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ment co-operated heartily with the Department of Health in executing its decisions. The owners of some of the buildings the Department ordered destroyed attempted to secure preliminary injunctions, in order to carry the decision to court. The Supreme Court refused to issue injunctions. The decision stated that the Board of Health, under the statute, constituted an authority to pass upon the condition. of the property and to determine the sanitary condition of the buildings. Its powers, in the opinion of the Court, are judicial, and are not to be interfered with by the Supreme Court. The powers conferred on the Board by this statute interfere with the rights of property-owners only so far as they protect the larger rights of the community. This decision-the second in favor of the Board-will doubtless end the attempt of the owners of this class of property to seek the aid of the courts to defeat the execution of the law. The work of demolishing the rear tenements goes steadily on, and these pestiferous shelters of degradation, disease, and crime will soon be the past history of tenement-house conditions. The new building laws protect the community from the erection of rear tenements. A certain percentage of the space built upon must be reserved for the purpose of securing light and air to the rooms occupied.
The eclipse of the sun which took place on August 9 was an event of great importance in the astronomical
world. Astronomers all over the world have been making preparations to observe the eclipse from the most advantageous points. The observations at Yokohama and Tokio, Japan, were taken under the most favorable conditions. From certain points in Norway the same perfect conditions existed during the total time of the eclipse. From Vadso the effect of the eclipse was very impressive. The entire landscape suddenly darkened to a deep inky-blue color, with a lemon-colored band of sky all around the horizon. There were brief glimpses of the sun through the rifts in the cloud when it was half eclipsed, and for a few minutes before the period of totality, and again when the shadow was passing off, when the sun appeared shaped like a crescent. Numerous photographs were taken, but they are not of great value. In Berlin the conditions for observing the eclipse were also very favorable. In northern Japan clouds obscured the sun and no observations were possible. Through the liberality of Mr. James, of New York, an expedition headed by Professor D. P. Todd, of Amherst College, was sent to Japan. This party took its observations from Yezo. It is feared that clouds obscured the eclipse from this point, where the Lick Observatory Expedition was also located. There were four points of observation on Nova Zembla and in Siberia. These have not yet been heard from, and it is feared that clouds obscured the sun at these points. A fine view of the eclipse was obtained from the deck of the American Line steamer Ohio, which was at the time off the island of Stot, Norway. Miss Mary Proctor was one of the passengers on the Ohio, and made ob.servations from the deck of the steamer.
With Edison and Tesla at work, and with the claim of a Boston inventor who has just announced the solution of the problem of converting coal directly into an electric current, we are apt to consider the progress of electrical invention as an assured fact partially divested of its former surprises. This progress has been so rapid, and its most wonderful achievements are so recent, that retrospect is on that account all the more instructive and suggestive. glance into the statistics of the subject shows that the industries in the United States in which electric power trans
mission is employed represent invested capital amounting to $1,400,000,000, and two-thirds of these industries have grown up within the past ten years. The Republic has now more than 12,000 miles of electric railroads, including over 90 per cent. of all street railroads in the country, and using 25,000 trolley cars. There are nearly 8,000 isolated electric plants, representing capital amounting to $200,000,000. We have about 500,000 motors in use, of an aggregate value of $75,000,000. The complete displacement of steam is regarded as a question of a comparatively short time. Only seventeen years ago a small electric motor for traction was constructed, and it seems like a toy in comparison with the hundred-ton motor now in operation in the belt-line tunnel of the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad at Baltimore. There is also a certainty of greatly increasing the domestic uses to which electricity may be put. ential workers in the cause of woman's advancement have recently called attention to the hopeful field which is thereby opened, and have urged the claims of electrical science as, in this respect, a direct and valuable aid to their Cooking by electricity, and various other applications of it in doing away with the heretofore necessary drudgery of the household, are looked upon as certain to be introduced in the near future. As yet only tried in isolated instances, though with complete success, the question of expense in these applications of electricity would be solved by the wide demand. Their use in millions of
houses would guarantee cheapness, and capital waits to see
the use bid fair to become general. So vast are the vistas of discovery revealed that the possibilities should seem quite as great as they did when the first crude efforts of the inventor were crowned with success.
