from the nature of the case could not but be, completely 
identified with sensuous existence. Not only so, but, even 
amidst the most favorable circumstances, the individual 
mind must pass through a prolonged and severe process of 
culture in order to gain freedom from and mastery over the 
limitations inherent in the forms of thought pertaining to the 
imaginative consciousness. Remembering this, we cannot 
feel surprise that the religion possessing the profoundest 
spiritual significance should be constrained to present its 
infinitely rich gifts to man. under forms which appeal to his 
imagination, so that thus he might be aroused to the struggle 
which should lead to his becoming finally the conscious 
possessor of those gifts in all their fulness. It is for this 
very purpose of bringing its conceptions within the easy 
grasp of the imagination that Religion has ever called in the 
aid of Art to build symbols, to carve images, to portray on 
canvas the secrets of the spiritual world, to thrill the soul 

' This picture has been engraved by George T. Doo and also by Joannes 
Vendramini. An excellent phototype reproduction of the latter is given in 
Krell’s Classics of Painting. A good photograph is also to be had through the 

Vol. 7—No. 3 “4 

208 The Western. 

with paradisiac harmonies and awaken thoughts of heaven 
by the splendors of poetic imagery. 

Thus, so soon as Christian doctrines became distinctly 
formulated, Painting, the willing ** handmaid of Religion,”’ 
was assigned the task of giving expression to those doctrines 
in life-like form and color. Inthe early period of Christian 
art, few themes possessed so great fascination as that of the 
Resurrection. Among the earliest representations of this 
subject is one comprised in a wall-painting found in the 
catacombs of St. Calyxtus.' A series of eight smaller pic- 
tures surround a representation, in the central panel, of 
Christ as Orpheus. The latter is, of course, consciously 
represented in the style and spirit of the antique ; the story 
of Orpheus charming the world with his music serving as 
an appropriate symbol of Christ drawing all men to himself 
through the beauty of his character and the consolations of 
his doctrine. On the contrary, no prototype existed for a 
representation of the Resurrection, and this ( one of the eight 
smaller pictures referred to) is accordingly portrayed in the 
simplest fashion. Lazarus is represented as a mummy in 

an upright sarcophagus, from which the covering has been 

removed. Christ, standing near, but possessing no attri- 
butes to indicate his divine character, touches the entombed 
figure with a wand. The picture is altogether conventional 
and symbolic. It is a first rude attempt of an infantile 

With Giotto this art attained to a vigor nearly approach- 
ing maturity. Giotto’s representation of the ** Raising of 
Lazarus,’’ even judging from the wood-cut reproduction in 
Woltman’s History of Painting,? was a work of much 
dramatic power. It is a rich composition of nearly twenty 
figures. The actual awakening has just taken place. Laz- 
arus stands forth still wrapped in mummy-cloths, but sup- 

1 Liibke’s History of Art. Trans. F. E. Bunnett. L, 309. (See wood-cut.) 
2 Geschichte der Malerei, T., 429. Leipziy. 1829. 

‘*The Raising of Lazarus.”’ 209 

ported by one of the spectators (perhaps a disciple), who 
turns toward Christ as if awaiting the command, ‘* Loose 
him, and let him go.’’ The by-standers show in gesture 
and countenance how deeply they are moved. The figure 
of Christ is commanding, while the disciples near him, with 
the air of composure but also of deepest attention, seem to 
indicate a clearer insight into the power of their Master, and 
hence less surprise at what has taken place. The precisely 
similar attitude of the two sisters (prostrate at the feet of 
Christ) is the least pleasing part.of the picture ; but this, as 
Woltman suggests, had become so firmly fixed as an un- 
varying feature in the traditional representation of the 
subject that even Giotto did not venture upon a change. 
The deepest significance of the picture is, however, that of 
a physical miracle as proof of the divine power of Christ. 
The by-standers believe because they see, but their seeing is 
with the eyes of sense, and thus depends, so to speak, upon 
the presence of physical light. 

It was full two hundred years after the time of Giotto 
that painting brought to the utmost completion its task of 
portraying the conceptions of the Christian religion in forms 
expressing the profoundest spiritual significance which it is 
possible for this art to convey. In the midst of this period 
of rich maturity was produced the masterly painting which 
forms the central theme of the present essay. Every one 
who bas given any attention to the art of the sixteenth cen- 
tury is doubtless aware that this picture was produced in 
rivalry with Raphael, who was then engaged upon his 
‘+ Transfiguration of Christ.’’ Nor was it at all a secret, even 
at the time, that the drawing of the ‘* Raising of Lazarus 
wis largely by the hand of Michael Angelo. Thus it is evi- 
dent that the conception — the real soul and inner content — 
of the picture originated in the profoundest, most deeply 
penetrating spirit of that era of great men. Sebastian del 
Piombo, the ablest and most esteemed of the pupils of 
Michael Angelo, was but intrusted with the execution of a 


210 The Western. 

design which the far mightier genius of his master had pro- 
duced. Sebastian was sufficiently great as an artist to 
enter fully into the spirit of the splendid design, and the 
freedom and power with which he wrought it.out were as 
if the very soul of the master had guided the hand of the 
pupil in his work. 

In comparison with this great work, Giotto’s representa- 
tion of the same subject shows immaturity and lack of free- 
dom, while on the other hand every succeeding treatment 
of the theme seems weak and insignificant. Rubens’ ** Rais- 
ing of Lazarus,’’! for example, is a reversion to and inten- 
sification of the entirely materialistic view of the subject. 
Whatever there may be in it worthy of praise, there is yet 
(so far as it constitutes an attempt to portray a religious 
conception) this in it to condemn: that it represents a 
glad return to the goodliness of this life and a rejoicing on 
the part of friends over the resuscitation of him whom they 
had mourned as altogether dead. It is like a denial rather 
than an assurance of immortality. So, too, Rembrandt’s 

representation of this subject? fails to satisfy us. The ex- 
cellent qualities in it are far from outweighing its defects. 
The rudeness of the figures, the grotesqueness of their atti- 
tudes, indeed the whole character of the picture (an etching ), 
would seem to have for its aim the representation of the 
magic of a wizard rather than the might of a divinely 
spoken word. * 

1 A wood-cut reproduction is given in Liibke’s History of Art, II., 390. 

* Reproduced in fac simile in Charles Blanc’s ‘‘(Euvres de Rembrandt.” 

* It was since this essay was handed to the editor of the Western that I saw 
for the first time the work of M. Blanc just referred to, and found therein the 
statement that “some one [M. Dumesnit Michelet, he tells us] has re- 
marked that Christ appears in this print of Rembrandt like an enchanter.’’ 
To which M. Blanc himself adds, that ‘‘ Rembrandt has been able to represent 
the miracle of Christ as the marvellous effect of asuperhuman magnetism, of a 
sublime incantation.” And I would repeat, it is magic rather than Divinity 
that is here represented. So high authority as Seymour Haden has, indeed, 
denied the authenticity of this plate. But M. Blanc declares there can be no 
doubt that it is Rembrandt’s work. 

‘The Raising of Lazarus.”’ . 211 

But from this point let us turn to the work which was 
the joint product of the genius of Michael Angelo and the 
technical skill of Sebastian, and attempt, in the light of 
what has already been said, to translate into ordinary 
language the thought which it seems to us to embody. 


The picture, taken as a whole, may be described as fol- 
lows: The total view consists of an extended landscape, 
having a remarkably high horizon line. Out of an in- 
distinct background a stream winds through the centre of 
the picture nearly to the foreground, then turns to the left 
and disappears. In the middle distance an arched bridge 
of strong masonry crosses the stream, the terminus to the 
left leading to massive buildings, of which the most prom- 
inent appears to be a temple partly in ruins. Behind these 
a town stretches along the bank of the stream. Near the 
opposite terminus of the bridge are other buildings, while 
in the right-hand foreground stands a crumbling mass of 
masonry, upon the sides of which moss and shrubs are 
growing. From the top of this mass extends horizontally 
to the right what, did the space of the picture permit its 
full representation, would doubtless prove to be an over- 
arching beam connecting with another support. Beneath 
are steps leading upward and to the right through the 
archway. Here, too, it would seem to be the intention 
to depict the ruins of some ancient structure. The fore- 
ground, finally, is literally filled with the thirty-eight 
figures more or less directly connected with the central 
object of interest in the picture. 

Such is what we see of this work upon a superficial 
view. But let us now consider the grouping of these 
figures. Immediately in the foreground to the right is 
Lazarus, sitting upon the sarcophagus from which he has 
arisen, and, with the aid of two or three by-standers, free- 

212 The Western. 

ing himself from the entanglements of his grave-cloths. 
Behind him, and under the archway already mentioned, are 
those who have accompanied Mary and Martha to the 
tomb. The sisters are near, Mary kneeling and looking 
up to Christ; Martha behind Lazarus, with outstretched 
hands and face averted. A little to the left, the figure of 
Christ stands out prominently upon a stone slab (perhaps 
the covering that has been removed from the tomb), his 
left hand extended toward Lazarus, his right upraised. 
About him are grouped the twelve disciples, in various atti- 
tudes, and behind these to the extreme left are seven fig- 
ures engaged in animated conversation and evidently giving 
close attention to what is in progress before them. 

Of the significance of the subordinate groups, or of the 
individual figures, or, indeed, of the picture as a whole, little 
appears to have been written. Of the figure of Lazarus, it 
is true, many have expressed enthusiastic admiration. But 
it has generally seemed sufficient to give unqualified praise 
to its masterly drawing and to the life-like movement 
which it expresses. In all that can be said in commenda- 
tion of this figure we would heartily concur; but at the 
same time we would not forget how easy it is for both artist 
and critic to permit technique — which should certainly never 
be undervalued — to outweigh and even wholly suppress the 
deep spiritual significance which, in a real work of art, 
technique is but a means to express. The greatest artist is 
he who combines the finest technique as means with the 
grandest conceptions as end and aim. Of technical skill we 
undoubtedly have a most admirable example in the present 
picture, and we may look with confidence to find in it a con- 
ception that is truly noble and full of the richest spiritual 
import. In considering the figure of Lazarus, every one 
must be impressed with the appearance of sinewy strength. 
It is the picture of the most manly vigor, and reminds one 
strongly of the Adam in Michael Angelo’s own admirable 
painting (** The Creation of Man’’) in the Sistine Chapel ; 

‘“*The Raising of Lazarus.”’ 213 

just as, in the outstretched magnetic hand and in the divinely 
benevolent look of Christ we are reminded of those same 
characteristics in the figure representing the Creator in the 
just-mentioned work of Michael Angelo. If need were, we 
might take the clew of interpretation from this very point of 
similarity which we observe between these two pictures. In 
the creation of Adam, man lies there prone upon the earth. 
He is already complete as a physical being, — and as a physi- 
cal being man is part and parcel of the processes of nature — 
but he lacks thé spiritual quality of wonder; and only the 
electric touch of the Divine Spirit can set the soul throb- 
bing with eager desire to know. Primitive man looked up 
drowsily, and thought he saw traces of God in the sky.’ 
Little by little, more and more, he longed to see God face 
to face. Meanwhile the whirlwind passed by, and the earth 
quaked, and fire raged ; but only after long generations of 
progress did man awake to the fact that God is not in the 
whirlwind, nor in the earthquake, nor in the fire, — that He 
is not in any of the forces of nature, in any sense that can 
satisfy the inner longings of man, — but rather that it is in 
the ‘still small voice ’’ of the spirit that God is truly found, 
and there alone that this longing is to attain its true and 
abiding satisfaction. ‘*In Adam all died.’’ In the primi- 
tive ages of the world the views of a future state were so 
vague that with death all seemed ended. On the other 
hand, all are to be made alive in Christ. It is the very 
essence of the mission of Christ to awaken man to a full 
consciousness of his own nature as a spiritual being, and 
hence to a full appreciation of his destiny as involving his 
own freedom and immortality. He that has been ‘* dead in 
sin’’ so long that he may even have become an offence to 

' The Sky-God was one of the earliest divinities of most, if not all races. 
The ancient Hindus called him Dyaus; the Greeks and Romans, Zeus and 
Jupiter; the old Germans, Zio, etc.— all different forms of the same name, 
meaning Heaven-Father. See Max Miiller’s ‘Chips from a German Work- 
shop,” IV., 210. 

214 The Western. 

others is to be awakened to the genuine life of the spirit. 
The ‘‘letter’’ of the law of formal observances and of ex- 
ternal purifications ‘* killeth ;’’ it puts reflective conscious- 
ness to sleep, lulls the soul into a false sense of security, and 
thus prevents the putting forth of effort for improvement. 
On the contrary, ‘‘the spirit’’— the full consciousness both 
of what man is ideally and of what he is really — brings by 
this sharp contrast a sense of keenest pain, awakens a feel- 
ing of insecurity, and arouses the individual to the most 
intense and persistent struggle to attain to real purity and 
substantial virtue. ‘* The spirit giveth life.’’ 

The Sadducees interpreted the doctrine of the resurrec- 
tion literally, as a purely physical affair, and hence held it 
in the utmost contempt as an arrant absurdity. Not dream- 
ing that any other interpretation could be put upon it, they 
went boldly to Christ and propounded to him «a complete 
reductio ad absurdum against it. Judge of their astonish- 
ment and confusion when, by a single sentence, He showed 
them that the absurdity belonged to their interpretation. 
‘¢ When they shall rise from the dead ’’ — when the immor- 
tal shall be freed from the mortal, the spiritual from the 
physical — ‘* they neither marry nor are given in marriage, 
but are as the angels which are in heaven.’’ God is ** not 
the God of the dead, but the God of the living.’’ Per- 
manency of form in the physical — the unconscious — is not 
to be desired. That which was of the earth returns to the 
earth. The dead Abraham and Isaac and Jacob return to 
the dust whence they came. Physical elements mingle with 
physical elements, and there is no essential difference be- 
tween them. But persistence of identity in the spiritual (the 
conscious ) is not merely desirable: from the very nature of 
the case it is inevitable. The living Abraham and Isaac 
and Jacob return to God — continue in the never-ending 
movement of approach toward God, which movement con- 
sists in the realizing more and more perfectly the divine 

ideal in their own parlootly deepening consciousness or spir- 
c prrfus L 


Shelley. 215 

itual existence. It is to the conscious, the spiritual part 
of His creation, that God appears truly as God. He is 
the God of the living, of the conscious, reflecting world, 
wherein He is recognized as the Creative, Cherishing, spir- 
ituously Luminous One. 

Add to this that the account of the raising of Lazarus ap- 
pears only in the fourth gospel, — which, by whomever 
written, is the most mystical, the most subtly reflective, 
and the most artistic of the four — and it will be fairly evi- 
dent that to pause with the mere physical interpretation of 
this subject would be to fall back upon the untenable stand- 
point of the Sadducees, and thus render ourselves worthy of 
the same rebuke which Christ administered to them. 

Wm. M. Bryant. 



It has been a question with some philosophic thinkers 
whether poetry, which is a mimetic art, can contain the high- 
est wisdom. Plato sternly forbade its admission into his 
ideal commonwealth. But while such a measure may seem 
justifiable in case of a jesting Aristophanes, there can but be 
reluctance in accepting the idea of excluding other poets, 
whose writings contain not merely a nation’s history, but 
the germs of its faith. 

Plato is himself the most poetical of philosophers. As 
Joubert says of him, ‘*‘ He loses himself in the void, but 
one sees the play of his wings, one hears their rustle.’’ 

It may be correct to assert that deep truths are always 
presented in plainest garb, and that the very deepest are im- 
ageless ; but as religious inspiration is the real source of 
power in true art, wherever this is present there can be lit- 
tle doubt of the beneticial influence of ideas clothed in poetic 
form ; where this is absent there may be glitter of orna- 
ment, harmony of sound, but no sweet reason is present to 

216 The Western. 

woo the soul into lasting allegiance to truth. After all that 
can be done by way of expressing in words the beauty of 
the outward world, the soul of man and its destiny are most 
fitting subjects for poetic rendition ; for, while poetry desti- 
tute of psychological meaning may be surpassingly lovely, 
its charm cannot be abiding. 

Those poets whose faith has been most strong and health- 
ful have best‘succeeded in gaining the love and admiration 
of mankind ; for what we really desire is truth, and not de- 
lusive appearances. ; 

Shelley wrote to Godwin: ‘* I cannot but be conscious, 
in much of what I write, of an absence of that tranquillity 
which is the attribute and the accomplishment of power.”’ 
Whence was this unrest? Do not his writings bear the im- 
press of doubt rather than faith? The latter power steadies 
the soul and gives it strength ; the former tosses the weary 
voyager into the fearful maelstrom of unceasing struggle. 

Shelley had deep religious feeling, but had achieved no 
standing-ground. His character was, in many respects, very 
beautiful. He was so tender that he wished no living thing 
to suffer pain, so sad that he looked upon the world as a 
**hecatomb of broken hearts,’’ his sensibility so exquisite 
that the first time he heard the poem of Christabel recited, 
at a certain magnificent and terrible passage he suddenly 
fainted. Yet this delicately organized being received little 
sympathy from the world, because he dared express ideas 
at variance with public opinion. Indeed, his sudden death, 
which should have sent a thrill of pity to the hardest heart, 
was brutally announced in a journal with the remark : 
** Shelley will now know whether there is any hell or not.”’ 
How dejected the poor heart was, whose beatings were for- 
ever stilled beneath the waves, may be imagined from these 
lines : — 

** Alas! I have nor hope, nor health, 
Nor peace within, nor calm around, 
Nor that content, surpassing wealth, 
The sage in meditation found, 
And walked with inward glory crowned.” 

Shelley. 217 

But if Shelley failed to see the significance of life, if the 
marvels of the everlasting will were not made clear to him, 
his doubt was honest, his heart pure and endowed with the 
‘* potentialities of poetry.’’ His aerial fancy led him always 
to ideal regions, crowded with evanescent images of beauty. 
Like the ** Ladies’ Guitar ’’ he describes so uniquely, his 
poems are filled with nature’s sights and sounds; yet he 

turns from the ‘* yellow bee in the ivy bloom,”’ from ** shells 
inlaid with crimson fire,’’ from delicate, sensitive plant and 
‘*sphered dew,’’ radiant summer clouds and joyous sky- 

lark, to cry out with lyric melancholy to the west wind : — 
* © lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud! 
I fall upon the thorns of life, I bleed!” 

What is false in ** Queen Mab’’ may be excused on the 
ground of its author’s immaturity ; for surely Alastor, that 
‘*genius of solitude,’’ who saw ‘* the thrilling secrets of the 
birth of time,’’ will cover all its defects as with a mantle of 
woven moonlight or crystalline starlight. Nobly as Shelley 
conceived the story of Beatrice Cenci, nothing he wrote sur- 
passes his ** Prometheus Unbound.”’ It was a subject adapted 
to the abstract quality of his imagination. He saw in it the 
liberation of humanity from the mastership of the evil prin- 
ciple. It was a topic to arouse his intense feeling, besides 
being capable of much adornment. The poem abounds in 
lyrics of surpassing beauty, so delicate in thought, so ethe- 
real in expression, that — 

“Sounds overflow the listener’s brain, 
So sweet that joy is almost pain.” 

The earth-spirits —‘* whose homes are the dim caves of 
human thought’’— come gliding in, lending a strange, 
shadowy charm to idealizations that properly belong to some 
immaterial realm. Hunt justly describes his style as ‘* or- 
phic and primeval ;’’ hence it is admirably fitted to such 
topics as abound in the Prometheus — the forms of creation, 
the spirits of planets, and metaphysical theories of the 
nature of mind. 

218 The Western. 

While it requires study and penetration to grasp even 
feebly the poet’s full meaning, readers of sensibility cannot 
enjoy the humor of Hook’s lines : — 

‘Shelley styles his new poem ‘ Prometheus Unbound,’ 
And ’tis like to remain so while time circles round; 
For surely an age would be spent in the finding 
A reader so weak as to pay for the binding.” 

Grant that, as keys to philosophy, as schemes of the 
universe, Shelley’s writings are inadequate, even futile, yet 
it remains true that the poet grasped firmly a potent prin- 
ciple of vital worth in subjective thinking, namely, that 
‘*the ability to receive influence is the most exalted faculty 
to which human nature can attain, while the exercise of an 
arbitrary power centring in self is not only debasing, but is 
an actual destrover of human faculty.”’ 

Though the genius of Shelley was decidedly subjective, 
no descriptive poet has excelled his ** Cloud’? and ** Sky- 
Lark,’’ while everywhere abound the most poetic of images, 
the most artistic of pictures, such as the vision of the 

‘* Hours,”’ in cars drawn by * rainbow-winged steeds,’” — 

“Which trample the dim winds.” 

While more practical principles, with a simpler style, may 
appear to most minds of greater excellence, yet, in the re- 
public of letters there should be a sympathetic place for one 
rudely jostled by the world, and therefore failing to see the 
direct route in coming to ‘* many ways in the wanderings of 
careful thought.’’ Occupied by the microcosm of his own 
mind, and verifying the outward with spiritual life, his words 
became like the ‘‘ signs of prisoners to each other,’’ and a 
touch of extreme sadness lingers in histones. His sweetest 
songs are those that tell of saddest thought. 

B. P. Drury. 

Jonathan Swift. 