Otto Lilienthal, who met his death near Berlin last week while experimenting with a flying-machine, can with reasonable accuracy be said to have flown like a bird. His success, it is true, was confined to short flights (the longest recorded was a fifth of a mile), and no one but a trained athlete could have used his apparatus. Still, he did sustain himself in the air and make short flights, both with the wind and against it, by the aid of artificial wings and tail, and without motor or balloon aid of any kind. Such experimenters as Professor Langley and Mr. Maxim, who have of late years made the greatest progress toward producing a workable air-motor, admit that they have gained valuable hints from "the man who flies." Lilienthal had been working twenty-seven years over the fascinating problem, and had met accidents and failures innumerable. His guiding principle was that "success in artificial flight is to be expected only from concavo-convex sustaining surfaces." His first successful flight was with a pair of wings made of sheeting, stretched on light willow frames in the shape of a bat's wings, and having eighty-six square feet of surface. He would throw himself out from the steep hill at Rhinow, where he was killed the other day, and from a tower on the hilltop, and would soar out sixty or eighty feet, rising in the air or falling at will. With improved apparatus he gained in the length of his flight and in his power of steering. Of late he had been experimenting with possible motor forces, and had expressed an opinion that the vapor of liquid carbonic acid was the most desirable.
By the death of Professor Hubert A. Newton Yale University loses one of its oldest and most respected instructors, and American science one of its most distinguished representatives. Professor Newton had been in the service of Yale as tutor and professor for over forty-three
years, having entered that service three years after his graduation in 1850. His achievements in the science of pure mathematics were recognized by scholars the world over; he was elected an associate of the Royal Astronomical Society of London in 1872, and a Fellow of the Philosophical Society of Edinburgh in 1886. Perhaps the best known of his scientific labors were his investigations and deductions relating to comets and meteors; he added largely to the knowledge of the laws and principles governing the courses and action of these erratic bodies. Professor Newton was a man of fine personal qualities and of modest and unassuming character. In many ways he aided materially in the development of Yale.
The quinquennial census of France, the returns of which have just been published, has been looked forward to with great interest, in view of the indications of the census in past years that the population was not increasing at any satisfactory rate. The figures now obtained are discouraging. Since April, 1891, the increase of the population, which now stands at 38,228,969, has been only 133,819. Only twenty-four departments show an increase, while sixty-three show a decrease. This small increase is in towns, the decrease in the country. This is a gloomy outlook for a country whose ambition is to be a colonizing power, and whose rivals in that line, especially Great Britain and Germany, have a population increasing at the normal rate.
Whatever difference of opinion exists among critics with regard to Sir John Millais's changes of method and of artistic aim, there has never been any doubt about the technical excellence of his work, nor about the strength of his hold on the tastes and sympathy of the world of picturelovers. John Everett Millais died in London on Wednesday of last week, after a painful illness caused by cancer of the throat-an illness from which he was suffering even when he succeeded Sir Frederick Leighton as President of the Royal Academy. He was born of good family in the Isle of Jersey in 1829, and as a boy showed a strong proclivity toward drawing. Indeed, he may be called precocious in a notable degree, as he was but eleven years old when he entered the Royal Academy, and he soon became a prize-winner; in 1846, when he was only sixteen, he had a painting hung in the Exhibition; in 1847 he won the gold medal of the Academy by a historical painting, and in the years immediately following he exhibited two or three historical canvases which excited no special remark. His impatience at conventional methods and admiration of the idealism of early art led to his joining Holman Hunt, Rossetti, and others in the then much-ridiculed and still often misunderstood Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. One of the earliest pictures to illustrate the aim and method of the school was Millais's "Isabella," the subject being taken from Keats's poem. His "Christ in the House of His Parents," "Sir Isumbras," and two or three other paintings, belong to the Pre-Raphaelite period of his career.
That Millais did not continue to follow with Rossetti the path originally chosen was due to a frank perception that his bent was of a different kind; but the influence of his early association with the Pre-Raphaelites was always seen in his later work. The familiar pictures by which his popularity and solid success were attained were those like "The Huguenots," "The Order of Release," "The Proscribed
Royalist," "The Black Brunswicker," "Ophelia," and "The Northwest Passage "-pictures which suggested a story, which were pure and simple in sentiment (keeping always the right side of sentimentality), and which appealed to the universal love of romance. In technique these paintings were beyond reproach. Reproduction in many forms has made them familiar to every one, and of course they now suffer from that familiarity; but the best test of their real merit has been the failure of countless attempts by others to reach the same success by similar methods. That Millais might have attained a higher place among the great artists of the world had he subordinated his desire for popularity and financial success can hardly be doubted, but it would be ungrateful to criticise too closely one who has added so richly to the world's stock of pleasure, and whose methods, if not ideal, were in the main so sound. More than any other one man he is associated with the progress of English art for the last half-century. half-century. Personally he was warmly admired, and his selection as President of the Academy was regarded as the best possible. The selection of his successor will not be so easy. Millais, it should be added, was an excellent portrait-painter, and painted, among others, Mr. Gladstone, Mr. Bright, Disraeli, Carlyle, and Newman.