Severed now from his much-loved England and his liter- 
ary friends there, his ambitious hopes tumbled over, we can 
imagine how Swift must have fumed and raged. Where 
was now the Scriblerus Club, where he used to be so brilliant, 
launching with Pope and Arbuthnot and Bolingbroke the 
weapons of wit? What had become of that power of his 
that had moved the wheels of state? Both gone, not to re- 
turn. So the Dean must try to be content thenceforward 
with his deanery and Irish surroundings ; an attempt that 


succeeded not too well. A misanthrope naturally, at least 
with a natural tendency to misanthropy, the limitations forced 
upon him by circumstances chafed and bruised him, and 
made him, in. his fits of rage, swear eternal enmity to man- 

kind. Yet we see breaking out from him, here and there, 
gleams of sweet humanity. There were solaces for him 
amid the bitternesses of life. Addison, his old friend, sep- 
arated from him by political feeling, was for a time in Ire- 
land, and they could gather up the broken links of friend- 
ship. ‘Tickell too, and Sheridan, and others who could 
admire, if they could not gauge his character, were about 
him. So twice a week there was open table at the deanery, 
where ‘* Stella’’ (she had followed the Dean to Ireland, as 
we shall afterwards see) presided, though only in the charac- 
ter of guest, and where the Dean established a dictatorship of 
wit over all and sundry the frequenters of his house. There 
was much writing of verses, of epistles (dog-Latin and 
other kinds), of riddles, etc., the most of which is but of 
slight interest to us. Swift’s attempts at poetry are, for 
the most part, failures. Dryden’s prediction on seeing some 
of Swift’s earlier verses — ‘* Cousin Swift, [Swift’s father 
was Dryden’s cousin] you will never be a poet ’’ — was ful- 

220) The Western. 

filled. Swift’s verses are good, with scarcely a defect in the 
metre, but his nature was not poetic. He persistently in- 
voked the Muses, but the Nine were imperturbably quies- 
cent, despite ull his appeals. His ** Cadenus and Vanessa’”’ 
is tolerable enough and pathetic enough, yet bearing little 
mark of coming from one who had ‘* the vision and the facul- 
ty divine.’” But Swift has fame enough without the poet’s 
laurel, a fame that would have suffered nothing had all the 
verses he penned been destroyed as soon as they were writ- 
ten. No little fame had he already gained. But his popu- 
larity with the Irish people kad not yet set in, for the man 
who was to become the very idol of the Irish populace had 
a.more bitter reception in 1714 than in the previous year, 
when he entered on the deanery. The supporters of the 
Hanoverian succession were scenting with keen nostril for 
every tincture of Jacobitism, those connected with the Ox- 
ford administration being especially open to suspicion, and 
Swift was believed to have had a share in certain secret pro- 
ceedings for securing the throne to the Pretender — a belief 
utterly at variance with fact. But as time wore on, the 
Dean wrought with might and main to procure for Ireland a 
fair legislation, and the suspicions with which he had been 
received fell to the ground. Passing over various minor 
productions written in behalf of Ireland, we must notice 
one effort of the Dean’s that contributed more than any- 
thing to his popularity there. In 1723 one William Wood 
obtained a patent from George I. for the coinage of £108,000 
in half-pence and farthings, for the use of Ireland. The 
patent appears to have been obtained in a surreptitious way, 
by the influence of the Duchess of Kendal, and was passed 
without consultation with the Lord Lieutenant or Privy 
Council of Ireland. The Irish people believed that this 
step implied a degradation to Ireland, and, besides, would 
have the effect of sending gold and silver out of the coun- 
try. Swift, entering into the Irish feeling, began a series of 
letters, written as from an Irish tradesman, ‘*M. B., Drapier 

Jonathan Swift. 221 


in Dublin,’ 

in which he asserted the inferiority of the com- 
position of the coin, and challenged the right of the Crown 
to grant such a patent without consent of the Irish govern- 
ment. Poor Wood was sadly belabored in these letters, 
and held up to ridicule. It has been asserted that the Dean 
was not moved, in this attack. by particular motives, but 
that it was a mere explosion of rage against an enemy. 

But no one has ever shown, so far as we know, any per- 
sonal hatred of Wood on the part of Swift, or even per- 
sonal knowledge, and Swift was evidently the exponent of 
the universal Irish feeling, and the ‘* Drapier’s Letters’’ 
may take place beside his other productions whose aim was 
the good of Ireland. These letters stirred more and more 
the already disatfected Irish} people, and they would not 
have the new coin. The printer of the ** Drapier’s Letters ”’ 
was imprisoned, but, notwithstanding the browbeating on 
the part of the judge on the trial, got off, and Wood’s 
scheme had to be abandoned. 

Swift had a craving for fame that required a larger field 
than Dublin, and we find him off again to England, in the 
spring of 1726, doubtless with the MS. of ‘+ Gulliver’s 
Travels ’’ in his pocket. And now there was a delightful 
reunion with his old friends Pope, Arbuthnot, and Boling- 
broke (by this time returned from exile), and the groves 
ot Twickenham had the honor of sheltering the famous 
‘* Drapier.’”” Again the dead hopes of church promotion 
seemed to revive, for we have the Dean figuring at Leices- 
ter House, where the Prince of Wales (afterwards George 
Il.) and his wife, the Princess Caroline, kept a kind of sep- 
urate court, and where Pope and others of Swift’s friends 
were in great repute. But the illness of Stella recalled him 
suddenly to Dublin, where he was welcomed, not with dog- 
gerel verses by Jonathan Smedley this time, but with ring- 
ing of bells, bonfires, and a triumphal procession from the 
vessel to the deanery. In August of the same year (1726) 
Motte, the publisher, received a manuscript, ‘* dropped at 

222 The Western. 


his house, in the dark, from a hackney coach,’’ which man- 
uscript, on examination, was found to be ‘** The Travels of 
Captain Lemuel Gulliver,”’ 
November, without the author’s name. Our space will not 
admit of our giving an analytic criticism of this so famous 
work, and we shall content ourselves with simply offering a 
few remarks upon it. Both Swift and Sterne have each 
been voted the successor of Rabelais, but in boldness of 
stroke Swift alone has any pretension to be compared to 
Rabelais. Sterne’s characters, Mr. Shandy, Uncle Toby, 
Corporal Trim, nay, the whole of the interesting personages 

and which was published in 

in ** Tristram Shandy,’’ seem so petite, and march before 
us with such a mincing step, that they impress us in no way 
as Rabelais’ characters do. Pantagruel and Friar John, 
both so full of hearty life, and even Panurge, with all his 
craven-heartedness, are all drawn with a certain boldness of 
outline that we never find in Sterne. But Swift does re- 
semble Rabelais, not copying him in a slavish way, but 
boldly drawing his own characters, though often applying 
his satire much in the way Rabelais did. The principle on 

which ‘** Gulliver's Travels’’ is constructed is beautifully 

simple. The principle is so to mask the lesson to be taught 
as to isolate the reader’s mind from prejudice and conven- 
tional maxims, and, having made this preparation, to show, 
by a sudden burst of light, social vices and follies in their 
nakedness, bringing home the truth with tremendous power. 
We need not take up the book expecting to find it a mirror 
of humanilife. Swift’s aim was doubtless that of a misan- 
thrope,' but we are not entitled to object to the book on 

' It will be interesting to observe what Coleridge says of Swift: “In Swift’s 
writings there is a false misanthropy grounded upon an exclusive contempla- 
tion of the vices and follies of mankind, and this misanthropic tone is also dis- 
figured or brutalized by his obtrusion of physical dirt and coarseness. I think 
‘Gulliver’s Travels,’ the great work of Swift. In the voyages to Lilliput and 
Brobdingnag he displays the littleness and moral contemptibility of human 
nature; in that to the Houyhnhnms he represents the disgusting spectacle of 

Jonathan Swift. 223 

that ground. Let it be once recognized that Swift did not, 
and was not by any law of morality compelled to praise the 
excellences as well as satirize the wickedness of his fel- 
lows, und the only question comes to be, Did he faithfully 
portray vice and folly, or is the picture he draws a falsity ? 
Heaven knows, we are in no need of hearing ourselves ex- 
tolled. The province of the satirist does not lie in that, but 
in our shortcomings and weaknesses, our forgetfulness of 
our true place, our pride, our baseness. These need the 
unsparing hand of the satirist to root them out. Nowhere 
does Swift say, ** This is a picture of life;’? but every- 
where, ** Behold these follies of mankind.’’ He had bitter- 
ness and misanthropy in his composition. But let us take 
him as such, and then we can understand the propriety and 
the moral usefulness of **Gulliver’s Travels,’’ as well as 
admire the transcendent skill of the writer. Satire is of 
the noblest kind when it is general, and not the offspring of 
personal pique; and, though we may laugh at the presenta- 
tion of Sir Robert Walpole when, reduced to a stature of 
six inches or thereby, he figures as Flimnap, Lord Treas- 
urer to His Imperial Majesty the Emperor of Lilliput, 
and gravely ** capers on the straight-rope ’’ for the diver- 

sion of his master, we are reminded of Swift’s malignancy 

of political feeling, a malignancy not at all beautiful. — It is 
more pleasant and profitable to read of Baptist and Prot- 
estant figuring as Big-Endians and Small-Endians, respec- 
tively, and of the factions of Whig and Tory as High-heels 
and Low-heels. Starting from the premisses of a people six 
inches high, and of another people seventy feet high, the 
production of Swift is rigidly logical (though, by the way, he 
did not make a great figure in logic at Dublin University !). 
And in the third and fourth parts of the Travels, in which 
man with the understanding only, without the reason or the moral feeling, and 
in his horse he gives the misanthropic ideal of man — that is, a being virtu- 

ous from rule and duty, but untouched by the principle of love.’’ — [Coleridge’s 
Lectures, Vol. IL, p. 83. 

Vol. 7— No. 3 15 

224 The Western. 

the voyage to Laputa, etc., and the voyage to the Houyhn- 
hnms are described, though the logic is not so evident, there 
is no want of consistency. We are here reminded of 
» Rabelais, and yet Swift is before us not as a mere copyist. 

The mathematical niceties of the projectors in the grand 
academy of Lagado, the capital of Laputa, with their at- 
tempts to extract sunbeams out of cucumbers, which sun- 
beams ** were to be put in phials bermetically sealed, and 
let out to warm the air in raw, inclement summers,’’ and the 
project to ‘*calcine ice into gunpowder,’’ etc., are a fine 
satire upon scientific charlatanry. Swift evidently had no 
love for mathematics, when he described the people of La- 
puta as accustomed to express their ideas so much in lines 
and .figures. ‘If they would, for example, praise the 
beauty of a woman or any other animal, they describe it by 
rhombs, circles, parallelograms, ellipses, and other geomet- 
rical terms, or by words of art drawn from music.”’ This 
satire is general enough, but we have here and there, as 
throughout the whole of the Travels, the author’s own pre- 
dilections and enmities of persons cropping out. Sir Isaac 
Newton had not been forgiven for having approved of the 
quality of Wood’s coin, an approval sufficient to make him 
an enemy in Swift’s eyes; and the * flappers ’’’ by means of 
which the philosophers of Laputa were wont to be drawn 
from their frequent reveries are undoubtedly a satire upon 
the eminent philosopher’s absence of mind. There is one 
striking passage which recalls to us Swift’s contempt of 
life! This is the account of the ‘* Struldbrugs,’’ or im- 

! In his later years this contempt of life naturally increased, and, referring 
to these years, his biographer, Roscoe, thus speaks: ‘“‘He was often heard to 
offer up earnest prayers to God ‘to tuke him from the evil to come;’ and as 
each lamented day of his birth came round, he would recur to his Bible in an 
agony of spirit, and repeat the solemn and awfully grand adjurations of afflicted 
Job. To put the climax to his sufferings, his passions, always of a violent 
character, tended further to weaken and pervert his understanding; and that 
he was himself perfectly conscious of the hopeless state of his health was 
shown by his observation to a brother clergyman upon occasion of a narrow 

Jonathan Swift. 225 

mortals, of Luggnagg, whose immortality was so heavy a 
burden to them. It is both interesting and sad to contrast 
this contempt of life on the part of Swift with the fear 
of death which haunted one other great luminary of 
that century, Dr. Samuel Johnson: both feelings so mor- 
bid, and so exactly opposite to each other. In the voyage 
to the Houyhnhnoms we may see imaged the mad disap- 
pointment, the burning sense of genius unrequited, that 
galled the ambitious soul of Jonathan Swift. Indeed, had 
he been a stronger man, more able to master himself, we 
should perhaps have had no ** Gulliver’s Travels”’ at all. 
But, disgusting as the ‘* Yahoos ’”’ appear to us, we must re- 
member that mankind are not without disgusting traits that 
need to be revealed, drawn in sharpest outline, to the end 
that, seeing them, men may learn amendment. The Travels 
are, us we have said, conceived quite from a misanthropical 
point of view, yet written with exquisite skill, giving instruc- 
tion of a deep kind; giving delight, too, by the ludicrous 
situations in which ever and anon the adventurous Gulliver 
finds himself. There are impurities and grossness, as in 

the greater part of Swift’s writings, but these, weighed 

against the excellences of the book, become of no great 
account. And, with all the trenchancy and the bitter- 
ness and the impurity, there is at least one gleam of 
noble and pure humanity. The tender Glumdalclitch is 
no object for the strokes of misanthropy, but a kind, 
kind, careful nurse to her little Grildrig, her mannikin and 
pet — so loving and afraid of danger to her charge, albeit 
she is but nine years old and ‘not above forty feet 
high, being little for her age!’’ Swift must have remem- 
escape from death. They had been standing conversing immediately below a 
large, heavy mirror, and had just removed when the cords that supported it 
gave way, and it fell with great violence to the ground. His friend immedi- 
ately uttered an ejaculation of gratitude for his providential escape, and 

Swift’s reply was very remarkable: ‘ Had I been alone,’ he said, ‘I could have 
wished I had not removed.’ ”’ — [Roscoe’s Life of Swift, p. 80. 


226 The Western. 

bered that though there was much wickedness and much 
selfishness in the world, there was a Stella in it, devoted to 
him heart’and soul, and loving and caring for him above all 
measure, even as Glumdalclitch loved and cared for her 

The Travels created no little sensation, as we may easily 
suppose, and the great question of the day was, ‘* Who is 
the author?’’ Even Pope and the other members of the 
literary coterie of which Swift was one do not seem to have 
known for some time that Swift was the author, although 
they did indeed suspect him. One remarkable testimony 
to the book was paid by an Irish prelate (and he must have 
been a genuine Hibernian), who remarked that there were 
some things in the Travels he didn’t believe!' We saw 
that the Dean had been suddenly recalled from England 
when there in 1726, on account of Stella’s illness ; but, she 
having somewhat recovered, back to England he must 
go. Soin March, 1727, he paid the visit to England that 
was to be his last; and we have him figuring at Leicester 
House again, well received there as before. The Prince of 
Wales was now his great hope in the matter of preferment, 
that everlasting torment of Swift’s life, and, the Prince 
coming to the throne as George II., in June, 1727, while 
Swift was in England, there was surely to be no more de- 
lay. Of course there would be a change of ministry, and 
Walpole, his enemy, would be out of the way. But, alas 
for Swift !j Walpole was reinstated by the new sovereign, 
and the Dean’s hopes were once more dashed to the ground. 
And that calamityycame not alone: his old disorder — gid- 
diness and loss fof memory —came upon him, and, to 

1 Another testimony to the verisimilitude of the Travels is furnished in the 
following extract from a letter from Arbuthnot to Swift (November 8, 1726) : 
“Gulliver is in everybody’s hands. Lord Scarborough, who is no inventor 
of stories, told me<thatghe fell in company with a master of a ship, who told 
him tha the was verySwellZacquainted with ‘Gulliver;’ but that the printer 
had mistaken : that he lived in Wapping, and not in Rohithe. I lent the book 
to an old gentleman, who{went immediately to his map to search for Lilli- 

Jonathan Swift. 227 

crown «all, tidings that his Stella was at death’s door. 
Stunned by these accumulated miseries, he suddenly with- 
drew from Twickenham, where he had been living with 
Pope, and shut himself up in lodgings in London. Re- 
maining there a month or two, he set out again for Ireland 
in October, 1727. 

We have hitherto refrained from noticing Swift’s conduct 
in his love affair, thinking that a clearer view of that pain- 
ful subject will be obtained when not interwoven with the 
other incidents of his life. We shall therefore here make 
a digression to consider this subject. It is strange that a 
man like Swift, whose conduct was such as to give some 
countenance to the assertion that he was incapable of lov- 
ing, should have had such power of inspiring love in others. 
Swift, the misanthrope, we may almost say the misogynist, 
kindled a fierce flame of love in more than one female 
bosom — love, we may believe, at first unsought, but love 
that was grateful to a man’s vanity, and that came in time 
to be the necessity of his life. But Swift was handsome in 
his vouth; clever, too, and masterful, with a kind of dash 
about him that would impress young and tender hearts. 
Hence the roll of captives to his spell. First of all, there 
was a pretty bar-maid at an inn in Leicester that seems to 
have been so deeply smitten by the charms of the youthful 
Jonathan as to have awakened his mother’s apprehen- 
sions. Then we have ** Varina,’’ ‘* Sacharissa,’’ ‘* Stella,’’ 
** Vanessa’’—all swayed by this incomparable Adonis, who 
seemed never at all assiduous in the duties of a lover, and 
never to make the first advances. About ** Varina’’ (her 

name was Miss Jane Waryng, sister of a college companion 
of Swift’s) we have not much information. In whatever 
way the affair with her originated, this much is certain: that 
there was an understood engagement between them. But 

‘*‘ Varina’’ seems to have been less impressed than the 
others, and less constant ; for we find her, whatever may have 
been the warmth of her passion at first, treating her lover 

with disdain and coldness, and when, after four years 

228 The Western. 

(1696 — 1700) of waiting, Swift began to cool (it is to be 
remembered that in the interim he made the acquaintance 
of Esther Johnson), ‘* Varina’’ attacked him in a pressing 
and categorical letter as to the change in his manner. 
Whereupon our Adonis, not to be outdone, wrote as cate- 
gorical a letter in answer, in which he laid down the con- 
ditions on which he would marry her —a letter that was so 
insulting as could only have been penned with a view to 
terminate the affair. ‘+I shall be blessed,”’ says the letter, 
‘*to have you in my arms, without regarding whether your 
person be beautiful or your fortune large. Cleanliness in 
the first and competency in the other is all I look for.’” A 
strange ideal of a wife this! With this letter ‘* Varina’’ 
vanishes beyond our ken, and whether she found out a lover 
with a more exalted idea of her ‘* person,’’ remains un- 
known. ‘* Sacharissa’’ was a young lady (name unknown) 
who, in a letter, signed under that name, addressed to Swift, 
seems to have been dving of love for the ‘* divine, immortal 
Swift,’’ as she calls him, whose ‘* god-like form ’”’ had _ kin- 
dled a fierce flame within her. But she, too, vanishes. 
Wm. R. Walker. 



Oh, tell me not of beauties never dying, 
That fill the soul with thoughts ineffable ; 
Oh! sing no songs of lovers faintly sighing, 
Whispering the words that only lovers tell : 
For years ago the snows of winter fell 
Upon my head, and now my hair is hoar 
With age’s frost; so sing of these no more. 
But let some bard sing of the happy days, 
When we were children, laughing in our glee; 
Or take thy harp and wake the stirring lays 
Of olden time — those days of chivalry — 
And I, entranced, will listen eagerly 
Until each word upon my heart is brent — 
No angel’s voice could give me such content. 

State Universities. 


That public instruction tends to an enforced uniformity of 
method, and to subject educational work to a drill increas- 
ingly barren, seems, theoretically, to be an objection of some 
force, and doubtless would be practically so in some com- 
munities. In our American States, however, we are more 
likely for the present to suffer from ill-advised and sporadic 
effort than from an authoritative system. For the best de- 
velopment, both tendencies must be recognized: that of 
specialization and that of organization. ‘The former ten- 
dency probably predominates in the United States, and we 
have little to fear as yet from the opposite one. Enforced 
uniformity is undoubtedly much the greater obstacle to 
progress, and an early recognition of this fact will serve to 
guard us against the danger. 

An objection far more influential in the minds of a large 
number of our best citizens than those derived from the 
theory of the State is the feeling that higher education must 
be directly united to religious. training. The sentiment 
which underlies this objection is certainly one of weight. 
Instruction destitute of moral force is destitute of value in 
the commonwealth. We doubt, however, whether this sen- 
timent is wisely directed in the case before us. é 

This same religious feeling, when ill-directed, has done a 
good deal to weaken the hold of primary instruction by the 
State on the general mind. Indeed, this incipient work, 
above other educational work, would seem especially to call 
for the protection and guidance of religious principles. 
If we look at the history of our public schools, we shall 
find that the relation of their moral force to distinct relig- 
ious instruction has been one almost wholly of theory and 
not one of practice. The differences and difficulties which 

230 The Western. 

have excited the public mind have grown up outside the 
school-room, and been brought to it by abstract principles. 

Rarely, indeed, has it happened that any parent has had 
any right to complain of any actual religious influence ex- 
erted by a public instructor on his children, or of any 
limitation put upon them in their religious convictions. 
Neither, on the other hand, has it been found that, in con- 
sequence of the religious freedom of our schools, teachers 
have been immoral, or have neglected the morality of their 

On the whole, public schools have been as influential for 
good as the social conditions of the communities in which 
they have existed would give us any right to expect them 

to be. If they have suffered in their moral force by the 
exclusion of any one type of religious training, they have 
gained more than they have lost by an appeal to more sim- 
ple and fundamental principles, and by a much wider work 
in the State. 

Moral influences in our schools’ have been derived, and 
always must be derived, from the persuasive force of moral 
convictions, which are the deposit in the general mind of all 
religious and all human experience. Any effort to root 
morality in one or another faith, to the exclusion of the re- 
mainder will tend to weakness quite as much as to strength. 
The general and fundamental quality of moral truth cannot 
be too constantly recognized in public instruction, 

If we were tu lay aside the sharpness and blindness of 
theory, and look at the facts as they exist in State univer- 
sities and in sectarian colleges, we should find the relation 
of theory and experience much the same as in our common 
school. The current objections have not grown out of facts, 
but out of theories conceiving facts. The convictions of 
morality, the notions of good citizenship, are no less opera- 
tive in the one set of institutions than in the other. The 
religious and moral life of the community pervades the one 
class of colleges as it pervades the other. The practical 

State Universities. 231 

and theoretical difficulties of a virtuous life press the stu- 
dents in ‘the one place very much as they do in the other. 
If a student occasionally suffers by looseness of opinion on 
the part of an instructor, he is liable also to suffer by rigidity 
of view. Neither will it be found that these two dangers 
are ultogether divided between the two systems. Each 
danger will appear in both classes of institutions. All 
the questions, practical and theoretical, of a moral 
and religious life are upon us. We cannot escape them. 
Our sons cannot escape them. These questions, on the 
whole, are met as safely and answered as soundly in 
the open air as in any enclosure we choose to set up. 
The State university will have less of any one pronounced 
religious sentiment, will have more of unbelief, because its 
students are taken promiscuously from all classes. In 
these particulars, however, it only represents the commu- 
nity in which young men are to work. It brings precisely 
the same questions and the same dangers, with something 
more than ordinary conditions for a just conclusion. The 
freedom and the intelligence present are certainly forces 
favorable to truth and favorable to well-advised zeal. In 
correctness of deportment and in the daily force of moral 
principles, the students of the institutions do not contrast 
unfavorably with those of other colleges. Nor does the in- 
struction of these State institutions cover less completely the 
fundamental moral principles of our lives. There is no legiti- 
mate influence which a good man may not exert and does not 
exert in these universities. Nor are professors chosen to their 
several chairs without careful reference to character. The 
one limitation put upon every man, of a complete respect to 
the intellectual liberty of all about him. we cannot regard 
as an unfavorable one. If State universities are fairly 
judged by the tone of instruction, and by its practical re- 
sults on the character of the students, they do not, if I am 
to judge by my own experience in both classes of institu- 
tions, suffer disparagement in contrast with colleges resting 
on a denominational basis. 

232 The Western. 

That these universities owe something of their soundness 
to the standard maintained by private colleges is very plain. 
Higher education in these North-Western States cannot well 
dispense with colleges that devote themselves unreservedly 
to a religious, and yet to a liberal education — colleges like 
Carlton College in Minnesota, Beloit College in Wisconsin, 
and Olivet College in Michigan. The relation of the State 
university to public morality is a question that must receive 
a primarily practical answer, and that answer seems to be 
far more favorable than the apprehension of religionists 
would lead them to expect. It would be quite possible for 
churches each to give aid to students related to them, and to 
exercise a large measure of watchfulness over them, and yet to 
avail themselves of the extended advantages of State institu- 
tions. If any church, as the Episcopal Church, were to 
erect a hall at the seat of a university, those boarding at the 
hall might attend any or all the university classes, and yet 
receive such further instruction as those having the hall in 
charge might judge best. A hall with a home character and a 
liberal spirit could reach its students at once more advan- 
tageously and closely than an ordinary denominational col- 
lege. The churches would thus save three-quarters of their 
habitual expenditure, and, if the experiment were ordered 
with wisdom, have the promise of better results. 

But the practical man, as well as the theorist and relig- 
ionist, has his objections to a State university. They are 
directed to the difficulty of securing suitable guidance by a 
well-constructed ruling board. The State university is 
thought of and spoken of as ‘‘ the foot-ball of politicians.”’ 

This objection, like the objections that have gone before 
it, touches a real trouble in the history of public education. 
Yet this is a difficulty that bears on our entire social polity, 
is easily exaggerated, and can be removed only by quietly 
and patiently pressing onward. It is a difficulty that in- 
heres in the weakness of society, and can only be overcome 
by growth. To turn aside at any point from self-govern- 

State Universities. 233 

ment, because self-government involves so much failure and 
so many mistakes, is to live by unsatisfactory makeshifts, 
and to have all ultimate measures of improvement still be- 
fore us. Those who cannot guide themselves cannot be 
secure of good guidance, and have never found it for any 
considerable period. In the early history of State univer- 
sities their endowments by the general government were 

squandered, mismanaged, and made the occasion of personal 
profits. That time has gone by, and their funds are now 
not only honestly administered, but the States have taken 
upon themselves the burdens of growth. The boards of 
administration discharge their duties with discrimination 
and conscientiousness. The two serious abatements to com- 
plete success are, first, that these boards are not constituted 
with sole reference to the fitness of the members to fulfil 
their duties, to their knowledge of educational affairs, and 
their interest in them. An entire State furnishes compara- 
tively few men who ure able to guide a university, and these 
few are not carefully sought for. Men who are before the 
public in politics, some of them well fitted and some of them 
poorly fitted for their work, slide into these boards, as into 
other positions of influence in education, and so the most 
varied and best ability is not exclusively secured for this 
highest and most delicate service in the State. Yet the evil 
is not so great, measured on its practical side, as one might 
easily be led to expect. Most persons who constitute these 
boards take pride in the question, and strive to meet its 
demands. As the States improve, these boards will im- 
prove, and this joint improvement is of the most valuable 
and permanent order. 

The second branch of this difficulty is, that boards of re- 
gents are disposed to assume a too exclusive control of the 
institutions under them, to the oversight of the proper influ- 
ence of the president and faculty of the university. There 
is no surer way of degrading instruction than that of de- 
grading its instruments. The powers of school boards, like 

234 The Western. 

those of a parent, if well ordered, must be largely sleeping 
powers. These boards must make way for talent in instruc- 
tors, and give it that broad field which it covets. To re- 
press and smother the teacher is to repress and smother 
the school. At this point State universities suffer more or 
less in comparison with Eastern colleges. The chief battle 
of a president is to secure and retain the needful conditions 
of leadership in the institution over which he presides. The 
experience, ability, and enthusiasm only half avail in its de- 
velopment through the perpetual obstruction they meet with 
in a government that is, after all, outside and remote. The 
board, present only a few days in the year, and whose mem- 
bers are habitually occupied with other things, is poorly 
prepared to plan for and guide a university. When such a 
board brings a suspicious and irritable sense of power to the 
government of the institution, the president and professors, 
its proper guides, find the most difficult part of their work 
in placating, coaxing, and restraining the authority over 
them. To these unfortunate conditions is often added a 
conviction, carefully nourished, that instructors are, in finan- 
cial affairs, mere children, from whom the expenditure of 
money is to be cautiously withheld. Whatever may be the 
foundation in facts for such an opinion, both the facts and 
the opinion are unfortunate. No men by knowledge, by 
experience, by interest, are so fitted to shape a university 
as its faculty, and no men can have any controlling influence 
over a university who are not consulted in the expenditure 
of its funds. These are the sinews of war, and to govern 
them is to settle all issues. 

Nor is the perpetual disparagement which a faculty suffer 
from an outside government, that applies its checks much at 
random, the least among the consequent evils. 

The conditions of successful work must be giyen before 
we can look for the work itself. The freedom of the in- 
structor is of the utmost moment as nourishing that spirit 
which is to be the life of the university. The great diffi- 

State Universities. 235 

culty in securing men of talent as instructors is that the 
work of instruction offers so little of a career. Shall the 
lawyer, the banker, the farmer, have each their own field of 
unrestrained activity, and shall the teacher be guided, 
checked, and crossed in his purposes by any and all of them? 

While we are disposed to lay considerable emphasis on 
the evils which arise from the too extended control of a 
ruling board, changeable in its members, but very partially 
informed of the facts before them for action, often alien in 
spirit to the highest interests of education and jealous of 
authority, we yet look upon the difficulty as remediable, 
and as one which, after all, hampers more or less all effort 
of the same order in every college. The proper relations of 
faculty, president, and ruling board have not been well 
defined, and can never be practically reached without abun- 
dance of wisdom and good will on all sides. They are 
often, therefore, entangled. State institutions are just be- 
ginning to learn to run, and the incident friction will disap- 
pear as they acquire their lesson. 

Speaking as a participant, my opinion is that for the good 
of a State university more influence in its affairs should be 
granted to its president than is usually conceded, especially 
in the larger institutions. If the president is fully aware of 
the opinions of the faculty, and is as regardful of them as 
he should be, he becomes the recognized voice of the in- 
terior sentiment of the university ; and if he is also in full 
counsel and participation in all action that affects its inter- 
ests, he is prepared to become the pivotal point in its man- 
ugement and growth. Nor can this unity of work be se- 
cured in any other way. Official weakness in the president 
means intrigue among the professors, each striving to secure 
those ends by private means which are not embraced in a 
firm general policy, but are left subject to an outside guid- 
ance as empirical and changeable as the impressions of those 
who constitute it. In the University of Michigan the presi- 
dent has not the nomination of the faculty, and in the Uni- 

236 The Western. 

versity of Wisconsin he is not # member of the board of 
regents, and in both institutions he is correspondingly crip- 
pled in his work. The president thus remains the centre at 
which all the pressure of revolution is developed, and vet 
has comparatively little power to adjust and harmonize the 

Many colleges have shown more or less of incomplete- 

ness and error in their government. If a college is to be 
vigorous and progressive, always full of young blood, and 
yet guided by large and safe counsel, it needs to be able to 
command and unite all the resources of influence found in 
its ruling board, in its faculty, and in its alumni. Those 
upon whom advice and counsel most immediately devolve 
are the faculty. The faculty is made up of men devoted to 
higher education, whose business and whose interest it is to 
understand the demands and the methods of their work. 
If these men fall out of the counsels of a college, the result 
is greatly to their disparagement and greatly to the loss of 
the institution. In most Eastern colleges the president is 
too exclusively the voice of the college. In State universi- 
ties neither the president nor the faculty can easily secure 
or maintain the influence which the highest welfare of the 
institution would assign them. An inevitable result is that 
purely educational interests suffer somewhat in their col- 
lision with secondary interests, and intrigue finds many 
open doors of entrance. If a legitimate method is not pro- 
vided, or is not sufficient for the attainment of needed or 
desired results, a hundred ways of indirection will be re- 
sorted to. That the proclivity to intrigue—a most serious 
evil, wherever it is found —is somewhat greater in public 
than in private institutions, is hardly to be doubted. But 
nothing is to be despaired of. While private discomfort may 
be considerable, the university in its instructional work may 
still move forward, and remedy the evils of method by its 
own progress. 

The students of an institution are” its chief justification. 

State Universities. 237 

The students of the State universities have their own char- 
acteristics. They come from all classes, all nationalities, 
all faiths, and so serve to neutralize any tendency in any 
one of these directions. A thoroughly democratic admix- 
ture is the prevailing impression. Those who wish a type 
of any sort find offence in this; those who like a popular 
kingdom, whose members are gathered from the north and 
south, from the east and west, have their desire perfectly 

The students are more uniformly in earnest in their work 
than in older institutions. Many of them are self-support- 
ing. They are tough and patient under hardship. Few, 
indeed, are found in these universities simply because they 
are sent there. Almost all colleges are democratic, but 
none more so than these universities. Western colleges are 
as vet comparatively little troubled with that lower third of 
a class which, in Eastern colleges, is, in reference to any pur- 
pose of knowledge, so inert and refractory. 

The very general poverty of the students concurs in this 
result. They often reduce the annual expenditure of their 
college course to $200, and even a less sum, while $250 or 
$300 puts a student quite at ease. 

Judged by the points of practical morality which touch 
most nearly and peculiarly the life of 4 student, the mem- 
bers of a State university are in no way inferior to those of 
the best-ordered Eastern colleges. In the respect which 
they pay to the personal rights of their fellow-students, in 
their regard for the property of the institution, and for the 
quiet and good order of the community in which they are 

found, — points distinctively of college morality, — they 

give occasion for a very favorable opinion. 

The distinguishing feature of these universities is their 
close and general union to the people of the State to which 
they belong. They strive to reach and lay hold of the 
entire community through the general school-system ; they 

238 The Western. 

keep pace with the community ; they pursue no ideals in over- 
sight of this fundamental and universal connection. Their 
virtues and their defects grow out of this fact. They develop 
a hard-working, sturdy spirit, » muscle and a grip not easily 
encountered in actual life ; while the select and literary cul- 
ture which a few find in the atmosphere of Harvard comes 
but slowly in State universities. 

If we were to weigh class with class in Eastern and 
Western institutions, the strength and stamina of these 
students would be conspicuous. If we were to weigh select 
persons, one with another, then the age and refinement of 
the several communities represented would become distinct 
elements in the problem. 

Those who love the fruits of growth will cling to the 
East ; those who love growth itself will delight in the West. 
The State universities of the North-West, scattered along 
the upper affluents of the Mississippi, promise to be impor- 
tant factors in determining the type of civilization which is 
to occupy this great valley, than which none on the earth’s 

surface has more commanding conditions of extent, fertil- 
ity, salubrity, fortunateness of position, and fortunateness 
of occupation. 

Joun Bascom. 


I have a quaint and cosy love 
For little rooms; 
Wee windows, curtained for those rich, rare glooms 
That decorous dreams approve ; 
Wee walls; a hearth-fire red and small ; 
Perchance, a ticking clock, nor loud, nor tall; 
And a dark, time-stained ceiling over all. 
But rude and huge one thing must be, — 
An arm-chair, much impressed by me! 
Pav Pastnor. 

Francesca Evelyn: an Idyl of New Italy. 239 

Cuaprer VIII. 

The vessel in which Dr. Page had sailed lay at anchor 
off the Italian shore of the Mediterranean, being detained 
in its course by contrary winds. Dr. Page had gone on 
shore, but there was very little of interest or pleasure in the 
little town, full of beggars and unpleasant smells and dilap- 
idated buildings. The burning sun beat down with most 
intense heat and glare upon the market square as he passed, 
and the light was reflected with double fervor by the hot 
stones and the sparkling waves beside the stone wharf. 

He had drawn his hat over his brow, and an unaccus- 
tomed shadow rested in the kindly brown eyes and on the 
firm lips. But the people turned to look at him as his 
quick step went by. The women and children smiled when 
he stooped to lift up an audacious infant playing under the 
wagon-wheels, and the bright-faced peasant woman who 
received him looked with grateful admiration at the ‘‘ kind 
signor.’’ Even the barterers and venders of small wares in 
close shops glanced after him with unmercenary interest, 
und the dogs that cowered into the street-corners as they 
heard a coming footstep, or snapped and snarled after a 
receding one, looked up with a friendly wag of the tail 
into his sun-browned, genial face. For the world hungers 
for love, and every semblance of kindness in a human pres- 
ence will draw all hearts of man and beast toward it, as 
light attracts all eyes by its soft shining. 

Presently his step lagged a little from its quick pace, and 
an abstraction fell across his countenance like a passing 
cloud, until, as he turned into a narrow street, his attention 
was caught by a few words from two women behind him. 
They were both dressed in a tawdry, faded, weather-beaten 
kind of finery, but the face of one had a youthful bloom 

that almost brightened her old clothes into some show of 
Vol. 7— No. 3 16 

240 The Western. 

newness, while the features of the other seemed as incred- 
ulous of any freshness or brightness as her garb. Dr. Page 
fancied he saw in the abundance of her carelessly knotted 
hair, and her eyes, hardened though they seemed by some 
experience worse than pain, something that had once been 
beautiful, but was now only pitiable. 

‘* Then Tonio will lose his place?’’ she said. 

** Yes,’ replied the younger woman, with a pretty, plain- 
tive, provincial accent ; ‘*‘ but what would you have? His 
poor father, who gave him life, is dying — yet what will 
become of Tonio if he is dismissed, I know not.’’ 

‘* Maestro Riccolini is enraged,’’ interrupted the other, 
with a tone that was almost taunting. ‘‘ He swears it is 
the third time that Tonio has stayed away, and to-morrow 
is the grand day.”’ 

‘* Ah, my poor Tonio,”’ said the girl, wringing her hands. 
** But surely his father’s angels will watch over him.”’ 

‘* The crowd will miss the trapeze,”’ said .the other, with 
a harsh smile. ‘* They like it because of the danger. They 
care not what risks we run.”’ 

The girl did not reply, but her soft dark eyes filled with 
tears, and she drew a quick, fluttering sigh. 

A thought flashed through the mind of their listener ; he 
remembered that his ship might be detained here several 
days, and turning quickly to the speakers behind him, 
said : — 

‘* Suppose some one takes Tonio’s place to-morrow, —I, 
for instance, — would not that do as well?’”’ 

‘* You, signor !’’ exclaimed the girl, with a bright, incred- 
ulous smile. ‘‘ But it is very dangerous,’’ she added, 
shaking her head. 

The other woman pushed her sharply with her elbow. 
** You little fool, let the stranger try,’’ she muttered in an 

‘*Tonio says he is almost afraid himself, at times,’’ said 
the girl again, looking earnestly into his face. 

Francesca Evelyn: an Idyl of New Italy. 241 

‘* Maestro Riccolo Riccolini— is not that it?’’ glancing 
at a flaming placard fastened upon the walls — ‘ is not likely 
to risk being shamed bya poor performer. Suppose we let 
him decide.”’ 

The girl still hesitated. 

‘* Courage,’’ he said, in a bright tone. ‘* Come, take me 
to him, and I will show you what I can do.’’ 

‘* Here is the place, just across the street,’’ interrupted 
the other, who had been looking on scornfully ; ‘* and there 
is no danger, if the signor knows —’’ 

Just then the musicians near the entrance, who were 
practising for the next day, struck up the provincial air 
which Dr. Page had heard in the garden at Bel Orto, so 
tender in its chiding, so passionate in its regret and desire, 
with such a sigh through its soft minor. 

He lifted his hands suddenly with a gesture of pain. 
‘* Stop them,”’ he said, with «n intonation of distress. ‘If 
they play that, I shall fail.”’ 

The women spoke to them and they changed the air. As 
the three went in, the elder woman accosted the Maestro 
Riccolo Riccolini, an insolent, black-browed man who 
lounged against the wall, and spoke to him in a cringing 
whisper for a few minutes. At the end of the colloquy he 
came up, with a mingled expression of curiosity and defer- 

‘*If the signor will show us what he can do,’’ he said, 
‘** we will gladly excuse Tonio for a day.” 

The other groups of men and women in tawdry clothes 
like the first, and with a battered look about their faces, 
began to stir and gather near the trapeze with incredulous 
smiles and whispers. 

Dr. Page seized the rope with a light hand. He had 
ascended dizzier heights; he had cut away broken masts 
when the whistling winds and flashing lightning warred 
around him and the sudden blasts tore at his hands and 
feet as if to dash him to the waves below. This seemed a 

242 The Western. 

trifle, and he laughed as he swung himself carelessly up to 
the hanging loops and threw down the rope. 

‘* He will do,’’ said Maestro Riccolini, with a critic’s as- 
sumption of superior insight, and lounged more compla- 
cently than ever against the wall. 

Hand over hand, upward, downward, first by his feet, 
and then by his teeth only, so fur as the spectators could 
see, he hung suspended or sprang from place to place in 
the high air with a grace and swiftness that seemed to coun- 
terfeit flying. One could scarcely see what support he had, 
or how he regained a hold in such rapid evolutions. 

Those below applauded vociferously when the Maestro 
gave the signal, and even a few stragglers peeping through 
a narrow aperture forgot themselves and cried, ‘* Bravo, 
bravo !”’ 

Maestro Riccolini himself seemed to expand visibly in the 
fulness of his complaisance. He waved his hand with a 
grandiloquent air to Dr. Page as he descended, and, placing 
one hand on his heart, exclaimed, ‘* This is not training, 
it is not talent: it is genius, most honored signor !’’ 

Dr. Page smiled with a slightly satirical air. It had hap- 
pened to him in the course of an eventful life to do many 
heroic deeds, many requiring a quick and subtile intellect 
and a generous soul, but he had never won such a raptur- 
ous applause as now for a sleight-of-hand, a tour de force, 
which any trained trickster could surpass. 

‘* Life’s chances are odd,’’ he thought to himself, with a 

The next day the crowd was immense. The romantic 
story of the kind stranger who wanted to give poor Tonio 
a day longer beside his dying father had been spread 
abroad, with manifold variations and additions, through the 
petty town, and people crowded from far and wide to see 
him. The excitement of the crowd, which had flagged con- 
spicuously through the first performance, became intense 
when heappeared. They admired his symmetrical form, his 

Francesca Evelyn: an Idyl of New Italy. 248 

athletic limbs and light movements, his bright face, with its 
fresh coloring; but when he ascended the trapeze their 
delight knew no bounds. At every movement in the air, 
every swift evolution and rapid change, they applauded in 
ecstatic wonder. 

But all at once the music, which had been playing in wild 
gayety, struck up the provincial air, so great a favorite 
among the peasants of this region. As its tender minor, 
haunted by passionate memories, smote upon the air, he 
visibly grew paler ; his breath came quicker and shorter; he 
loosed his hold and fell. 

It was a moment to the multitude. who looked on, but it 
seemed an immeasurable age to him, through which he fell 
and fell. A darkness — sickening, uncertain— came be- 
fore his eyes; and like a kaleidescope, in which the pieces 
of glass cross and intersect each other, so the real and im- 
aginary scenes passed before his sight. In that one instant 
of breathless time he saw, or seemed to see, each gaping, 
staring face in the immense crowd below; through « torn 
place in the canvas he saw a small vessel, a felucca, change 
its course and veer in the sudden gale of wind ; he noticed 
the flapping of the white sail, and saw also on the stone 
wharf a horse held by a boy, which champed its bit and 
tossed its spirited head. Across all these came faces he had 
never seen, surrounding him in mid-air, crossing, recross- 
ing, beckoning and smiling to him; old voices called his 
name low and soft. 

But the music changed into a waltz. Swiftly, as before 
a breeze that swept all these fantasies away, his conscious- 
ness returned ; he caught the last loop as he passed it in 
falling, and with one deep-drawn breath had gone up again 
far overhead before the crowd had finished their last shout 
of applause. 

When it was over, and he had resumed his own dress, the 
girl for whom he had done it came to him with a face aglow 
with thanks and admiration. He noticed then for the first 

244 The Western. 

time that she was pretty, with eyes that seemed to allure all 
the light of the sunshine into their sparkle, and the floating 
shadows of the air into their graver looks. 

‘* But I should have failed,’’ he said to her enthusiastic 
expressions of gratitude, ‘‘*had you not stopped the 

‘* Ah, signor! I was so frightened; you turned so pale 
as you fell!’’ Then, with a half-timid air, she asked in an 
undertone, ‘* It was, then, bewitched? The song had a spell, 
perhaps? ’’ 

He smiled, and looked down again into the soft, wistful, 
wondering eyes that were fixed so earnestly upon his face. 
They were the eyes once seen in a dream — to which one 
can easily speak because so sympathetic. 

** Yes,’’ he answered slowly; ‘‘the spell of remem- 

The face changed quickly, for she understood that he 
alluded to some hidden pain, and she murmured softly : 

*‘Ah, yes. When one remembers, it is as if one were 
far away in another land. I myself, when I remember Fio- 
rillo, —the hills and sea, — where my father lived ;’’ then, 
noticing the expression of his face, and clasping her hands 
quickly, ‘‘ You, you too know Fiorillo! ”’ 

‘* T have been there,’’ he said. 

The older woman with whom he first saw the young girl 
had joined them, and laughed derisively at the girl’s tone. 
‘*T have more reason to curse than to bless the place where 
I was born,”’ she said. . 