Culture Through Action
It is an interesting fact in the history of human progress that the four men who have been accepted as the greatest writers who have yet appeared used either the epic or the dramatic form. It can hardly have been accidental that Homer and Dante gave their greatest work the epic form, and that Shakespeare and Goethe were in their most fortunate moments dramatists. There must have been some reason in the nature of things for this choice of two literary forms which, differing widely in other respects, have this in common, that they represent life in action. They are very largely objective; they portray events, conditions, and deeds which have passed beyond the stage of thought and have involved the thinker in the actual historical world of vital relationships and dramatic sequence. The lyric poet may sing, if it pleases him, like a bird in the recesses of a garden, far from the noise and dust of the highway and the clamor of men in the competitions of trade and work; but the epic or dramatic poet must find his theme and his inspiration in the stir and movement of men in social relations; he deals, not with the subjective, but with the objective, man; with the man whose dreams are no longer visions of the imagination, but are becoming incorporate in some external order; whose passions are no longer seething within him, but are working themselves out in vital consequences; whose thought is no longer purely speculative, but has begun to give form and shape to laws, habits, or institutions. It is the revelation of the human spirit in action which we find in the epic and the drama; the inward life working itself out in material and social relations; the soul of the man becoming, so to speak, externalized.
The epic, as illustrated in the "Iliad" and "Odyssey, deals with a main or central movement in Greek tradition; a series of events which, by reason of their nature and prominence, embedded themselves in the memory of the Greek race. These events are described in narrative form, with episodes, incidents, and dialogues which break the long story and relax the strain of attention from time to time, without interrupting the progress of the narrative. There are heroes whose figures stand out in the long story
with great distinctness, but we are interested much more in what they do than in what they are; for in the epic character is subordinate to action. In the dramas of Shakespeare, on the other hand, while action is more constantly employed and is thrown into bolder relief, our deepest interest centers in the actors; the action is no longer the matter of first importance; it is significant mainly because it involves men and women not only in the chain of external consequences, but also in the order of spiritual sequences. We are deeply stirred by our perception of the intimate connection between the possibilities which lie sleeping in the individual life and the tragic events which are set in motion where those possibilities are realized in action. In both epic and drama men are seen, not in their subjective moods, but in their objective struggles; not in the detachment of the life of speculation and imagination, but in vital association and relation with society in its order and institutions. With many differences both of spirit and form, the epic and the drama are at one in portraying men in that ultimate and decisive stage which determines individual character and gives history its direction and significance.
And it is from men in action that much of the deepest truth concerning life and character has come; indeed, it is not until we pass out of the region of the speculative, the merely potential, that the word character takes on that tremendous meaning with which thousands of years of actual happenings have invested it. A purely ideal world-a world fashioned wholly apart from the realities which convey definite, concrete revelations of what is in us and in our world-would necessarily be an unmoral world; the relationships which bind men together and give human intercourse such depth and richness spring into being only when they are actually entered upon; they could never be understood or foreseen in a world of pure thought; nor would it be possible, in such a world, to realize that reaction of the deed upon the doer which creates character, nor that far-reaching influence of the deed upon society and the sequence of events which so often issues in tragedy, and from which history derives its immense interest and meaning. A world which stopped short of realization in action would not only lose the fathomless dramatic interest which inheres in human life, but it would part with all those moral implications of the integrity and persistence of the individual soul, its moral quality, and its moral responsibility which make man something different from the dust which whirls about him on the highway, or the stone over which he stumbles. This is precisely the character of those speculative systems which deny the reality of action and substitute the idea for the deed; such a world does more than suffocate the individual soul; it destroys the very meaning of life by robbing it of moral order and meaning. The end of such a conception of the universe is necessarily annihilation, and its mood is necessarily despair.