Dr. Page turned around to her with pity in his eyes. 
He was a physician by nature, and whenever there was a 
wound unhealed, a pain uncared-for, a trouble, something 
distorted or out of place, there he found his work. It was 
not so much courage that had prompted many a deed of 
daring and self-sacrifice, as the feeling that, whether hard 
or easy, it was his life work, and he was there to do it; un- 

Francesca Evelyn: an Idyl of New Italy. 245 

conscious, too, for the most part, that many differed from 
him in that. 

He did not speak, however, in this case, for he perceived 
that it would be useless; but the woman had caught the 
swift look of pity, and was softened by it. 

‘¢ But, for all that, Signor Doctor,’’ she muttered to her- 
self, with a shrug, ‘*‘ there are some incurables in the hos- 
pital on this earth that you cannot cure.”’ 

She smiled bitterly and walked away, without vouchsafing 
any reply to the friendly greeting he gave her as he, too, 

When he reached the wharf his vessel was no longer in 

‘¢ The wind changed,’’ said an old fisherman, noticing his 
look of amazement and dismay, ‘‘ and the ship set sail four 
hours since. The signor cannot overtake her now.”’ 

Against the whole horizon he could not see a sail, only 
one or two feluccas tacking slowly for the shore. He was, 
indeed, too late. 

CHapTerR IX. 


He was still standing there with a grave face, looking into 
the distance, where the light had begun to’grow dim under 
the shadow of a rising cloud, when he was startled by a 
light touch on hisarm. It was a peasant woman. 

‘¢ Signor,’’ she said, ‘‘ I have before seen you at Fiorillo ; 
though, of course, you do not remember me. Were you 
there lately? ”’ 

‘¢ In the last month,’’ he answered. 

‘¢ Then you can, perhaps, give me tidings of some I knew 
there ;’’ and Teresa — for it was she — hesitated. 

He waited, and she began again slowly. 

‘* Not of the peasant people,’’ — and she moved her thin 

fingers nervously ; ‘‘ of a stranger, a blind English offi- 

246 The Western. 

cer —is he living?’’ seeing, as he suddenly shrunk back, 
and winced at the question, that he knew of whom she 
' He paused, then replied, as if he would gladly put the 
subject out of hearing and remembrance : — 

** Yes, he lives, and is, I suppose, happy, as he is prob- 
ably already married to his cousin.”’ 

‘¢ Signora Francesca, from England? ’”’ 

** You have seen her; she is young, beautiful, and noble. 
You can judge whether he needs pity from any one.”’ 

‘« No,’’ she answered, with sudden and rapid vehemence, 
‘** T cannot believe ; not though these eves should see it, and 
these ears hear the marriage-vows. She does not love him. 
She passed him on the street, the shore; lived and was 
joyous and gay close beside him, and did not recognize 

** You are fanciful,’’ he said, with a half-sick attempt to 
smile. ‘* We mistake sometimes.’’ 
She glanced at him with a questioning look, then said 

suddenly : — 

‘*Look! I have no love for my fellow-creatures often, 
but I will tell you the truth, and it shall make you happy 
once more, for I have seen you with the signora ; and, par- 
don me, I think you care for her. She may pity her cousin, 
but she does not love him. She refused him before, and if 
you are jealous of him ’’ — with a sudden softening of the 
face —‘‘ it might as well be of the dead! ”’ 

A sudden convulsive sobbing shook her whole frame. 
Then she looked up again. 

‘*T saw him, I myself, this summer, and the hand of 
death was upon him. He cannot cause any one pain long.’’ 

It is easy for an impulsive and generous nature to over- 
sweep at one bound all foregone conclusions or regrets. 
Already the sunshine began to break through the darkness 
in his mind; forgiveness, love, pity, rapid self-reproach, 

Francesca Evelyn: an Idyl of New Italy. 247 

and an eager desire to see Francesca again and be forgiven, 
crowded into his heart and flushed his cheek. 

‘¢T will return,’’ he said, in a low tone, looking with 
compassion on the woman, who still wept, but with a silent 
hopelessness, more pitiful than her first burst of sorrow. 
‘* You have done more for me than I can ever thank you 
for. But is there no token, no word of remembrance I can 
carry for you?”’ 

‘* No,” she said, ** nothing; it would be useless.’’ She 
drew her ragged shawl closely around her, and walked 
away with bowed head, her footsteps echoing with ghostly 
distinctness along the lonely wharf, already dark in the 
coming storm. 

In the meanwhile Francesca waited with weary patience. 
So long as George Elliott had lived, there had been con- 
tinual demand for sympathy and help that had left little 
leisure for pain, —had even blinded her consciousness of 
it, — and so her care and untiring service had been blessed 
to her, and comforted her sorrow. Now a day never came 
that she did not miss the pathetic eyes that caught no glim- 
mer of any earthly sun or moon in their wistful depths, 
the thin hands that moved so restlessly towards the sun- 
shine, the weak voice saying continually, ‘‘Are you tired 
now, dear Frank? ”’ 

For there is nothing so desolate as the sense of loss when 
a familiar life slips suddenly into a darkness which we can- 
not touch or measure, when we look up to miss the accus- 
tomed face against the white pillow, or listen for the usual 
step on the stair that will come no more forever ! 

So Francesca drooped visibly. Her father had returned 
home for a few weeks to attend to the business of his Eng- 
lish estate, and Ursula began to wonder at the long silence 
of her adopted brother, and looked so grave that it went to 
Francesca’s heart. Only Maurice’s faithful solicitude and 
watchfulness filled up the long days for her, sometimes with 
a pleasure, as a rare painting or some lovely effect of sea 

248 The Western. 

and sky to be seen, but most often with a duty, such as 
visiting the sick and poor; for he was quick to see that this 
did her more real good, and carried her thoughts into more 
healthful channels. 

At last, one day, as she sat in the balcony, her white 
hands folded in her lap, looking listlessly at the onyx ring 
still upon her finger, he came to her with a look on his 
homely and dark features which a saint might have worn 
from whom the shadow. of his martyrdom had not yet fallen, 
and said, in a tone which trembled slightly : — 

‘* Francesca, can you bear a great joy?’”’ 

The rich, pure face, with its dark eyes, unspeakably 
lovely in the dawn of joyful wonder, looked up with a mute 
sign of assent. 

He placed a letter in her hands. She broke the seal 
eagerly and read. 

** He has been detained on the way by an accident, but 
he is well, and to-morrow he will be here!’’ she exclaimed, 
joyously. ‘I must tell Ursula,’’ and, rising hastily, she 
did not see the look on his face of suppressed feeling. 

Presently she came back and stood softly by him, look- 
ing across the terraced garden ground to the distant English 
cemetery on the hill, where a white shaft rose through the 
dark foliage, and said, low, as if she were answering some 
thought, unexpressed in words : — 

‘* Your brother said that he would be glad with us, and I 
feel that he is glad — now.”’ 

Do we think the dead come near us when we name 
them, that we, earthly men and women, speak of them so 
low, as children hush their riot and play and are still for 
awhile in the presence of those who are grown up and un- 

He did not answer at first. The woman whom George 
Elliott wronged forgave him utterly; Francesca and Dr. 
Page remembered him with kindliest pity and love, while 
in Mr. Evelyn’s mind no thought of him remained that was 

Francesca Evelyn: an Idyl of New Italy. 249 

not an affectionate remembrance of the innocent, light- 
hearted boy in the old English homestead. But it had been 
long before Maurice forgave him fully, perbaps because he 
had never seen him since he went away in the cruel pride 
of his thoughtless youth, and did not realize the gradual 
changes which time and suffering were making; perhaps 
also because he persuaded himself that it was an impersonal 
and unselfish resentment of wrong-doing. Yet he thought 
of him very gently at the last, and every day that came 
after his brother’s death seemed to bring some new remorse- 
ful tenderness, and a deeper insight born of love. 

Francesca’s words touched him with a vivid feeling, half 
pain, half joy, as he seemed to see the contrast between his 
own heart and the words of the dead brother he had judged 
so coldly. But a rare sweetness was in his eyes as he re- 
plied : — 

**T believe it. I feel sure that it is given to some who 
have gone away, to see us, at least at times, and rejoice in 
our joy, until we almost feel that Heaven and earth are 

The next day was hot, even beyond the usual degree. The 
noon seemed to linger long into the evening in a white heat 
and heavy languor that brooded in the air. Such a day 
may sometimes be experienced in the burning East, but is 
rare in the homes of the white races. The long, slanting 
shadows of the Persian blinds upon the floors seemed only 
to mark more distinctly the glaring light elsewhere. Not a 
breath of wind blew, not a sail moved on the waters, not a 
leaf stirred on the trees. There was the fullest silence of 
intense noontide in earth and sky. The deep purple figs, 
over-ripe, dropped in the long grass without asound. Only 
now and then a sudden footstep startled its hearers, as it 
fell on the hot stones beyond the garden terraces. 

Francesca began to feel as if a slow fever burned in her 
veins. In the evening, as the early moon began to rise 
and the shadows lay along the paths, she could stand the 

250 The Western. 

stillness no longer. She had ceased to expect Dr. Page on 
that day, and she asked her old nurse to walk with her. 

‘*T feel as if I could not breathe in-doors,’’ she said. 
The old woman looked at her wistfully, but was silent. 
Unconsciously they walked towards the grotto, drawn by 
the cool sound of the sea waves along the shore. All 
along the hill paths they still heard them faintly, like the 
far-off echoes of waters. When they reached the place, 
they saw the fountain of verdure glistening with its many 
leaves in the fresh dews and the white moonshine. The 
fountain of water shone in a mist of spray, and seemed to 
thrill the quiet night with the pulsations of its continuous 
falling, throbbing through all its dripping and splattering 
waves. The moonlight fell in a shower of soft splendor, 
broken only by the floating shadows of the long sprays. 
The serene peace of the place and the hour soon began to 
fill the eyes of the young girl as she listened to the water, 
and held her fingers in the cool spray. 

‘*Hush!’’ said old Liza, though no one spoke, ‘I 
hear ’’ — yes, there was a light, swift step on the ascending 
path —a voice humming a darcarole to itself, as if too full 
of secret gladness either to be wholly silent or to sing 
aloud — and a well-known figure appeared. But a sudden 
sense of unreality struck cold to Francesca’s heart, and she 
hid her face in her nurse’s arms, as if afraid of seeing it van- 
ish again out of sight. This feeling soon departed under the 
influence of his genial mood, and so completely, after the 
first entreaty for pardon, did he succeed in banishing all 
painful remembrances from her mind, that when they 
reached the garden gate it already seemed as if all the 
dreariness of the past winter had fallen aside like a disused 

‘*T had a fancy I should meet you at the grotto,’’ he 
said, when they parted that night; ‘‘ 1 could not imagine 
you anywhere else, and had been dreaming of it all day.’’ 

Francesca Evelyn: an Idyl of New Italy. 251 

‘¢ We thought you would come sooner,”’ said Francesca, 

‘¢ Yes, but we were delayed two hours beyond the time. 
i was very impatient then; but, after all, it brought the 
fulfilment of my dream.”’ 

They were married soon after the Evelyns’ return. They 
intended to go to England at once, but Fiorillo held a 
claim for them as the place where they first saw each other, 
against which they struggled in vain, day after day. It 
was so pleasant for them to invest all the well-known 
places with the bloom of their new joy. But at length 
the last night came. They walked together on the terrace 
in the soft summer night, and the sounds of their footsteps 
on the paved walk and their voices in the air came and 
went as they passed. It was a night rich with color. 
Purple mists swelled softly up, ‘‘ like transparent ocean- 
tides,’ through all the valleys, and lay along the hill- 
slopes, while the moon shone like a luminous peace. The 
white doves that had flown at sunset about the garden- 
walls, over which the blooming almond-boughs fell like 
a flowery moonlight, had long ago gone to their nests in 
the old belfry-tower; but the bats flew in hushed and 
mysterious circles through the fragrant air like fleeting 

Light after light glimmered in the huts below; the fire- 
flies glittered and gleamed among the dark orange-leaves 
and sparkled in the long grass underneath. The dusky air 
above the terraces was heavy with the sweetness of the 
oleander and the myrtle, and the nightingale’s song, 
sounding from some hidden thicket of blooms, filled the 
soul of night with its rich and clear melody. The stars 
shone with a liquid, tremulous red lustre, as if hung low in 
the sky, and against the purple darkness rose the marble 
statue in distinct and pure outlines, lifting up a still white 
hand as if in benediction on a kneeling world. 

252 The Western. 

‘* Friend,” said Ursula Page, coming out to Maurice 
Elliott as he sat in the lower balcony, ‘‘these married 
lovers will never grow tired. Dost thou not think they 
will walk until dawn? ”’ 

He lifted his hand with a gentle gesture of silence. 

‘* Listen, the bells are about to ring! ”’ 

Slowly, with a full, throbbing sound, rang out the great 
midnight bell of thé central tower, and afterwards, farther 
off and far on, out into the green country beyond, rang 
other and smaller bells, vibrating with a sweet tremor to 
the ears of the silent listeners. 

Maurice smiled from a heart full of peace, for his joy — 
the joy of one soul in the blessedness of others — breathed 
through his soul at last the airs and lights of Paradise. 
Strong in renunciation, he beheld by faith another country 
and household, where each should be gathered to his own, 
and was content to endure until the end. 

The luminous shadow and the shadowy splendor of the 
lovely night gathered themselves around the two who walked 
together as if in another garden of Eden, and their love 
and delight seemed the living soul of its world of fragrance 
and freshness and glimmering color. 

‘*For male and female created He them.”’ 

E. F. Mossy. 


Humiliation sat within my heart. 

I shuddered with death’s infinite heart-pain, 

And all my soul hung on one flower of hope, 
Which, like a trembling tear, it feared would fall. 
One thought I found within its petal’s fold, 

One thought within its quivering petals shaped, 
This: ‘‘ With Renunciation as a guide, 

Hereafter ye shall see God face to face.”’ 

Napoleon Bonaparte. 


[ConTINvUED. ] 

He then turned his attention to Prussia, whom he treated 
with a harshness altogether out of proportion to her faults. 
That nation deserves sympathy only because of the extreme 
severity of her punishment. She had endeavored, without 
meurring the risks of an alliance with either of the com- 
batants, to gain all the benefits of victory. While she was 
secretly bargaining with France for Hanover as the price of 
an alliance, she was at the same time carrying on nego- 
tiations with Austria and Russia to secure a large price for 
the transfer of her favor to the coalition. Throughout the 
wars of the Revolution she had maintained a profitable 
neutrality, and this policy she endeavored to continue even 
at the sacrifice of her faith. Her truckling, however, did 
not escape the keen eye of Napoleon. He clearly per- 
ceived that at the first disaster she would turn against him. 
He did not propose that Prussia should gain any new ter- 
ritory at the expense of French blood, when she was in 
reality his secret enemy. But he had enemies enough on 
his hands, and he endeavored by every means to quiet the 
clamors of Prussia for the violation of her territory —a 
violation, however, the enormity of which was greatly ex- 
aggerated, since that territory lay so directly in the track 
of French and Austrian wars that custom had sanctioned 
its invasion. ; 

After Austerlitz, Prussia became suddenly appeased for 
this insult ; while Napoleon, on the other hand, desired that 
she should take reparation for her outraged promise. He 
moreover demanded explanations for a great many things — 
explanations that were difficult or impossible to be given. 
The Prussian court was placed in a humiliating position. 
This position, which was simply the result of a shuffling 
policy, was ascribed by the nation to its French party. 

254 The Western. 

The war fever which had been stirred up during the cam- 
paign of Ulm now began to burn. The influence of the 
queen, who was bitterly hostile to France, the promises of 
Russia, and this growing sentiment of hostility brought 
about a change of ministry in favor of war. Napoleon, it 
was said, had never yet encountered the soldiers of the 
great Frederick. He had only conquered Austrians and 
Russians, but the Prussian armies had conquered these and 
the French also. When Prussia was only half her present 
size she had alone sustained a war against a great coalition, 
of which France was a member. Thus they talked, and 
soon believed that they had only to declare war in order to 
triumph. Napoleon permitted this fever to rage. He occa- 
sionally uttered some word or did some act that increased 
its heat. Hostilities were not long delayed. The Prussian 
king rushed forward with his army and invaded the soil of 
Saxony, where he took a strong position among the moun- 
tains. Napoleon treated this as a declaration of war. 

And then followed a repetition of the campaign of Aus- 
terlitz. The French generals dreaded the possibilities of 
the Prussian soldiery ; the Prussians felt confident of vic- 
tory: but the result soon settled all doubts. Napoleon dis- 
played that rapidity of movement which had characterized 
his campaign of the previous autumn. He dealt one of his 
tremendous blows at Jena,—a battle that might more 
appropriately be called Auerstidt, in consequence of the 
magnificent conduct of Davoust at that place, —and the 
organization of the confident Prussian army was com- 
pletely broken. Without permitting a breathing-spell of an 
instant, he pressed after the fugitives in a merciless pursuit. 
Within thirty days from the beginning of hostilities the 
Prussian army was destroyed or captured almost to the last 
man. Napoleon had established his headquarters at Berlin, 
and the entire monarchy, with the exception of a small 
tract upon the eastern borders, was in the possession of the 
French. The war still continued with Russia. In mid- 

Napoleon Bonaparte. 255 

winter was fought the battle of Eylau, one of the most 
bloody of even that age, which was of little advantage to 
Napoleon, since the impassable condition of the roads ren- 
dered any pursuit of the enemy impossible. This battle 
was succeeded by a dreary period of inactivity, during 
which the mud prevented any general movement of the 
French, but did not protect them from the barbarous incur- 
sions of the Cossacks. When the spring opened, however, 
Napoleon took the field, and by a masterly series of ma- 
neeuvres compelled the enemy to fight at Friedland, where 
he hurled®almost the entire Russian army into the Alle, and 
terminated the war by one of his most brilliant victories. 

There is a cause which began to develop in this cam- 
paign, and which was finally responsible in a large degree 
for Napoleon’s downfall, and that is the working of moral 
forces among the French themselves. This nation was 
exhausted and weary of war at the beginning of the consul- 
ate, but while the war was waged to defend their territory 
from invasion the French fought with bravery and patriot- 
ism. Bonaparte had, however, by his generalship and ad- 
ministration, put an end to the war, had secured to France 
more than ber former greatness, and his countrymen then 
desired, under his powerful arm, to enjoy the prosperity and 
the quiet of peace. Their brief repose was broken by the 
campaign against Austria, but here they were easily led to 
believe that that nation was responsible for the breach of 
the peace, and the magnificence of the achievements of the 
army called out a genuine enthusiasm. But in regard to 
the cause of the war with Prussia they were not so credu- 
lous. They believed that this war might have been evaded 
by a little sincere negotiation, and, as they already had 
enough of glory, they regarded the repeated conscriptions 
with anxiety and alarm. The bulletins of the grand army 
were greeted in the theatres with silence or with hired 
cheers. When it is remembered that the losses in the 
imperial wars before the treaty of Tilsit were insignificant 

Vol. 7—No. 3 7 

256 The Western. 

when compared with the losses of Napoleon’s subsequent 
wars, — the interminable contest in Spain, the campaign of 
Wagram, and the invasion of Russia, —the demoralizing 
: effect of these terrible struggles upon the hearts of the 
French can scarcely be estimated. And after the over- 
whelming disasters of Russia had turned the tide, and he 
stood for the first time upon the defensive, with his army 
drawn up about Dresden against all the rest of Europe, 
required at last by fortune to display the resources which 
his magnificent genius still had in reserve, it was this cause 
rather than the number and valor of the enemy that over- 
threw him. The faces of his generals were pallid and their 
hearts crushed at thought of those stupendous tragedies 
which they had witnessed. His soldiers, the last dregs of 
exhausted France and of her allies, were wearied out with 
the prospect of endless war, and, while they displayed 
courage, they did not fight as men would fight for their 
country. His genius burned more brilliantly than ever, 
and, had his men possessed the spirit of the men of Auster- 
litz, he would probably have been successful in spite of the 
greater numbers of the enemy. But for every victory that 
he won his marshals suffered three disasters. And when 
in the next year, upon the soil of France, he threw his 
army upon the rear of the allies, preparatory to making one 
final effort, this cause led Marmont to unbar the gates of 
Paris. : 

Another of Napoleon’s most destructive faults dates from 
this period, and that is his prohibition of British goods from 
the continent. Regarded simply from its relation to Eng- 
land, this act was one of profound policy. That country 
was beyond the reach of his armies. She experienced few 
of the ordinary evils of war, while she made it a pretext 
for the most rigid tyranny upon the ocean. Her manufac- 
turers still thrived, her commerce increased, and her enor- 
mous fleets enabled her to make a sally now upon this coast 
and now upon that, and afforded her armies a ready means 

Napoleon Bonaparte. 257 

of retreat at the first approach of disaster. This policy of 
Napoleon’s, however, would injure or destroy at once her 
manufacturing and her commerce. It was perpetrating a 
tyranny upon the land as a reprisal for her tyranny upon 
the sea. But there was this vast difference between the 
effects of the two systems: England’s conduct upon the 
sea did not oppress her own people; it was greatly profit- 
able to them. It only selfishly appropriated the high seas, 
the common heritage of the whole world, to herself; and 
while she thus incurred the hostility of other nations, whom 
she robbed of their rights, these nations, however powerful 
upon the land, were unable to inflict any damage upon her. 
The policy of England, therefore, was a source of strength 
and profit. 

On the other hand, Napoleon’s policy operated most in- 
juriously upon his own ‘subjects, and especially upon his 
allies. It was his prime fault, most conspicuously illus- 
trated in this instance, that he disregarded, or could not 
understand, the workings and effects of public opinion. 

The manufactures of England were so varied, and many 
of them so peculiar to her alone, that he could not banish 
them without depriving his people of many of the luxuries, 
and even some of the necessaries of life. Subjects strongly 
attached to their ruler, as Napoleon’s subjects undoubtedly 
were to him, might cheerfully consent to undergo such in- 
conveniences and privations for a limited time. But after 
years of endurance, and with that endurance multiplied wars 
instead of peace, which was the proposed end, these re- 
straints became peculiarly irksome. Thus his allies, of 
whom there were many millions, who had been attracted to 
their allegiance by his glory and by the belief that one who 
had arisen from the lowest to the highest station would not 
prove an oppressor, became strongly impressed with a sense 
of his tyranny. It was this feeling that induced the Saxons 
to march out of his ranks to those of the enemy in the 
terrible battle of Leipsic, the Bavarians to make that des- 

258 The Western. 

perate effort to cut off his retreat, and in fact it was this 
feeling that transformed all of his eastern allies into his 
most bitterfenemies. It was this policy that was the chief 
and immediate cause of his fatal campaign against Russia. 
He had made [Alexander his firm friend and ally, and, al- 
though the Russian nobles were hostile to the French 
Empire, the authority of that prince, united with moderate 
demands on the part of Napoleon, would have made the 
two nationsjallies as well as their sovereigns. The attempt 
to exclude British goods from Russia, joined to the spirit of 
the nobles, produced a disaffection that the czar could not 
control, and Napoleon’s unwise demand forthe enforcement 
of his policy, after it had shown itself to be so odious to 
the Russian people, was followed by a refusal and subse- 
quently by war. 

Another serious error of Napoleon’s appeared during the 
period betweenfAusterlitz and Tilsit, and developed with 
fatal rapidity — his policy of appropriating some kingdoms 
and of forming others out of seattered material, that he 
might distributejthrones to those who were hound to him by 
ties of blood orfmarriage. In a short space of time he had 
under his control nearly a half-score of thrones. It is not 
strange that{,this course should have alarmed the reigning 
families of Europe for their crowns. These vassal king- 
doms which Napoleon reared became in some cases sources 
of weakness, and in one conspicuous instance he was in- 
volved in the most deplorable consequences. 

The condition of Spain before Napoleon seized that king- 
dom for his brother was utterly wretched. The throne was 
occupied by an imbecile, whose highest and almost only 
mental attainment was a knowledge of horses. His faithless 
queen prevailed in all matters over the weak mind of her 
husband, and she in turn was controlled by the wishes of 
an effeminate and selfish favorite, who thus became the real 
ruler of Spain. The docks and great naval establishments 
were fast falling into decay, the army was small and undis- 

Napoleon Bonaparte. 259 

ciplined, the few ships that survived Trafalgar were rotten 
and old-fashioned, the treasury was unable to meet the 
current expenses of the government, the poor and lawless 
class among the people was rapidly becoming larger, and 
the heir to the throne had been arrested, through the con- 
trivance of his unnatural mother, for a conspiracy to rob his 
father of his life and throne. This desperate condition of 
affuirs demanded intervention and an introduction of the 
most rigorous reforms. But the simple interference by 9 
ruler of Napoleon’s strength was all that was required or 
indeed warranted. The Spaniards, however degenerate in 
other respects, retained at least their ancient pride, and 
were the last people to submit to a ruler who not only 
possessed no legal title to their throne, but who also was 
without royal blood. The coronation of Joseph Bonaparte 
aroused all their ancestral prejudices and caused a civil 
war of the most stubborn character. A small division of 
English soldiers, commanded by an admirable general, 
formed a nucleus about which the insurgents rallied and 
soon acquired discipline and courage. Napoleon committed 
a serious error, not only in causing this war, but also in its 
conduct. Absorbed in his vast dreams against Austria, 
Russia, and Constantinople, he seemed to regard this 
struggle with contempt. He would put an end to the 
Spanish war, he said, in Moscow ; and thus he Intrusted that 
war to the inefficiency and discords of his marshals. Once, 
indeed, in an early stage of the war, when Joseph had heen 
driven out of Madrid, he crossed the Pyrenees, restored bis 
brother in a brief campaign of twenty days, overthrew the 
insurgent armies, and sent the English flying to their ships. 
But, with this one exception, his only interference consisted 
in occasionally sending plans from Paris and in disgracing 
his marshals. With one-fifth of the soldiers that he lost in 
Russia, together with those already in Spain, he could have 
crushed out all opposition. The marshals were unsuccessful 
for a variety of reasons. In the first place, the English and 
insurgents were excellently commanded. The Duke of 

260 The Western. 

Wellington displayed great caution, vigilance, firmness, and 
an admirable judgment. Nevertheless, if his victories are 
studied, it will be seen that he did not exhibit a generalship 
one whit higher than that of Moreau, except in the im- 
portant quality of energy, in which he was by far the 
superior of the Frenchman. The marshals, on the other 
hand, accustomed as they were to act under Napoleon’s eye, 
had become unfitted to assume the responsibility of a sepa- 
rate command.’ As each one was unwilling to be made a 
subordinate, or to contribute to the glory of any of his fellow- 
marshals, the most unfortunate dissensions arose, which 
Joseph did not possess the authority to restrain. Massena, 
however, was an exception in generalship, but not in mis- 
fortune, to the marshals who fought in Spain. He conceived 
a plan of a campaign which deserved success ; but after he 
had thrown himself into a position of danger, in reliance 
upon the coéperation of the other marshals, their aid was 
withheld from him until he had lost a battle which he could 
have won. During his celebrated retreat he exhibited 
a skill equal to any displayed upon either side during the 
Spanish wars ; but, for his ill-success, Napoleon crowned him 
with disgrace. This noble old hero, who had gained for 
France nearly as large a share of legitimate glory as had 
Napoleon, who had protected her territory from invasion at 
Zurich, who had made the victory of Marengo possible by 
his heroism at Genoa, who had saved the army from de- 
struction at Essling, to whom had always been allotted those 
tasks that required the heroism of despair —this old hero 
was sacrificed to the injustice and to the unnatural policy of 
his master. Thus the Spanish wars were protracted, and 
caused a loss to Napoleon’s armies, by disease, by desertions, 
and by battle, of two hundred thousands of his best soldiers. 
These men, even after the tremendous losses of Russia, 
would have been more than sufficient to decide the campaign 
of Dresden in his favor. 
S. W. McCatt. 


Kant’s Critic of Pure Reason. 



It. is impossible to form a correct representation of 
Kant’s philosophy without comprehending the Critic of 
Pure Reason, for all his earlier works strive towards it 
unconsciously, all his later works point back to it con- 
sciously. It formulated the problems that were to employ 
German philosophy during the next ten years. It changed 
the whole terminology of German speculation, and its man- 
ner of treating science —the tone that it struck — became 
the model of numerous imitations. It legitimated the re- 
jection of metaphysical inquiry, and the pressing forward 
from the theoretical to the practical, the leading back of 
religion to morality. 

Its general division into an elementary doctrine and a 
doctrine of method, Kant borrowed from the compend 
upon which he based his oral instruction. Its universal 
problem he summed up in the formula: How are synthetic 
judgments a priori possible? He called those judgments 
analytical in which the predicate of the subject is drawn 
from it immediately through analysis; those synthetic, 
in which the predicate is first united with the subject 
through mediation as a new determination. Synthetic 
judgments a posteriori, therefore empirical, are easily ex- 
plained ; but synthetic judgments a priori, where the pred- 
icate of the subject cannot be received from intuition 
(Anschanung), are more difficult to comprehend. The 
pure concepts of the understanding can only relate to a 
content given through intuition; knowledge is transcen- 
dental if it proceeds in this consciousness; it is transcen- 
dent if it passes beyond the limits drawn for it through the 
relation of the immanent concept to intuition. In these 
presuppositions lie the strength and the weakness of the 
Critic of Reason. 

262 The Western. 

In the Transcendental sthetic, Kant examined the 
sensuous conditions of knowledge. All sensation as a 
sensuous process is in space and time; but space and time 
in and for themselves cannot be perceived, and therefore 
cannot be objects of intuition. Consequently, Kant con- 
cluded, coexistence and succession are a priori pure forms 
of intuition. 

This was his first counter-thrust against sensualism and 
scepticism. Intuition can only contain the finite and acci- 
dental ; therefore universality and necessity of knowledge 
are only possible through logical determinations which are 
independent of intuition. Transcendental logic thus de- 
velops on one side the abstract forms of thinking (the 
Transcendental Analytic); on the other, the contradiction 
into which they fall when applied to a content not given 
through intuition (the Dialectic). 

The Analytic finds the concepts of the pure understanding 
in the functions of thinking, in the judgment forms of quan- 
tity, quality, relation, and modality. Each of these cate- 
gories is itself divided trichotomously: quantity into the 
universal, particular, and singular judgment; quality into 
the affirmative, negative, and infinite ; relation into the cat- 
egorical, hypothetical, and disjunctive; modality into, the 
problematic, assertory, and apodeictical. These are the 
original concepts without which it is impossible to pass 
judgment, because they first establish universality and neces- 
sity. As independent of all intuition, they are the a priori 
concepts with which we prescribe laws to the world; be- 
cause, as logical, they are at the same time ontological, dis- 
solving metaphysical ontology into logic. Quantity con- 
tains the concepts of unity, plurality, and totality ; quality 
that of reality, negation, and limitation; relation, that of 
substantiality, causality, and reciprocity; modality, that of 
possibility, existence, and necessity. The categories were 
the seeond counter-thrust against the acceptance of sensual- 
ism and scepticism. 

Kant’s Critic of Pure Reason. 263 

Whatever we think, we must think in the categories. 
Experience is only possible because the faculty of imagina- 
tion reproduces the representations grasped by the perceiv- 
ing apprehension. To thisreproduction is added recognition 
through the apperception of self-consciousness in the con- 
tinuity of the Ego, which accompanies all actions of the 
soul as a moment of identical intelligence. The concept of 
the Ego was the third counter-thrust against sensualism and 
scepticism, which Kant, nevertheless, did not follow out to 
its consequences. He permitted the ‘‘ I think’’ to disap- 
pear in the «I will.’’ 

Two elements, according to Kant, constitute real knowl- 
edge: intuition and concept. Intuitions without concepts 
are blind ; concepts without intuitions are void. A synthe- 
sis, uniting the affections of the receptivity of the mind 
with the functions of the spontaneity of the understanding, 
exists as original in the Ego, since the Ego is an object for 
us without being an object of sensuous intuition. It can 
neither be felt, nor seen, nor heard; neither the outer sense 
of sight nor the inner one of hearing can reach it, since, 
without being a category, it is 1 pure concept. As simple 
oneness it effects the synthesis of intuitions and concepts. 
It grasps and unites them in itself. 

But there would still exist a dualism between the multi- 
plicity of intuitions and the simplicity of the concepts of the 
understanding, if there did not exist a schematism of the 
a priori categories, through which, as through a hidden art 
in the depths of the soul, the sensuous element of intuition 
and the abstract one of concept are so blended together 
that we have neither the copy of a given object nor an idea, 
but a schema, which mediates real knowledge in its neces- 
sary universality — as when, for instance, we represent a tri- 
angle, a dog, etc., in general. This psychological, mystical 
doctrine of the schema, that can neither be explained 
through the sensibility nor understanding, was Kant’s fourth 
counter-thrust against sensualism and scepticism. The 

264 The Western. 

sehematism of the concepts of the understanding places 
quantity through the time-series in number ; quality, through 
the content of time in sensation ; relation, through the order 
of time in substance as permanence ; in causality, through 
the vicissitude of accidents as change ; in reciprocity, through 
mutual action, as the coexistence of activity and passivity ; 
in modality, finally, through the comprehension in time of 
all possible quantities. Possibility, therefore, appears in 
modality as that which happens at some time or other; 
reality, as that which happens at a definite time ; necessity, 
as that which happens at every time. 

Kant now established, according to the categories, a sys- 
tematic order of all the synthetic principles of the pure under 
standing. Quantity produces axioms of intuitions, for all 
intuitions are extensive quantities ; and in all sensations the 
real, which is an object of sensation, has a degree —is an 
intensive quantity. Quality produces anticipations of per- 
ception, because, after acquaintance with an object, we know 
beforehand how it will affect our senses. Relation produces 
, analogies of experience, viz.: from substance, the inherence 
therein of accidental determinations; from causality, the 
consistency of effect from a cause; from community, the 
composition of reciprocity. The three analogies are thus 
the principle of permanénce, of production, and of com- 
munity. Modality is represented, finally, in the postulates of 
empirical thinking: that that is possible which agrees with 
the formal conditions of experience ; real, which agrees with 
the real conditions of experience ; necessary, which is iden- 
tical with the universal conditions of experience. There is 
in the world no accident, no fate, no leap, no vacuum. 

All objects for us are either phenomena or noumena: phe- 
nomena as appearances which we empirically comprehend 
through the mediation of the senses, or noumena as con- 
cepts of the understanding which designate to us the thing 
per se, but which are only limiting concepts, because we are 
not able to recognize what the thing per se is, on account of 

Kant’s Critic of Pure Reason. 265 

the opposition between the sensuous and intelligible world. 
In an appendix on the amphiboly of the pure forms of re- 
flection, Kant therefore taught that, before one judges, one 
must consider where an object belongs —whether it is a 
merely empirical or a transcendental object. This logic of 
reflection contains the determinations of identity or differ- 
ence, agreement and opposition, internal and external, mat- 
ter and form. 

The concept of thing per se facilitated for Kant the tran- 
sition to the second part uf the Transcendental Logic, the 
Dialectic, as the logic of mere appearance, because it has to 
treat of the relation between the reason and the concepts of 
the understanding, and discover why the latter seem sufficient 
for the comprehension of the former. Kant had shown in 
the Transcendental M¥sthetic that space and time are 
a priori forms of intuition ; in the Transcendental Analytic, 
that the categories, upon which the functions of judg- 
ment rest, are @ priori concepts of the pure understanding ; 
that the Ego is a synthetic apperception a priori; that the 
function of the schema is a mystical product of the faculty 
of imagination. With all these determinations he had torn 
himself loose from Locke and Hume only to fall back finally 
into the dualism of phenomenon and thing per se. But 
here again he reacts powerfully against sensualism and scep- 
ticism, for he suddenly assures us that we possess near the 
understanding, which only extends to the finite, to intui- 
tions, a faculty of the unconditioned reason, whose object 
is the idea as unconditioned, to which nothing corresponds 
in the world of the senses. But, if it would not fall into 
extravagance, it must not forget that for the reality of cog- 
nition it is dependent on the facts of intuition and the cate- 
gories of the understanding. Our knowledge contains an 
unavoidable element of mere appearance in so far as we do 
not consider that we possess only the finite forms of under- 
standing for the infinite content of reason, through whose 
uncritical application error necessarily arises, which the 

266 The Western. 

Dialectic of pure reason undertakes to discover. Meta- 
physics before Kant had included ontology, cosmology, 
pneumatology, and rational theology. Ontology had been 
transmuted by Kant into logic, and there consequently re- 
mained only the ideas of the world, of the soul, and of God. 
These three he tried very subtilely to derive from the moments 
of the category of relation by transferring the categorical, 
the hypothetical, and the disjunctive syllogism, as the basis 
of the concepts of substantiality, causality, and reciprocity, 
to the concepts of the soul, the world, and God. The 
syllogism of psychology is categorical, on account of the 
unity of the being of the soul; the syllogism of cosmology 
hypothetical, on account of the presupposition of the com- 
pleteness of phenomena; the syllogism of theology dis- 
junctive, on account of the absoluteness of the existence 
of God. The false syllogisms made here Kant called the 
paralogisms of psychology, the antinomies of cosmology, 
and the ideal syllogism of theology. In them knowledge 
becomes transcendent. 

In the paralogisms of psychology, Kant found that the 
unity of the soul is always presupposed for the different 
predicates given to it of substantiality, personality, and 
ideality. According to quantity, the soul is the subject of 
all its predicates, consequently as inhering in no other sub- 
ject, substance ; according to quality, the soul, as not con- 
sisting of real parts, is an ideal whole, consequently imma- 
terial and simple; according to relation, it is numerically 
identical, therefore personal ; according to modality, it is 
related to all possible objects in space, therefore ideal. 
But all these predicates are surreptitiously derived from the 
concept of the unity of the synthetic appreciation of all self- 

In the antinomies of the cosmological ideas, Kant exam- 
ined the complete composition of the given wholes of all 
phenomena, the division of a given whole in the phenome- 
non (the division of matter), the origin of a phenomenon 

Kant’s Critic of Pure Reason. 267 

in general, the dependence therein of the existence of the 
changeable. The two first problems refer to the mechani- 
cally unconditioned, the two last to the dynamically uncon- 
ditioned. Kant represented each problem in an antithesis 
by affirming the opposite determinations of the same world- 
concept as alike probable, producing at that time through 
this parallelism a wholly incredible effect. He called this 
comparison a sceptical method, which must be distinguished 
from scepticism ; the proof, nevertheless, he only drew in- 
directly (apagogically) from the impossibility of the oppo- 
site. Has the world a beginning in space and time, or does 
it exist from eternity? Do only simple substances exist as 
atoms, or is every substance composite? Does everything 
happen merely according to natural causality, or is there a 
causality through freedom? Does there exist in the world, 
as part of it, or as its cause outside of it, an absolutely nec- 
essary Being, or not? According to Kant, each of these 
questions can be answered with equal right in the affirma- 
tive. We cannot know, therefore, how we ought to decide. 
The interest of reason in the contradiction rests on the nec- 
essary despair in which it sees itself placed through the 
equal weight of the grounds that support as well the thesis 
as the antithesis. It is just as impossible for the under- 
standing to solve this contradiction as it is for reason not to 
demand the thinking of the unconditioned. Kant therefore 
finds the key to the solution of the antinomies in transcen- 
dental idealism, namely, in this: that we can make of the 
reason no canonical or constitutive, but only a regulative 
use, when we recognize its limits. The totality of phenom- 
ena can never become an object of intuition, and the cate- 
gories cannot be applied to anything save a finite content. 
Reason, therefore, decides not in the objective sense that it 
is able to know the absolute totality of the synthesis of all 
objects, but only in the subjective sense, since it follows 
the series of representations to the point where they become 
indefinite. The Regressus in infinitum as objective causal- 

268 The Western. 

ity must be distinguished, according to Kant, from the 
Regressus in indefinitum. 

The third syllogism, the ideal syllogism of the pure 
reason, as the Prototypon Transcendentale, extends to the. 
unity of the conditions of all possible experience. This 
unity is the object of speculative theology, which under- 
takes to prove the existence of God, ontologically, cosmo- 
logically, and physico-theologically. Kant sought to show 
that from the latter proof, which proceeds from the fact 
of design in the world, one may prove a world-architect, 
but not a world-creator, and that this proof is only a 
wider development of the cosmological, which is again 
based on the ontological. Of the ontological, Kant 
affirmed that it contains in its predicate no real determi- 
nation of the subject, for existence adds nothing new to 
the concept of the subject. A hundred dollars, for in- 
stance, as a concept or empirical existence, are neither 
more nor less than a hundred dollars, yet in the context of 
experience it makes a vast difference whether I possess a 
hundred dollars actually or possibly. According to Kant, 
the ontological proof places existence first in the concept 
of God as one of its realities in order to extract it after- 
ward, and thus prove that God is the ens realissimum, the 
conceptus realitatum omnium. Kant believed that he had 
destroyed with the ontological proof the others also, and 
his contemporaries admired this superficial argumentation 
as a masterpiece of modern sagacity. His hundred-dollar 
comparison was uncommonly successful, but a hundred 
dollars as a wholly accidental existence are not to be com- 
pared with an idea whose nature it is to transcend neces- 
sarily the limits of experience. Thus the possession, or not, 
of a hundred dollars is for the individual absolutely acci- 
dental, but the concept of the reality of God is wholly 
inseparable frem that of His possibility, for the Absolute 
is not to be thought as not existing. 

God is therefore, according to Kant, not even a hypoth- 
esis, but only a thought to be recommended for the prac- 

Kant’s Critic of Pure Reason. 269 

tical use of humanity, because it is a schema permitted by 
the syllogism of analogy, which allows the hypostasizing 
and personifying of the thought of God as a popular ap- 
proach to the Ideal of reason. From theoretical grounds 
we are not able to prove the necessity of the immortality 
of the soul, freedom of will, and the existence of God, 
but from’ practical grounds we may believe therein for the 
benefit of morality. 

This was the Critic of Reason! In its content, it began 
with the external intuition of space and time, and ended 
with the idea of God. In its course, it raised itself psy- 
chologically from esthetic receptivity through the spon- 
taneity of the understanding to the absoluteness of reason. 
In its result, it annihilated the possibility of the knowing 
of ideas, but sanctioned belief in them in the interest of 
morality. All these thoughts would nevertheless have 
made but little impression, because they belonged to the 
time in general. The Kénigsberg philosopher stood no 
higher therein than the enlightenment ( Aufklérung) of that 
period, but was separated in form from their commonplaces 
by his genial style. This gradual rising from the lower to 
the higher ; this ever potent return of the same elements of 
intuition and concept; these categories fruitfully corrobo- 
rating themselves in ever new applications ; this conclusion 
with a result in order to cancel it immediately ; this cir- 
cumspection and keenness in the analysis of concepts ; this 
amplitude in their synthesis ; this scrupulousness of exam- 
ination, and yet this serenity of tone; this holding fast 
of the one theme, and at the same time this. presageful 
touching of all sciences —no, such a book had not yet 
appeared. One might reject its content, but could not 
escape its enchantment. Without a knowledge of it, Ger- 
man philosophy since then cannot be understood, and 
nearly all the other nations have translated it into their 

Exvuen M. MrrcHetu. 

The Western. 


I lost, somewhere along the road 
*Twixt by-gone years and now, 

A child, with winsome, thoughtful face, 
And deeply thoughtful brow. 

She took with her, nor brought them back, 
A lisping, childish voice ; 

A laugh that, rippling, seemed to say: 
“Be free! be glad! rejoice!” 

She took two gems, half hid beneath 
Soft curls of golden brown: 

So beautiful, so bright were they, 
They seemed a regal crown. 

They say “she is not lost to me,” 
The child I loved of old; 

But she is lost, and lost for aye— 
Her laugh, her curls of gold. 

True, a maiden stands, to-day, 
Beside me as I write, 

But this one has a woman’s face, 
And locks ag dark as night. 

Her brow is broad, and thoughtful, too: 
But faint time-lines are there; 
She has my lost child’s winsomeness : 
Her face is just as fair; 

But ah! at times I longing look, 
Into her eyes, and say: 
“Oh, give me back the care-free child 
I lost on life’s highway!” 
J. E. Jonzs. 


It is no disparagement of logic to recognize its limitations 
in dealing with the practical questions of life. If reasoning 
is conclusive, its premises must be simple and clear. Social 
facts are of the most complex and mixed character, and 
logic is able to move freely among them only by means of 

Logie for Life. 271 

suppositions so restricted as to exclude a large share of the 
factors involved. It traces the tendencies of simple forces, 
but cannot settle in any given case the precise degree in 
which they will be modified or thwarted by other forces. 
To live, therefore, and live well, is much more than the 
fulfilment of a logical process. So thoroughly is this fact 
recognized in politics that every one distinguishes easily 
between the duties of a statesman and of a publicist, and 
understands readily that the theories of the one, however 
correct, can only find slow and hesitating application to the 

The same statement is equally applicable to the religious 
world, though the relations of logic and life have not there 
been as closely discerned. Theology, which traces the 
logical dependencies of religious truths, has been thought 
to be of much more immediate and practical import than 
it really is. 

Religious action is controlled or modified by a great 
variety of popular convictions and prejudices and customs, 
and yields very slowly, therefore, to the force of a creed. 

A creed is much less powerful for good and more harm- 
less for evil than the logician is likely to regard it. Many 
a theologian, in thus working away at a creed, has suffered 
the larger share of life to flow by unaffected. 

A creed is most interesting and usually most powerful at 
the moment of crystallization, but, once crystallized, it be- 
comes increasingly dead. 

We need to remember this general fact in the practical 
questions of the day. On the whole, was it not a foolish 
crusade to try to insert a formal recognition of God in the 
Constitution of the United States? Is the logical force 
which we may assign to such an insertion likely to express 
its practical force? Are not events sure to flow on quite for- 
getful of our new logical terms? The nation és, ina certain 
measure, a religious nation.. To a limited degree its action 
is governed by religious truths. These facts will not be es- 

Vol. 7—No. 3 18 

272 The Western. 

sentially modified by an express declaration. Nor are we 
to suppose that God stands with us, as a people, on cere- 
mony, and is to be propitiated or put off by a few words of 
recognition in our Constitution. The only question of 
moment is, What are the religious facts in the life of the 
nation, and how can we improve them? 

In another practical question, logic is running away with 
life. It is said, and well said, that religion is the basis of a 
complete and sound education ; and, this granted, the con- 
clusion is made to follow that those particular things by us 
associated with religion must appear in our public schools, 
or those schools are worse than worthless. The reading of 
the Bible five minutes in the morning may be made to stand 
for the complete religious factor, and if this is, in any con- 
tingency, denied, the entire school-work may be subverted 
in our affections. This view forgets that the religious life of 
a community is in no way contained in or expressed by a 
prescribed reading, under given circumstances, of the Scrip- 
tures, desirable as this reading may be. If such a reading is 
affirmed to be of the very essence and substance of religion, 
the assertion only shows how hopelessly religion itself has 
already sunk from its true position. 

A truly religious school, and a very desirable one, can be 
ordered, if need be, without any such reading. While, 
therefore, I would seek to defend the liberty of each school 
in this matter, I would not unwisely say that the very ex- 
istence of public education, under our first principle,— the 
necessity of religious training,— depends upon this or upon 
any single circumstance. 

Again we unfurl our flag, inscribed ‘* Religion and Educa- 
tion,’’ and proceed to show the logical incompatibility of our 
first principle with State universities, because some truths 
‘ which we have identified with religion cannot be taught in 
them. In all this we forget the force of the practical facts 
of life. As a fact, the State university, like the community 
to which it belongs, is permeated with the common religious 

"22 Deaf Mutes and their Education. 273 

life, and the truths of religion do find in many ways discus- 
sion and enforcement in the university. The young man in 
the university is morally as safe as, or safer than the young 
man in the community. If one were forgetful of theories 
and cognizant only of facts, he would see very little differ- 
ence between the State institution and the average college 
in religious instruction, except as it is found in a few en- 
forced religious services — services which almost all admit 
to be of doubtful religious value. Nothing hinders our 
pouring our best religious life into our public institutions, 
provided we bring it as life, and not as logic. The fact that, 
religion must be first rid of all bias, and must be presented 
as pure, practical truth, with full respect of every man’s 
freedom, is no objection to the conditions involved, but a 
commendation of them rather. No purity, no magnanimity, 
nor any excellence‘of life, is out of order in a State institu- 
tion. In such a life is religion in its most concrete, actual, 
and powerful form. 

I trust the Christian world will cease to strive, at this 
point of public education, to rule out life with logic, and 
will be content to bring to the common growth the best 
conditions of which it is here and now capable. An honest 
disposition to do this faithfully and laboriously is worth 
more religiously than any creed, as a creed, that was ever 
framed ; than any church, as an organization merely, that 
was ever formed. To assert this is simply to give again the 
very essence of the Gospel. Joun Bascom. 


People can at a glance see that a blind man is blind, a 
cripple a cripple, and so on; but among a crowd of people 
it would be utterly impossible to distinguish a deaf-mute 
from a hearing person. Thus it is that individuals, espe- 

274 The Western. 

cially in large cities, daily pass deaf-mutes on the thorough- 
fares without in the least suspecting them to be so. It is 
only when seer expressing themselves in the silent language 
of signs, or when writing to some one in making known 
their wants, that they are immediately recognized as persons 
bereft of hearing. This class of human beings comprises 
a large portion of our population, the latest statistical com- 
putation giving one mute in every twelve hundred inhabi- 
tants. The entire deaf-mute population of the world, 
therefore, approximates a million, of which at least fifty 
thousand exist in the United States. The average school 
curriculum allowed a mute by the various State schools for 
the deaf and dumb is eight years. Considering the child’s 
loss of hearing, and consequent slowness of perception and 
mental development, this is generally accepted as too brief 
a course. Children in the full enjoyment of all their senses 
obtain their first knowledge of language by hearing those 
around them speak, and their steps up the hill of learning 
are thereby greatly facilitated and hastened; but those 
whom Heaven saw fit to deny the most important of all 
senses are forced to depend upon their own exertions and 
make their own way, often grappling with ideas to thein 
difficult of comprehension. 

There is much difference between a deaf-mute and a 
semi-mute. The first is one born deaf and dumb, or one 
who lost his hearing and speech at an early age; the second 
is one who could hear and speak for a number of years and 
subsequently became deaf, but still articulates to a greater 
or less extent. By far the greater ratio of mutes are included 
in the first order; in fact, more than one-half of them. 
Semi-mutes, owing to their preacquisition of language pre- 
vious to their loss of hearing, generally meet with no great 
difficulty in understanding the English language and the 
natural sciences. With congenitals —i.e., those born deaf 
and dumb— it is different. The task of teaching deaf- 
mutes is a most exhaustive and tiresome one, and naturally 

Deaf Mutes and their Education. 275 

calls for a vast amount of patience. Objects are shown 
them, and the children are taught to make the proper sign 
for each ; then they are told to bring this and that object 
by its own peculiar sign, and, this done, they are taught to 
write the names of the objects. Thev gradually learn to 
write a variety of word-objects, which, as time progresses, 
are formed into sentences. When they are sufficiently well 
advanced in composition and general knowledge of common 
things, books sre given them, which they study and write 
out like oral children. At this stage of progress questions 
put to the pupils are either written or spelt on the fingers, 
and answers are given in like manner. Like hearing chil- 
dren of our public schools, the same discrepancy in the 
progress of pupils exists among the school children of si- 

A fair percentage of semi-mutes are tolerably good talk- 
ers, despite their total deafness. Some are so adept at 
reading the lips of people addressing them as to defy de- 
tection of the loss of hearing. Such cases are, of course, 
found only among intelligent semi-mutes, and especially 
semi-mute ladies, who, for the most part, articulate plainly 
and quite distinctly. The reason but few semi-mutes of 
the masculine gender can rival their sisters in the use of 
their tongue lies in the fact that the girls are at home with 
the family or associated with personal friends all the time, 
and their vocal organs are brought into requisition just so 
long as there is some one around them that is familiar with 
their voice. Articulation —a mere accomplishment in the 
matter of deaf-mute education —is taught a limited num- 
ber of the State schools for the deaf and dumb, 
while the sign language is universally and constantly em- 
ployed. There are so few semi-mutes in a school for 
mutes — and not many congenitals can be taught to articu- 
late with any real success — that the art of teaching mutes 
articulation is necessarily limited to a select few. Many 
drop articulation after leaving school, so that the time spent 
in teaching them to lisp a few words is wasted. 

276 The Western. 

There is a National Deaf-Mute College at Washington, 
D. C., where those who believe in a college education can 
get the same if they crave for it. A number of mutes go 
there yearly. All the branches of a regular college are 
there taught, and degrees are conferred upon graduates. 
It is presided over by Mr. Edward M. Gallaudet, son of the 
lamented and beloved Rev. Thomas H. Gallaudet, the 
founder of deaf-mute instruction in America. A consider- 
able number of mutes compete successfully with their hear- 
ing brethren, both in a literary and a business point. There 
are mutes to-day occupying positions of responsibility and 
honor, among which are two professors in the National 
College, about half a dozen editors and publishers of news- 
papers, a good many teachers, several principals of mute 
schools, three preachers, half a dozen clerks in the gov- 
ernment offices, and others are clerks elsewhere. Besides 
this, there are deaf-mute authors, poets, lawyers, and busi- 
ness men. 

A wrong impression has long prevailed among the public 

in regard to deaf-mutes and their schools. Institutions for 
the education of the deaf and dumb are nothing more or 
less than schools, and such are no more ‘‘asylums’’ than 
are the public schools. They are educational establish- 
ments, and for educational purposes — only this and nothing 
more. How unjust and unreasonable, therefore, to term 
such ‘‘ asylums’? —a misnomer for which all intelligent 
and respectable mutes and their friends cherish an uncon- 
querable hatred. It would appear that the word ‘ institu- 
tion ’’ is calculated to mislead the public, on which account 
all places where children of silence receive an education 
should go under no other name but that of ‘* schools.’’ 



Can it be? (My God, the pain!) 
The turn of the r, the cross of the ¢, 
Hers, Queen Mab’s! Has she come again 
Over the years to me? 

The years, how many! Nay, no need 

To reckon them up. What do they tell? 
They only mock. New days recede 

And the old come in on the swell 

Of this mighty wave. But what within 
This spacious cover? Another hand, 

And that, cut clear by engraver’s pen, 
Easy to understand. 

“She has the honor — Madame mtre — 
Her daughter Mabel — to the Count — 
Married’’! Well, no need to stare, 
It comés to the same amount. 

Madame la Comtesse, I wish you joy! 
I send you my blessing, over the sea. 
It is burned quite clear of all alloy; 
It shall come to you dross-free. 

Madame la Comtesse, do you hear? 
I send you my blessing — nothing more. 

Would you know the old fellow, so gray and queer, 
Staring at library door? 

Would I know the Countess? Maybe not. 
No need to query. But I knew 

One who can never be forgot. 
*Tis with her I have to do. 

But how does it come that you have thought 
Of me in the hour of your nuptial pride? 
The old school-master should be forgot 
At your noble bridegroom’s side. 

Tossing over the fathomless sea 

Comes there a mirage from the shore, 
Of another you, and another me, 

Of days forever o’er? 

The Western. 

The very same that comes to me 
Sitting here, from my door of glass, 

Over the books? Naught else I see 
But the school-room, after class. 

Empty of all save two alone, 
Master and pupil. Stripling he, 
Fair and farthingless, naught his own 
Save his very fresh A. B. 

Very grave indeed they stand 
At the window. Yonder in the West 
A great blush brightens. In his hand 
Her Virgil lies at rest. 

Yet something keeps her lingering here. 

Is she naughty? Perhaps, for on her cheek, 
Pale, but luminous, lies a tear, — 

And not a word they speak. 

Reverent bends the master there, — 
Never a word of blame has he, — 

Touching the splendid back-thrown hair, 
Incedo regina, she! 

Strange! the Lesson which keeps her there 
Is, ah, so easy! ah, so sweet! 

Yet never finished! All his care 
Still leaves it incomplete. 

Little Queen Mab, you are out of school 
But have you forgot, in the world of men, 
The Lessun, and its Golden Rule, 
We taught each other then? 

Madame la Comtesse, fare you well! 
Naught must be said between us two 

(Little Queen Mab will never tell) 
Save the word of words, adieu! 

Ay, @ Dieu! Where else, O heart, 

With the freight of this wave that whelmeth thee? 
To God, with the anguish and the smart 

Of Love’s long mystery! 

The Island of Manisees. 


Leagues north as fly the gull and auk, 
Point Judith watcheth with eye of hawk, 
Leagues south thy beacon flames, Montauk! 

— * * * * * * * 
Circled by waters that never freeze, 

Beaten by billow and swept by breeze, 
Lieth the island of Manisees, 

Set at the mouth of the sound to hold 
The cvast-lights up on its turret old, 
Yellow with moss and sea-fog mould. 

It was a fine September morning when the steamer Mon- 
vhansett left her dock at New Bedford with a party of sight- 
seers, bound on a voyage of some sixty miles to ‘‘ the good 
island known as Block,’’ or, as runs its softer Indian name, 
Manisees. From our comfortable seats upon the upper 
deck we enjoyed the view of the pleasant shores and islands 
of the Acushnet, whose sparkling waters were crowded with 
craft of many kiud. The great packet-ship bound for far 
Fayal, the huge, four-masted coasting schooner, with a 
steam-engine to aid in hoisting sail and in loading and 
unloading the superb steam yacht, and the puffing little 
Nonquitt tug-boat, the whalers lying at their docks, the 
countless yachts and other sailing-vessels made a lively 
scene, and on our outward way we saw the smoky pennons 
of the steamers that plied between Boston and more south- 
ern ports and the whitening sails of unnumbered coasters. 
Passing Clarke’s Point, where a fort of solid masonry 
guards the entrance to the river, we enterred Buzzard’s Bay 
and bent our course toward the south-west. Strangely 
mingling Biblical and English with Indian names, we point 
to Padanaram, to Nonquitt, a little cluster of cottages with 
its one hotel, to Westport, to Leviston and Seaconnet. 
We run close to the light-boat on the ‘*‘ Hen and Chick- 

280 The Western. 

ens’’ ledge, and stop for « minute, as the boats salute each 
other, to toss on board bundles of papers and books, that 
may serve to while away the keeper’s lonely hours. Then 
we wonder at the ‘‘ Groaning Buoy,’’ that, when the wind ? 
draws through it as it rises upon the waves, utters a pro- 
longed and dismal wail, a warning to mariners that seems 
to feel itself hopeless of success. To our left we have 
passed the long line of the Elizabeth Islands, that shut 
in the entrance to the Bay, and we are soon upon the 
waters of the Vineyard Sound. We point to Penekese, 
famous for Professor Agassiz’ summer school, and recall a 
pleasant visit there and the kindly welcome from the great 
savant who has passed away. Yet another island, rejoic- 
ing in the melodious name of Cutlyhunk, is noted as having 
once been the abiding place of the English sailor Barthole- 
mew Gosnold, who landed here in the summer of 1602. 
Within this island there is a little lake, and within that lake, 
close to its low shore, is a tiny islet on which the bold nav- 
igator built him a house, whereof the foundations, ‘+ they 
say,’’ yet remain. The lake and the islet I have seen. As 
for the house, doubtless its stone remains yet rest beneath 
the mass of weeds and shrubs that overgrow the spot. 

Still beyond the Elizabeth group we see Martha’s Vine- 
yard, with its queer cottage-city, its shining cliff; Gay- 
Head, bright with yellow and rosy hues; and yet beyond, 
lying low on the waters, Noman’s Land, the haunt of fisher- 

And now on our right glitter the spires of Newport, and 
the Ocean House is distinctly seen in the clear air; Narra- 
gansett Pier is past, and Point Judith, terror of sea-sick 
sufferers, already begins to assert her power, and to cause 
many of our number to rejoice that Block Island, goal of 
our voyaging, lies not far before us. Nearly four hours 
have passed since leaving New Bedford, and our little party 
have found time to recall some things which history and 
tradition tell of the place and its neighborhood. Seen by 

The Island of Manisees. 281 

Verrazzani in 1524, the island of Manisees, as it was called 
from its Indian owner, was first explored by the Dutch 
sailor Adrian Block, who came thither in 1614, in his 
vessel, the Unrest, and has given it his name. The Indians 
who belonged to the Narragansett tribe were, however, left 
undisturbed in their possession, until, some twenty years 
later, they were foolish and unlucky enough to involve 
themselves in trouble with the colonists of Massachusetts 
Bay, through the murder of a Boston trader, Oldham by 
name, who went there to trade with the natives and was 
killed for the sake of his clothes. The Massachusetts gov- 
ernor determined to avenge his death, and stout John Endi- 
cott was sent to conquer the place and bring it under 
English rule. After some hard fighting the little band of 
white men won the day, and the savages paid dearly for 
their treacherous deed. On this expedition Endicott was 
accompanied by a Captain Underhill, a noted Indian-fighter, 
who, in his haste to be off to the wars, forgot, like the 
Douglas at Otterbourne, 

‘*His helmet good, 
That should protect his brain.’’ 

More happy than the Scottish warrior, our doughty 
champion had a wife at hand to see that her soldier went 
properly armed and equipped, and who insisted, though 
against his will, that he should take his casque with him. 
Thanks to this protection, the Indian arrows glanced harm- 
lessly aside, and the grateful husband thus records his 
thankfulness for wifely service: ‘* Let no one despise the 
advice and counsel of his wife, though she be a woman !”’ 

Two years later the island of Manisses is recorded to have 
sent three men to Massachusetts Bay, bearing with them 
ten fathoms of wampum, a tenth of the tribute it was com- 
pelled to pay annually as a token of subjection. In 1658 
its ownership was transferred to several individuals, of 
whom Endicott was one, and in 1660 these sold out their 

282 The Western. 

interest to sixteen men who determined to go there as set- 
tlers. They landed at a place still called Cow Cove, in 
memory of the adventurous animal, useful, but to some 
alarming, which effected a landing there by boldly swimming 
to the shore. In 1672 yet another transfer placed Manisees 
within the jurisdiction of Rhode Island, which is some 
twelve miles distant. 

The island has seen its share of fighting from Indian 
days on. Its early lords were often engaged in warfare with 
the Pequots and Mohegans of the mainland, and «a great 
war-party of the latter tribe, having made a raid upon 
Manisees, met with a terrible fate. Driven to the point at 
the eastern end of the island, where the beetling cliff rises 
for some one hundred and seventy feet above the sea, with 
the broken ledges at its base, cooped up among the rocks, 
with the awful abyss behind, and a pitiless foe before, they 
perished miserably, like the Athenians in the stone-quarries 
of Syracuse. During the colonial days French attacks were 
frequent, and the colonists suffered greatly ; the pirates who 
infested those waters also made the place their abode, and 
here the celebrated Captain Kidd, 

** As he sailed, as he sailed,” 

was wont to come, and here he buried a portion of that 
treasure which he seems to have scattered so lavishly along 
the northern Atlantic coast, and which here, as elsewhere, 
has been diligently and vainly sought for. 

During the Revolution the island was a great resort for 
Tory refugees from the mainland, and the legend of the 
‘¢ Harbor Boys’”’ tells us that one dark and stormy night 
a boat-load of desperate men endeavored to effect a landing 
at a harbor at the western end of the island. Above the 
howling of the storm could be heard the voice of the leader 
shouting to his men as thev strove to reach the shore, but 
it was all in vain; they went down beneath the waves, and 
still, when tempests are raging over the seas, you may hear 

The Island of Manisees. 283 

the voices of the ghostly seamen who struggle hopelessly 
toward a friendly haven. 

In the war of 1812 the island was declared a neutral 
ground, and the British sailors respected the harmless 
people, who found kind treatment and a ready market on 
board their ships, and who paid many a tribute to their 
kindness and generosity. 

Not history only, but legend, lends an interest to this quiet 
spot, and the famous Palatine light forms a subject of dis- 
cussion. This is a strange phenomenon which has been often 
noted: a light that appears at various points between Point 
Judith and Montauk, and that shoots upward into the sem- 
blance of a great ship, with all its masts and yards, one 
blaze of fire. Since science has not yet explained its origin, 
let us see what tradition has to tell, and learn how hidden 
crimes reveal themselves to the gaze of men. More than a 
century ago, says the legend, the Palatine, a ship with many 
wealthy immigrants on hoard, was lured by false lights to her 
destruction upon the rocks of Block Island, where nearly 
all on board were basely murdered for their riches. Another 
version of the story is that most of them were murdered by 
the crew, who shared their spoils with the wreckers, and 
put on shore two or three women whose lives they had 
spared ; that all left the ship except one rich lady who re- 
fused to do so, and then, according to both stories, the Pal- 
atine was set on fire and burned. 

The murderers believed themselves safe, but ins the 
anniversary of the awful deed came round, lo! before their 
awe-struck eyes appeared the vision of the flaming ship 
drifting up and down the coast, and it is said that one of the 
guilty band, in drunken frenzy, raved of the crime, and saw 
again the agonized face and heard the pitiful pleading of a 
woman whose hands he had cut off as she clung convulsively 
to the edge of the boat in which he sat. 

The present day, which has rehabilitated so many names 

284 The Western. 

and pronounced so many villains less black than they have 
been painted, has not neglected the Block Island wreckers, 
and pronounces the whole story a baseless fabrication. 
Filled with alarm lest we should discover the robber-chiefs 
of the Rhineland with their poetic wickedness to have been 
only over-vigorous custom-house officers, and the ‘* moss- 
trooping Scots’’ of the Border to have been noted for the 
scrupulous care with which they paid the English yeomen 
for their ‘‘lifted’’ cattle, we determine that when sight- 
seeing one should believe all legends, whether false or true, 
and leave all justice, save poetic, to be meted out on one’s 
return. One legend provokes another, and one of our 
number relates that a far-away ancestor of her own more 
than a hundred years ago was one of a little crowd who 
gathered upon the shore at Newport to watch a great ship 
that was seen early one morning entering the harbor with 
all sails set. So well was she steered that, although none rec- 
ognized the ship, all declared that her helmsman must know 
the channel well. But on and on she came straight upon the 
land, and under full sail, directly upon Easton’s Beach. The 
wondering gazers hurried on board, but not a soul was 
there. A cat was the only living thing; the only sound was 
the ticking of the clock upon the wallof the cabin, where 
the breakfast-table was ready spread. The whole ship was 
in perfect order, there were no signs of disturbance any- 
where, «and whence she came and whither her crew had gone 
no one ever knew. 

Nor were the marvels all of by-gone days, since one had 
a tale to tell of a New Bedford whaler found a few years 
ago on a far-off coast, drifting helplessly about with none 
on board to guide. The work-basket of the captain’s wife 
stood upon the cabin-table, and by it lay the unfinished gar- 
ment begun by her busy fingers. All was in perfect order, 
but the ship was empty and the boats were gone. The belief 
was that the ship must have been drifting upon « rocky shore 

The Island of Manisees. 285 

and that the crew took to their boats; that a sudden 
change of wind blew her off to safety, while her human 
freight was left to perish miserably and unknown. 

We are at the end of our voyage ere our stories are all 
finished ; we pass the breakwater that the government has 
built to protect the harbor, and are soon lying at the pier. 
A lady once told me that when she had been in Newport 
thirty years ago she had sometimes made the trip to Block 
Island, and that passengers on landing were met by women 
and children who rushed into the water with extended hands 
to beg for pennies. No picturesque beggars greeted our 
arrival, but a crowd of rival drivers and hotel-agents deaf- 
ened us by their shouts as each recommended some special 
inn, of which there are some six or seven, large and small, 
all said to be well kept. Dinner being secondary to sight- 
seeing with us just then, we quickly secured a large covered 
beach-wagon drawn by a pair of stout horses, and were soon 
on our way to Beacon Hill, at the eastern end of the island, 
about three miles fromthe landing. And what a charming 
drive it was! The surface of the island is undulating in every 
direction, as if a sea, swelling in short, confused, and cross- 
ing waves, had suddenly hardened into dry land, so that we 
had indeed an up-and-down-hill way of it. But every ascent 
was a fresh delight in the glorious sea view that lay spread 
out before us, and every descent recalled us to a new and 
more lively appreciation of the roadside beauty. The white 
flowers of the wild carrot mingled prettily with the green 
grass ; everywhere flamed the yellow glory of the golden- 
rod, while patches of purple gerardia glowed with the splen- 
did coloring that only the salt air can give. A long, hard 
pull brought us to the summit of Beacon Hill. Turning 
inland, we saw the hilly surface of the island, with its flowery 
covering, divided by walls built of stones, everywhere so 
abundant, and looking like a vast chess-board spread out at 
our feet. For a moment we wonder whether we have 

286 The Western. 

passed with Alice ‘* through the looking-glass,’’ and look 
to see the inventive White Knight or the Anglo-Saxon mes- 
sengers come upthe hill, and fancy the sea-gulls’ cries to be 
the wailing of the White Queen over sorrows yet to come. 
We turn our gaze and see the breakers dashing upon the 
long white beach and against the rocky ways. The sea is 
sparkling with light and glowing in green and azure hues. 
The driver points out Point Judith to the north-east and 
Montauk to the south, while Watch Hill ,rises between. 
We wish it were night, that perchance we might hear the 
shouts of the harbor boys, or see the weird spectacle of the 
blazing Palatine drift over the darkening seas, and yet, 
after all, we would hardly take these ghostly possibilities 
in exchange for the magical beauties of that splendid noon- 
day. Sea and sky and field combine with the soft, delicious 
air to enchant our senses, till we scarcely knew if we are 
really on the earth or in some ‘ sunny isle of Eden,’’ some 
vale of Avalon, where fairies dwell. 

The voice of the driver recalls us to every-day life and 
its commonplaces, as he informs us that time is flying and 
our dinner waits. So down the long hill we wind, lamenting, 
like Lord Ullin, over the joys we needs must lose. We turn 
aside from the road by which we came, and skirt along the 
low shore of a large lake, one of some hundred, we are told, 
that are to be found upon the island. This, the largest, 
covers a surface of about one thotisand acres, and lies close 
to the sea, being separated from it by a wall of rock, which 
could be broken through without much difficulty, thereby 
affording a harbor where a fleet might safely ride at 
anchor. The waves of the mimic sea sparkle like diamonds. 
Great cliffs of clayey soil rise by the roadside, which, as else- 
where, is bright with flowers. We are enraptured at the 
sight, when the driver completes our happiness by making a 
sharp turn from the way and driving over wet sand, beach- 
grass, and pebbly shore straight to the very edge of the sea 
itself. The great white-crested waves thunder upon the 

The Island of Manisees. 287 

shore ; the gulls whirl screaming above our heads; the salt 
breath of the ocean is borne to us upon the breeze. We 
pass a most picturesque group of common occurrence here, 
where sea-weed is precious as a fertilizer, and where the 
entire beach is divided into ** claims,’’ like the gold-fields 
of the West. Two men in rough garments and huge boots, 
that seem almost capable of seven-league strides, have just 

been loading a cart with the wealth which the beautiful sea 
so freely cast at their feet. The two-wheeled cartis rudely 
made of rough boards, and is drawn by two strong oxen, 
almost black of hue, who stand patient and quiet on the wet 
sand while the waters ripple about their feet. The heaped- 
up sea-weed hangs dripping over its sides and the long 
brown ribbons of kelp, with their crimped and fluted edges, 
trail down upon the sand. It is hard to leave so much 
beauty behind us, but it is beyond dispute that the sail, the 
drive, and the air have made us most unpoetically hungry, 
and when we are safely deposited at the door of the Ocean 
View Hotel we are quite in the mood: to enjoy the excellent 
dinner which is there provided for @s. 

The light-houses, with their towering cliffs and superb 
lights, we are compelled to leave unvisited, and we long in 
vain for the mysterious chasms of the interior of the island 
and the glories of the surf upon its southern shore. The 
whistle of the Monohansett warns us not to linger, and we 
walk down the little pier with great reluctance and set forth 
upon our homeward voyage. We fancy wé can sympathize 
with early explorers; that we enter into the feelings of 
Columbus and the Cabots; that charmed as we were the 
Dutch Block and the English Gosnold when their little ships 
came first into these then lonely waters, unfurrowed as vet 
by white men’s keels, and when no friendly sails glittered in 
the sunlight. Point Judith treats her departing even more 
inhospitably than her coming guests, and the long ocean 
swell drives many unfortunates to seek shelter for their 
woes in the depths of the cabin; but we are proof against 

Vol. 7—No. 3 19 

288 The Western. 

this peril of the sea, and find only pleasure in this touch of 
the deep seas. 

We then can enjoy our homeward voyage, and while re- 
calling the pleasures of the day that is past can snatch those 
of the present hour. We see the cliffs of Gay Head glow 
more brightly under ‘‘ the western waves of ebbing day ;”’ 
we hear the ‘* Groaning Buoy ”’ wail a dolorous salute in 
honor of our safe return, which is evidently something 
quite unléoked-for, and we wish we had more newspapers 
for the keeper of the lonely light-boat. We pass the 
islands now and speed over the bay; the fortresses on 
Clarke’s Point and the Fairhaven shore suffer us to go by 
unchallenged, and ere long we are safely landed at the 
wharf, enraptured with the pleasures of our voyage of dis- 
covery. Annie WALL. 

Current Notes. 


Pustic education has finally attracted the attention of those who 
seem to ‘‘ draw upon their imagination for their facts, and upon 
their memory for their wit.’”, Many who because of their social 
standing command attention have indulged in mistaking their 
hypotheses for fundamental truths, and their off-hand suggestions 
as an excellent substitute for any study of a problem of consider- 
able complexity. It is uniformly assumed by these writers that the 
public schools are charity schools and not community schools, and 
this assumption determines the improvements suggested ; improve- 
ments which uniformly contemplate the compulsory ‘ sticking of 
the shoemaker to his last.’” In a recent number of the New 
England Journal of Education we are informed that Charles Francis 
Adams, Richard Grant White, Gail Hamilton, and others, are mis- 
taken about there being any reasonable cause for complaint about 
the intellectual work of the public schools ; it is the morals of the 
public schools that need criticism. To be ‘sure, the writer is 
not known as a sufficient authority, but perhaps this makes no dif- 
ference. Now it may be possible that all the men and women who 
support, patronize, and conduct the public schools of Boston, and 
of Massachusetts in general, may be blinded by their zeal,.and 
unobservant of defects so glaring that the casual visitor, or the 
writer who can comprehend his problem without personal obser- 
vation, cannot fail to see them. It may be that the reputation of 
Massachusetts people for intelligence, correctness of conduct, and 
general ability has no solid foundation, but has been ‘* worked up.’’ 
It may be that only the pupils of the private schools earn reputa- 
tion for the State and that the ignorant, immoral, and thriftless 
products of the public schools shine only by borrowed light. All 
these things may be, and some one of them must be, in order to lend 
any significance to these various ‘‘ criticisms by friends of the 
schools,’’ for should they all be untrue the elaborate structures 
built upon these assumptions must tumble by their own weight. 
For our own part, we have no reason to believe any of these to be 
facts; we have no reason not to suppose that the schools of Mas- 
sachusetts, while not perfect, are yet more perfect than any other 

290 The Western. 

public institution. Years of study of educational institutions, and 
of educational means, together with a personal education gained 
wholly in leading private schools, and in Eastern colleges, entitle 
us to protest (humbly) against such methods of settling important 
social questions. Granting the variety of aims that may be sug- 
gested for elementary education, we suggest that the one most 
susceptible of justification is the gaining possession of one’s 
mental faculties together with the idea that one is to use these 
faculties when trained in the way most congenial and most pro- 
ductive. We veuture to hint that any well-regulated course of 
study finds its justification in promoting such ends; that any rea- 
sonable discipline vindicates itself by producing such mental habits 
as will insure these ends; and we dare say that any one who will 
reflect upon his own career will be satisfied that the accumulation 
of valuable facts is one of the least results of school education, 
private even more than public. Any test that would be accepted 
by a scientific investigator may be applied to our schools as a 
whole, and it will yield but one result, while to the crude specula- 
tions of men, eminent perhaps in other directions, no reasonable 
institution can be expected to conform. 

Earty in May the Museum of Fine Arts is to be formally 
opened. Mr. Wayman Crow has passed a long life in bestowing 
intelligent benefactions, but none of them are so striking as this 
museum. Under the able direction of Prof. Ives, the value of the 
museum to St. Louis and country tributary thereto can hardly be 
overestimated, and it seems to us that few events have had greater 
significance than the provision of a permanent stimulus to the art- 
feeling of the city. 

In the death of George Eliot the literary world has suffered a 
loss whose magnitude it is not yet qualified toestimate. ‘That the 
writer of ‘‘ Romola,’’ ‘*‘ Adam Bede,’’ ‘* Daniel Deronda,’’ and 
** Middlemarch ’’ was the ablest and best instructed woman that 
has appeared among English authors, no one will doubt; that 
George Eliot has a permanent place in the history of nineteenth 
century literature seems beyond question; but that her success as 
a raconteur is less than that of many a minor writer is, we presume, 
easily susceptible of proof. However, George Eliot’s life was not 
incomplete, although unfinished, and she needs no monument other 
than that which she herself has erected. With the criticism upon 

Current Notes. 291 

her private life we have no sympathy, for, unlike Godwin, she in- 
dulged in no attempts at propagandism and her literary work in no 
way offends against the most conventional views of life. Having 
attained fame and wealth, and having accomplished work well 
worth the doing, surely she might claim for herself that privacy 
which others Secure by their obscurity. 

THE present political situation of America and England is calcu- 
lated to draw out the best of the New York Nation, and conse- 
quently its columns are uniformly of. interest. Gladstone’s posi- 
tion in regard both to the Boers and to the Irish is well calculated 
to awaken the most genuine admiration of all; but to those 
whose acquaintance with political history is extensive the novelty 
and remarkableness of his standing ground is marked: to those 
who without understanding the necessity for the ordinary political 
devices still believe that the polished trickster is not the flower of 
the political plant, Mr. Gladstone’s success is a matter for quiet 

Dr. N. J. Morrison, as president of Drury College, has issued 
a memorial chronicle of the visit of the National Congregational 
Council, and, a review of the aims and results of the college being 
necessarily a part of any public ceremony, we are enabled to see 
the extent and value of the work done by Dr. Morrison and his 
colleagues. These results are in themselves of interest to those 
who wish well to all educational enterprises, but our reason for 
special mention is the interest that such educational institutions 
should have for all who intelligently seek the healthy development 
of their native or adopted States. Missouri has been misrepre- 
sented largely because her people have not had control of the 
recognized organs of public opinion, and because her people have 
been too much engaged in the pursuits of peaceful industry to care 
about the more striking but somewhat doubtful rewards of political 
eminence. It has become so much a principle of politics to disre- 
gard means, if the end be attained, that men have not hesitated to 
asperse the State to which they owe all their success, and they have 
found nothing so cheap as success attained by ministering to ante- 
bellum prejudices in regard to Missouri as a slave State. Institu- 
tions like Drury College, the State University at Columbia, Wash- 
ington University, and several other colleges, not only serve their 
direct educational purpose, but in all ways correct opinion abroad 

292 The Western. 

and strengthen the best of home interests. Missouri has, through 
the action of the Legislature just adjourned, made provision for its 
educational interests which ought to vindicate her from the easily 
received charges of voluntary barbarism. Fortunately, however, 
we do not depend upon the groundless opinions of our neighbors, 
and as such institutions as Drury College continue their work, those 
who conduct them may feel assured that the harvest is evidently 
ripening, even if the neighbors do not care to be convinced. 

Pror. AtpHevus Hyatt, one of our most successful and earnest 
students of the natural sciences, announces through a circular that 
he will conduct a ‘*Sea-side Laboratory’’ at Annisquam. The 
term will extend from June 5th to September 15th, and the mini- 
mum of attendance is fixed at two weeks. The tuition fees are $3 
for two weeks or less, and $1 per week for periods exceeding one 
month. We recommend all teachers interested in natural sciences 
to avail themselves of an opportunity which we know to be at once 
valuable and rare. 

A Sr. Louis public scarcely needs to be told that the lectures 
which Mr. Wm. T. Harris has been delivering at the Washington 
University have been profoundly interesting. Indeed, Mr. Harris 
makes any subject profound, because he always begins at the 
centre of the universe for an explanation of things. The lectures 
on Hegel have been the finest interpretation of the great philoso- 
phers, for, alas! we all need an interpreter, a sort of Moses to go 
up to the mountain and report the divine vision to us who stand 
below. The lecture on Hegel’s idea of art and literature was 
received with a quiet enthusiasm. Mr. Harris said that the 
French translator, Benard, who had no real comprehension of 
Hegel’s philosophy, was sure that the Aésthetics would live as an 
immortal contribution toart. Beginning at the beginning, Hegel’s 
idea is that the soul, the reason, the divine in man, is conscious 
of itself, and conscious of external objects — that is, of nature. 
Being conscious, the soul thus recognizes in nature its own reflec- 
tion — that which has the form of the eternal. With this expla- 
nation, we have a rational beginning for all art. With the first 
recognition that external phenomena in some way reflect the 
divine nature of man, we have the awakening of the soul. Art 
makes use of these natural forms to express that which is more 
than natural; it uses those phenomena which seem most to bear 

Current Notes. .293 

the image of the eternal. Mr. Harris then said something about 
sun-myths and the whole class of interpretation which contents 
itself with pursuing the myths of early literatures and religions 
hack to the rise and setting of the sun, the change of seasons, 
and innumerable other aspects of nature. If all art and_litera- 
ture could be reduced to a sun-myth, how cheap would they 
become. But it is this recognition of the form divine in nature 
which is the only explanation which explains. ‘That man finds in 
changes of day and night and of seasons something which pro- 
foundly reminds him of the mystery of his own life —this is the 
reason why all savage nations use these forms in their early art 
and literature. Mr. Harris then gave Hegel’s classification of 
art, based on absolute distinctions of the content. It seems need- 
less to give these here in detail, because the Asthetics has been 
so well translated into English by Mr. W. M. Bryant. Still, if 
our readers can fill this skeleton with life, perhaps it may be well 
to give the merest outline. Mr. Harris gave three forms of Rea- 
son: Repetition, symmetry, and harmony. Repetition is mechani- 
cal, and has only the element of similiarity. Symmetry has like- 
ness with the added element difference — as, for instance, where 
the parts of a design balance, but do not- repeat each other. 
Harmony is an internal likeness with external difference ; hence is 
a higher form than mere repetition or than symmetry. Art he 
divided into architecture, sculpture, painting, music, and poetry, 
in the order of their independence of matter as the material of 
expression. There are three periods of art: the symbolic, which 
is found in all Eastern art, and may be assigned to Asia; classic 
art, which belongs preéminently to Greece; and romantic, or 
Christian art. In symbolic art, the meaning struggles to find 
expression in matter, but is unable to disclose itself completely ; 
hence it deals in mysteries and riddles. Classic art finds com- 
plete expression in harmony and symmetry, and announces free- 
dom through its mastery of matter. Romantic art is the culmi- 
nation ; it aspires beyond nature ; the soul no longer finds adequate 
expression in matter; romantic art points to religion, which is 
higher than art. We do not think that we have been able to do 
more than barely suggest what Mr. Harris told us of Hegel; but 
perhaps even so meagre a report will have a value to those who 
were so unfortunate as not to hear for themselves. 

294 The Western. 

Tuomas CaRty_e, after a life of eighty-six years, has just closed 
his career, and, while he had exceeded his three-score years and 
ten, many were rendered serious by the announcement of his 
death. While Carlyle’s position during our civil war alienated 
many of his warm admirers; while his later work has not been so 
acceptable as his earlier; while it is impossible not to perceive at 
a glance Carlyle’s imperfections as a stylist: yet few of the many 
able literary men contemporary with Carlyle have produced effects 
so permanent and so healthful. It has been said that Scott’s 
poetry would make a very coward fearless. Surely it will not be 
denied that acquaintance with Car!yle’s work must permanently 
strengthen repulsion towards the false and base, and attraction 
to the true and ennobling. Certainly Carlyle’s most significant 
memorial will prove to be the influence stamped upon our times 
by his work, and whose effects are strongest and most evident in 
the United States. 

Tae Fesruary Nortn American Review is of more than 
usual interest. Gen. Grant as a writer for the magazines would 
necessarily command attention, but his article upon ‘* the Nicara- 
gua Canal,’’ while devoid of literary grace, is noticeably in good 
taste and forcibly written. Oliver Wendell Holmes, under the 
title ** The Pulpit and the Pew,’’ writes an article which seems to 
have for its object the emphasizing of the enfranchisement of the 
laity. Judge Tourgee, having ‘‘ waked [or slept] and found him- 
self famous,”’ is not at all inclined to lose any honor through sloth, 
and, having become the accepted exponent of the Southern feel- 
ing and of the judicial statesmanship of the East, sets forth the 
present situation under the significant title of ‘‘Aaron’s Rod in 
Politics.’’ James Freeman Clarke, in a somewhat extended arti- 
cle, amuses himself by turning the tables upon those who question 
the authorship of Shakespeare, and humorously inquires, ‘* Did 
Shakespeare write Bacon’s Works?’’ Walt Whitman discusses 
‘** The Poetry of the Future,’’ and claims that *‘ Democracy waits 
the coming of its bards in silence and in twilight.’’ 

Tae Catrnoric Wortp For Fesruary contains an article by 
Rev. Isaac T. Hecker, ‘‘ Catholics and Protestants Agreeing on 
the School Question.’’ There is every reason why those who are 
interested in public schools should read such articles that they 
may fairly understand the positions of those who differ with them. 

Book Reviews. 


Tae Durizs op Women. By Frances Power Cosse. Boston: George H. 
Ellis, 141 Franklin Street. 1881. 

Miss Frances Power Cobbe became known to the world twenty 
or more years ago as the writer of a book called ‘‘ Intuitive 
Morals,’’ which was declared by eminent authority to be the 
ablest ethical treatise in the English language. This praise is 
not exclusive. As Miss Cobbe states in her introduction to 
‘** Intuitive Morals,’’ her book only popularizes the ‘‘ Grundle- 
gung der Sitten’’ of Kant, of whom she is an enthusiastic dis- 
ciple, and therefore may easily be set above the work of Paley, 
or even Adam Smith, or any other previous English writer upon 
Morals. The positivists, of course, will dissent from the judg- 

Though Miss Cobbe cannot be regarded as an originator, it is 
only fair to say that ‘‘ Intuitive Morals’’ did the greatest credit 
to its young writer. When one thinks of a girl scarcely beyond 
her teens wandering in such bristling thickets of uncouth verbiage 
as those must encounter who would hunt down the thoughts of the 
abstruse German, the image of some hapless Spenserian heroine 
suggests itself: — 

“Each trembling leafe and whistling wind she heares, 
As, ghastly long, her hair on end doth reare.”’ 

Miss Cobbe’s type, however, is not the feeble Una, needing the 
guardianship of the lion and the Red-cross Knight, but vigorous 
Britomart, whose enchanted lance is adequate to all encounters, 
even in the ‘* grieseliest’’ tangles. Her book showed wide ac- 
quaintance with the literature of ethics of all times and lands; 
better than all, a fine power of independent judgment, which was 
not at all trammelled by the weight of her accumulated erudition. 

In the interval since the appearance of ‘‘ Intuitive Morals ’”’ 
Miss Cobbe’s pen has been varionsly busy. Topics light and 
grave have occupied her, and she has found energy to work 
aggressively in other ways in behalf of various reforms. Of late 
years she has been the head and front of the anti-vivisection 

296 The Western. 

movement, where her course, if extravagant, has been at any 
rate full of whole-hearted humanity, and has had the countenance 
of many of the best and ablest men in England. Now that Har- 
riet Martineau and George Eliot are gone, we believe there is no 
woman in England whose title is better to the first place among 
British female writers. : 

In ** Duties of Women ’’ we remark at once the straightforward 
vigor with which Miss Cobbe’s ideas are presented. Her purpose 
is too earnest to admit of finical grace. There are, however, 
elegance, perfect clearness, a prevailing cheerfulness sometimes 
rising into pleasant humor, with now and then an outburst of 
scorn. At the beginning she declares that there is not one code 
of duties for men and another for women — thrusting indignantly 
at the Miltonic Eve: — 

“God is thy law — thou mine. 
He for God only —she for God in him.” 

In brief terms she lays a deep Kantian foundation for the prac- 
tical discussion she proposes, referring to her elaborate treatise for 
details. She deals a masculine blow at the ‘ utilitarian ’’ mor- 
alists. Men are to do right because bidden by an everlasting 

law, — the welfare and happiness of other men being an incident, 
not the final cause. Her three divisions of duty are: First, Re- 
ligious ; second, Personal; third, Social. The first division she 
does not touch, because difference of sex does not affect the 
application of its rules. ‘To personal duties she gives but one 
chapter, because here again, for the most part, the considerations 
that can be presented apply to male and female alike. ‘To social 
duties, on the other hand, four of the six lectures are devoted, 
because the requirements for the two sexes in many cases differ, 
as man and woman stand together in the family, in society, and 
the State. 

Miss Cobbe’s allegiance to the ‘*‘ categorical imperative ’’ causes 
her boldly to take positions which the school of Herbert Spencer 
would often condemn. Personal duty, although disposed of in a 
single lecture, is to be set above social duty. The purpose of life 
is the perfecting of individual character. Where, then, in any 
case, a collision arises, the observing of some rule of personal duty 
bringing to pass harm to others, the rule must still be inflexibly 
observed. Judith does wrong, who sacrifices her chastity to Hol- 

Book Reviews. 297 

ofernes that she may find opportunity to rid her country of an 
oppressor. So, too, the mother in ** Les Miserables’’ who com- 
mits the same sin for money to feed her starving children. No 
good to society will justify a lie. In fact, Miss Cobbe would 
declare uncompromisingly that the abstract justice must be done, 
though the heavens fell, to the destruction of the world. 

As the lectures proceed, the high abstract ground of the intro- 
duction is abandoned. In particular, in the lectures relating to 
social duty we have the homeliest every-day themes discussed in 
the most matter-of-fact way. For the most part, it is capital 
doctrine, admirably put, though now and then one will find the 
eye-brows lifting, — as, for instance, at the defence of the phrase 
** Not at home,’’ as used by ladies denying themselves to callers : — 

‘** The cordial spirit of English society long ago established the 
conventional phrase of ‘Not at home,’ as if courteously to imply 
that even in our homes we should never shut the door on our 
friends; and this old-fashioned formula has for a century, I 
should imagine, been understood by everybody to signify pre- 
cisely the same as if we said, ‘ Does not receive.’ What, then, 
has the question of veracity to do with the matter? Words, it 
cannot too often be repeated, have no absolute meaning, only the 
meaning we agree to attach to them and in which we know they 
will be understood. If we use words literally exact. but con- 
veying, as we know, a false impression, we incur the guilt of a 
lie, — often of a peculiarly base kind of a lie. If, on the con- 
trary, we use a conventional phrase, not exactly or literally de- 
scribing the fact, but conveying, as we know, a true impression, 
we shall incur no guilt, we have told no lie.’’ 

How forcible Miss Cobbe’s championship of the rights of the 
lower animals is, the following correct and pathetic passage will 
show : — 

‘* The poor house-dog, perhaps some loving-hearted little Skye 
or noble old mastiff, or retriever, condemned for life to the penal- 
ties which we should think too severe for the worst of malefactors ; 
chained up by the neck through all the long, bright summer days, 
under a burning sun, with its water-trough unfilled for days, or 
through the winter’s frost in some dark, sunless corner, freezing 
with cold and in agonies of rheumatism for want of straw or the 
chance of warming itself at a fire or by a run in the snow! And 

298 The Western. 

all this is a reward for the poor brute’s fidelity! His longing to 
bound over the fresh grass, expressed so affectingly by his leaps 
and bounds when we approach his miserable dungeon, is not 
merely a longing for his natural pleasure, but for that which is 
indispensable to his health — namely, exercise and the power to 
eat grass; and, if refused, he very soon falls into disease; his 
beautiful coat becomes mangy and red ; he is irritable and becomes 
revolting to everybody, and the nurse cries to the children, who 
were his only friends and visitors, ‘Don’t go near that dog!’ I 
say it deliberately, the mistress of a house in whose yard a dog is 
thus kept is guilty of a very great sin; and till she has taken care 
that the dog has his daily exercise and water, and that the cat and 
the fowls and every other sentient creature under her roof are well 
and kindly treated, she may as well, for shame’s sake, give up 
thinking she is fulfilling her duties by reading prayers and sub- 
scribing to missions.’’ 

Miss Cobbe’s concluding lecture has for its subject ** Woman as a 
Citizen of the State.’’ She is too bold and strong not to demand 
for her sex a place side by side with man as regards duties and 
privileges, but we find in her treatment of the topic only the 
courageous, uncompromising assertion of a just claim — nothing 
extreme or unreasonable. She asserts for women the possession of 
administrative and governing power, and bases the claim upon his- 
tory giving in the opening pages an interesting résumé of facts. 
The obligations and privileges of citizenship are not for all women, 
and here occurs the following well-put passage : — 

‘* So immense are the claims on a mother — physical claims on 
her bodily and brain vigor, and moral claims on her heart and 
thoughts — that she cannot, I believe, meet them all and find any 
large margin beyond for other cares and work. She serves the 
community in the best and highest way it is possible to do, by giv- 
ing birth to healthy children, whose physical strength has not been 
defrauded, and to whose moral and mental nurture she can give the 
whole of her thoughts. That is her function, public and private 
at once — the profession which she has adopted. No higher can be 
found; and, in my judgment, it is a misfortune to all concerned 
when a woman, under such circumstances, is either driven by 
poverty, or lured by any generous ambition, to add to that great 
‘ Profession of a Matron’ any other systematic work, either as 
bread-winner to the family, or as a philanthropist or politician.’’ 

Book Reviews. 299 

The tone of the lectures will be sufficiently indicated by these 
selections. They are the work of a strong, wise, great-hearted 
woman, and, though addressed to an English audience, are just as 
appropriate to the woman of America. The book is sure to work 
great good. J. K. Hosmer. 
Tue Spe.i-Bounp Fippter. A Norse Romance. By Kristorrer Janson. 

Translated by AuBEeR Forestier. Chicago: S.C. Griggs & Co. 1880. 

Norway, as we are informed by Prof. Rasmus B. Anderson, 
who furnishes the introduction to this story, is resolutely at work 
in developing its own language and literature. Kristoffer Janson, 
now thirty-nine years of age, is, perhaps, the most eminent in 
literature of Norway’s sons. In his own country he is known 
as poet, dramatist, and novelist, and ** The Spell-Bound Fiddler ”’ 
will introduce many readers and students to Norwegian national 
life. Prof. Anderson is an American representative of the Scan- 
dinavians, and is well-known through his ‘*‘ Norse Mythology,”’ 
‘*The Younger Edda,’’ and other works which proclaim the earnest 
and successful student. We commend ‘* The Spell-Bound Fid- 
dler’’ to the attention of our readers. Eprror. 

SHAKESPEARE. A Critical Study of his Mind and Art. Epwarp Downsn, 
LL.D. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1881. 

We are sincerely glad that the public appreciate Prof. Dowden’s 
work sufficiently to justify an American house in issuing an edi- 
tion, and we are equally pleased to observe that Prof. Dowden 
appreciates the fact that this will make his work better known to 
the American public, even if he cannot avoid the reflection that 
his pecuniary return is not very direct. Prof. Dowden represents 
a new school of criticism, and to our mind it is one of high rank 
and value. His excellence as a student of Shakespeare has been 
illustrated in his various works which Belong to Shakespeariana, 
and which have all found hearty welcome, even with the review- 
ers. ‘To those who may not know the general character of the 
work, a few words from the preface will be acceptable: ‘* The 
attempt made in this volume to connect the study of Shakespeare’s 
works with an inquiry after the personality of the writer, and to 
observe, as far as is possible, in its several stages, the growth of 
his intellect and character from youth to full maturity, distin- 
guishes the work from the greater number of preceding criticisms 
of Shakespeare.’’ The work is now furnished at so small a price 

300 The Western. 

that it should be owned by every reader of the great dramatist, 
for no one can fail to find Prof. Dowden full of suggestiveness. 

PLouGHED UnpDER. New York: Fords, Howard & Hulbert. 1881. 

Under this title the anonymous author presents in story form 
the wrongs which have been perpetrated against the red man — 
wrongs most undeniable, even if they be wrongs neither suscep- 
tible of remedy nor likely to find any correction. ‘The book is 
true to its own aim, and exhibits knowledge and power. It sug- 
gests a means whereby an inexpensive justice might be done the 
remnant of the once powerful tribes and inay ultimately exercise 
an influence beyond that of the novelist. EpIror. 
Tue Youncer Eppa. By Rasmus B. ANDERSON. Chicago: S. C. Griggs 

& Co. 1880. 

In his preface Prof. Anderson states that ‘* the present volume 
contains all of ‘The Younger Edda’ that can possibly be of any 
importance to English readers. In fact, it gives more than has 
ever before been presented in any translation into English, Ger- 
man, or any of the modern Scandinavan tongues.’’ Heretofore 
any knowledge of ‘‘ The Younger Edda’’ has been attainable only 
through Mallet’s ‘* Northern Antiquities,’” and Prof. Anderson, a 
competent judge, pronounces this presentation defective. Prof. 
Anderson’s reputation for careful work is such that the many 
who have discovered the significance of the Edda literature will 
welcome this product of the author’s industry. At the present 
time in St. Louis, an interest has been excited by the lectures of 
Dr. W. T. Harris, and those who have had his direction will be 

glad to know that through Prof. Anderson’s translation they will 
have an opportunity for prosecuting the work which they have 
begun. Epiror. 

Tue Scrence oF Minp. By Jonun Bascom. New York: G. P. Putnam’s 
Sons. 1881. 

Dr. Bascom seems to be an indefatigable worker, for, in addi- 
tion to his onerous duties in connection with the University of 
Wisconsin, he publishes book after book in a way that might well 
lay to rest the idea that freedom from the ordinary cares of life 
is either an essential condition or even a favorable condition of 
authorship. But, to our mind, the most noticeable feature about 
Dr. Bascom’s works is that they are evidently written from mo- 

Book Reviews. 301 

tives far higher than that of personal aggrandizement. They 
impress the reader strongly with the idea (somewhat Western, we 
admit) that the work to be done is so great in amount and so 
imperative in its nature; that those willing and even partially 
qualified to do such work are, in a new country, necessarily so 
few; that those who can appreciate the necessity, and who are 
even partially qualified to minister to it, must do what they may 
for the interests which do not directly bear a moneyed value. 
Of course such a combination of daily labor, and a further use of 
one’s resting-time for the beginning and fostering of enterprises 
spiritually valuable, may seem very crude to those in the East, 
who simply refer such matters to men of large means and elegant 
leisure; of course any adaptation of one’s work to the audience 
directly addressed will give abundant opportunity for formal 
criticism; of course the idea that it is better to get valuable 
work done, although the methods may be crude, than to use 
approved methods and’ fail of the result, is ridiculous to those 
who are in position to fitly and tastefully manage their enterprises, 
literary or other; but the choice seems to lie between the ridicule 
of those who should, from their own claims, be too clear-sighted 
to not distinguish the man from his garb, and the neglect of work 
valid in itself and imperative in its necessity. A distinguished 
editor of Shakespeare, upon finding a Western girl not ignorant 
of the existence of the great dramatist, inquired, ** What do they 
want of Shakespeare out West?’’ This question arises frequently 
in the minds of our relatives at the East, and is another of the 
many illustrations of the graceful courtesies and profound intel- 
ligence sometimes to be met with in what is satirically called 
‘* The Republic of Letters.’’ 

This apparent digression has direct reference to Dr. Bascom’s 
book if, as we believe,.he fairly represents the excellences and 
defects of Western scholarship. With the fullest of Eastern 
training, with the profoundest respect for what the proper author- 

ities indorse, Dr. Bascom, we assume, has not drivelled away his 
mental power in such a search after style as should place him 
beyond reproach, but which would also deprive him of the audi- 
ence which he wished most directly to affect, because to them 
necessarily ‘* the getting of something done’’ was of more imme- 
diate moment than elegance of manner. Passing by the style, 

302 The Western. 

the most careless reader of Dr. Bascom’s works would feel that 
the author was an honest, earnest, capable student of his subject; 
a student wise enough to acquaint himself with the progress of 
the world, and brave enough to express views which he believed 
would prove helpful to others; too intent upon his work as a 
moral duty to think much of himself except as responsible for 
his efforts. Such a situation is Western, and, like the Puritanism 
of which it is an outgrowth, it offers points of view that are 
ridiculous to those who have developed so far as to replace an 
honest earnestness by an elegance of culture which regards all 
ends but personal success as equally indifferent. But while we 
may freely admit that it hurts one to find how much of the 
teachings of ‘the world are practically ‘* bunkum ”’ or artists’ ma- 
terial, those who, through youth, inexperience, or incapacity for 
belief, take life seriously, have, after all, a support which does 
much to make them forget the jeers and gibes of their judges. 
We have given our reasons for identifving the book with the 
author. Any one who has read one of Dr. Bascom’s works will 
know the stand-point from which he studies mental philosophy. 


An EncycLopepiA OF THE EVIDENCES. vy J. W. Monser. 

John Burns. 1880. 

By the evidences is to be understood the testimony which dis- 
tineuished men have borne to the truth of such religious subjects 
as God. Creation. Design, Science and Religion, Miracles, Provi- 
dence. Moral Evil, Man, The Bible, Infidelity, Ch ist and Chris- 
tianity, Immortality and the Resurrection, Retribution. |The 
object of the author is to at once strengthen and liberalize the 
popular sentiment; his method, as has been suggested, is bringing 
together the varied statements of different thinkers. Upon such 
a subject us lnmortality, for example. the witnesses cited are 
Jowett. Gibbon, Blackie, Westcott, Christlieb, Horne, Errett, 
Joseph Cook, Boardinan, Goldwin Smith, Boune, Alger, Carpen- 
ter, Sir Humphrey Davy, Emerson, Addison, Sherlock. 

Mr. Monser has certainly vindicated his claim upon public 
attention, and we can see no reason why, in a State in which, as 

in most Southern States, there continues a popular interest in 

religious topics, Mr. Monser should not receive both elements of 

Book Reviews. 303 

a successful author’s reward: the satisfaction of ministering to 
a want really felt, and of receiving a material return for his 
labor. Epiror. 
THE BEAUTIFUL AND THE SUBLIME. An Analysis of these Emotions and a 

Determination of the Objectivity of Beauty. By Joun Srernrort Kep- 

NEY. New York: G: P. Putnam’s Sons. 1880. 

It is by no means a common fault that the very deliberation 
with which a book is prepared should be carried to the extent of 
actually lessening the effectiveness of the work as a whole. And 
yet we can scarcely doubt that such is the case with the book 
before us. The author seems to have so long entertained and so 
frequently revolved in his own mind the thought here presented, 
that its very familiarity to him has led him to presume too far 
upon the ease with which it is to be seized by other minds. We 
believe this to be the explanation of the extreme condensation of 
statement bordering more than once upon obscurity, for which 
the work is remarkable. 

Nevertheless, few books of the time contain thought that will 
so well compensate the earnest student for the trouble of over- 
coming such difficulties of style as are here found. 

We will attempt to indicate as briefly as possible the funda- 
mental conceptions of the work. The author recognizes the ne- 
cessity of setting out from presuppositions. And yet he plainly 
indicates that he considers it possible to set forth in complete 
form a philosophy of the world as a whole, which philosophy shall 
account for all its presuppositions. We believe, also, from the 
general tone of his work, that the author looks to the absolutely 
Rational or Spiritual as the ultimate substance and cause of the 
world. The ultimate philosophy is, then, a universal Logic which 
presents the fundamental forms or modes of the infinite, divine 
Thought or Reason that forms the world and is the world. For 
in that Thought and through that Thought all things move and 
have their being. 

We need not, therefore, be startled when the author tells us 
that ‘* physical perfection ’’ is included as an element in ‘* every 
ideal of the perfect life.’ 


For the physical is after all only a 
and that the lowest, though an essential mode—of the 

spiritual. The total universe is a totality only by including all — 
the lowest as well as the highest — of its phases. 

But again thought, emotion,-and will are also essential ele- 
Vol. 7—No. 3 20 

304 The Western. 

ments in every ideal of the perfect life; and such ideal can only 
be realized through the harmonious union and blending of these 
elements. But the author includes emotion and will under the 
one designation of the moral element. Thus *‘ the three elements 
of our humanity ’’ are: the physical, the intellectual, and the moral. 

Now it is the destiny of spirit (as Hegel has finely said) to 
struggle upward out of nature into spirituality. But this is not 
to announce an essential antagonism between nature and spirit. 
On the contrary, ‘‘nature’’ is but the unconscious mode of spirit ; 
and, in struggling up out of nature, spirit only arises out of its 

state of unconsciousness, wherein it has been dominated by physi- 

cal forces, into the state of complete consciousness, wherein it, in 
turn, dominates the forces of nature and puts them to its own 
uses. The higher the grade of consciousness, the more perfect 
the power to wield the forces pertaining to the realm of the uncon- 
scious. But again, this intensified consciousness involves the 
heightening of all the qualities or modes of the spirit. Increase 
in the vigor and subtlety of thought (at least in the ideally unfold- 
ing spirit) must go hand in hand with growing refinement of the 
emotional nature and with continuously added strength of will. In 
other words, there will be ever greater capacity to form lofty ideals, 
greater delight in contemplating them, and greater power to real- 
ize them. Thus, through the evolution of its own powers, the 
spirit approximates more and more nearly to the character of a 
creator — becomes more and more like the universal, divine Mind. 

Such are the fundamental characteristics and destiny (or ideal) 
ef humanity, and it is only for a being like man that the Beau- 
tiful and Sublime can exist. It will be impossible here to trace 
out the analysis of these phases of the spiritual world as given in 
the book under consideration, though the central point in each 
may be briefly stated. Beauty is the product of the free, unob- 
structed play of the spirit in the realization of a legitimate ideal. 
Such product is a genuine creation of the spirit, and charms by its 
completeness. The sublime, on the contrary, is realized when a 
lofty ideal is struggling toward its realization in the midst of vast 
opposing forces. ‘The product of such struggle is sublime in that 
it bears the marks of the struggle. The ideal, though mighty, 
has not been able to perfectly unfold itself into reality; and the 
contemplation of the vast, rugged, imperfect product awakens the 
emotion of the Sublime along with the conception of the conflict 

Book Reviews. 305 

through which the realization of the ideal was thus far achieved. 
But the more nearly the ideal is achieved the more nearly does the 
product approximate to the beautiful; just as, on the contrary, 
the vaster the forces in play in the perfect products of the beauti- 
ful, the more do those products involve also the element of the 
sublime. And this proves equally true at whatever stage of the 
spirit’s activity the elements of the sublime and the beautiful 
may make their appearance. 

The sublime, as here defined, opens up the way to the explana- 
tion of evil as the obstructive and destructive forces that oppose 
the realization of all legitimate ideals. Indeed, Dr. Kedney goes 
so far as to say that ‘‘in the human world, as well as in nature, 
while the creative and regulative forces are for the most part 
beautiful, the destructive forces are sublime; and sublime just 
in proportion as they woo, and yet task imagination to live in 
them.’’ ‘To this we are compelled to add that the evil as being 
destructive is the irrational (even the anti-rational), and that the 
sublifme is a lofty element of the truly spiritual and rational. So 
far, therefore, from considering the destructive forces as sublime, 
we are unable to regard the sublime as other than that grandly 
elevated, intensely serious mode which is assumed by constructive 

force, physical or spiritual, engaged in the realization of a legiti- 
mate ideal in spite of all obstruction. 

We must also take exception to Dr. Kedney’s claim that the 
physical is an essential element of the beautiful and the sublime 
as such. To art, indeed, the physical or sensuous element is 
indispensable. But art itself cannot exhaust or express all that 
is beautiful and sublime in the world. Beyond the realm of the 
picturable extends the infinite realm of pure thought, which, 
nevertheless, is richer in content than is the realm of art; and the 
truth that is unpicturable is none the less charged with the 
elements of beauty and sublimity than is the truth that appeals to 
the sensuous imagination. ‘The harmonies of the infinite Logic 
of the world are no less charming to him who has learned to 
appreciate them than are the grandest harmonies of the great 
composers to the most finely trained musical ear. And after 
reading Dr. Kedney’s book we appeal confidently to his own 
experience in confirmation of what we say. 

But we must not extend this notice further. We commend Dr. 
Kedney’s book to all really serious students of philosophy and 
art. Wm. M. Bryant. 

306 The Western. 

Tue JouRNAL oF EpvucaTION comes to us once a month from 
London, and as it gives the current educational news it should 
have an interest for all who have educational libraries. 

Epucation, No. 4, contains among other contributions a paper 
by B. G. Lovejoy upon ** Richard Grant White vs. The Public 
Schools,’’ and one by William Jolly, of Scotland, upon ‘*Real Edu- 
cation. ”’ 

Pror. B. F. Tween, one of the best known educational men of 
the East, has published in pamphlet form ‘* A Reply to Richard 
Grant White.’’ 

Our Home anv Scrence Gossip is the title of an excellent enter- 
prise published at Rockford, Ills., and supplied at the small price 
of one dollar per annum. We recommend it to all who desire to 
know the most interesting and popular on dits in literature, science, 
and art. 

Louis FOR THE YEAR 1880. Mr. George H. Morgan, the secre- 
tary of the Merchants’ Exchange, has gradually rendered his 

annual reports so complete that they have a permanent value be- 

yond their immediate purpose and possess interest for any student 

of business movements. Mr. Morgan presents not merely the 
movements on ’Change, but a general review of all branches of 
business; for example, among other tables appear: I. Amount 
of Real Estate and Personal Property assesssed in St. Louis. 
II. Building Permits issued for Five Years. II. Aggregate 
Statements of the twenty-five Banks. IV. Clearing-house State- 
ment. V. Meteorological Statement. VI. Comparative Table of 
Seasons. VII. Transactions at the Custom-house. VIII. Clas- 
sification of Commodities imported directly. IX. Business of the 
St. Louis Post-office. X. Fire Record. XI. Navigation. 
The same influences are illustrated by the fluctuations of busi- 
ness as appear in other forms of human effort, and hence such ex- 
haustive statements as Mr. Morgan’s reports have a very great 
value to the student of social science. 

Tue Iniustratep Screntiric News, a record of the sciences 
and their applications in the arts and industries, is published in 
New York at $1.50 a year and is at once attractive and valuable.