"How can a man come to know himself ?" asked Goethe. "Never by thinking, but by doing." Now, this knowledge of self in the large sense is precisely the knowledge which ripens and clarifies us, which gives us sanity, repose, and power. To know what is in humanity and what life means to humanity, we must study humanity in its active, not in its passive, moods; in the hours when it is doing, not thinking. Sooner or later all its thinking which has any reality in it passes on into action. The emotion, passion, thought, impulse, which never gets beyond the subjective stage, dies before birth; and all those philosophies which urge abstinence from action would cut the plant of life at the root; they are, in the last analysis, pleas for suicide. Men really live only as they freely express themselves
through thought, emotion, and action. They get at the deepest truth and enter into the deepest relationships only as they act. Inaction involves something more than the disease and decay of certain faculties; it involves the deformity of arrested development and failure to enter into that larger world of truth which is open to those races alone which live a whole life. It is for this reason that the drama must always hold the first place among those forms which the art of literature has perfected; it is for this reason that Homer, Dante, Shakespeare, and Goethe, consciously or unconsciously, chose those forms of expression which are specially adapted to represent and illustrate life. in action; it is for this reason, among others, that these writers must always play so great a part in the work of educating the race. Culture is, above all things, real and vital; knowledge may deal with abstractions and unrelated bits of fact, but culture must always fasten upon those things which are significant in a spiritual order. It has to do with the knowledge which may become incorporate in a man's nature, and with that knowledge especially which has come to humanity through action. It is this deeper 'knowledge, which holds a lighted torch aloft in the deepest recesses of the soul or over those abysses of possible experience which open on all sides about every man, which is to be found in the pages of Homer, Dante, Shakespeare, and Goethe, and of all those great artists who have seen men in those decisive and significant moments when they strike into the movement of history, or when, through their deeds and sufferings, the order of life suddenly shines forth. 甭
III. The Manufacturer
Nature is the great manufacturer. She is perpetually changing lower into higher forms of life, converting the coarser into the finer. In her mysterious laboratory she transforms the inorganic substances into vegetable fiber. These vegetable substances she converts into animal organisms, building up the body out of them with infinite architectural skill and patience. By subtle chemical processes carried on within the body, whose delicate and vital laboratory eludes our study, she selects the appropriate matters for brain-structure, which becomes in time the instrument of the soul, and the apparently necessary medium for thought and feeling. Thus she illustrates the true function of the manufacturer-to convert the useless into the useful, and the useful into objects of still higher use-that is, to make the material serve the spiritual. In the paper-mill the rags are thrown into a vat at one end of a large building, and the clear white roll of paper ready for pen or type issues at the other end. This is the work of the manufacturer-to take that for which the world of men can find no place and convert it into instruments for the higher life of man. He converts wool, the clothing for sheep, into cloth, the clothing for man; corn, food for cattle, into meal, food for man; trees, shelter for birds, into houses, shelter for man.
Every noble human activity is an imitation of the activities of God. In all our life we should be imitators of Him; when we fail so to be, we fail utterly of the true ends of life. In governing, or judging, or teaching, or redeeming, or healing, or distributing, we are doing on a small scale what God does in infinite proportions. The manufacturer is a creator. He does not, indeed, make something out of nothing, but it is a very difficult and doubtful question in philosophy whether God in creation made something out of nothing. Certainly the processes of creation as we see them going on in the universe, and as the Hebrew poet describes them in the first
chapter of Genesis and in certain analogous Psalms, is not a process of making something out of nothing. It is a process of transformation, of converting an earth that was without form and void into a world pillared and buttressed and roofed and canopied and carved and carpeted for man's habitation. This divine work of creation is carried on by the manufacturer.
If this conception underlies his work, he cannot but be honest in it. No man who realizes that he is intrusted with the work of creation can palm off shams and false pretenses on his fellow-men. He will not put chicory in the coffee, nor lard in the butter, nor chalk in the milk, nor clay in the paper or the cotton cloth to add to its weight, nor cotton in the all-wool fabric, nor logwood in the wine. These and other innumerable kindred adulterations are not merely incidental dishonesties. He who does these things abandons his divine function, ceases to be a creator, is no longer a true manufacturer. He is a corrupter of nature. Where he should transform he does pervert.
The civilization of a community is measured by the condition of its manufactures. A purely agricultural community cannot possess a diversified life, and therefore cannot develop diversified characters in its citizens. Our industries mold our characters. An American factory town could never produce a patriarch of the olden time. The life of the herdsman could never produce the ambitious, eager, enterprising American. The nation, for its best growth, requires both elements of character-the simplicity and the repose of the agriculturist, who works with. nature and must often wait patiently for nature, and the intensity and speed in action of the manufacturer, who, if he is to succeed in dominating nature and compelling her to do his bidding, must be constantly alert. The energy of the Anglo-Saxon people has made them a manufacturing and commercial race, but manufacturing and commerce have also developed their spirit of energy and enterprise.
Thus the manufacturer renders a double service in the Commonwealth. He serves humanity by creating out of useless material instruments indispensable to human comfort and the higher phases of human life; and he develops in man a type of intellectual energy which, without this creative work, man never could possess. The factory rightly conceived and rightly administered is as religious as a cathedral.
The Outlook Vacation Fund
Dear Outlook: Returning to the city late one evening last week, after a delightful day in the country, I was obliged to walk several blocks from the ferry to reach the elevated road, and the sights I saw by the way grieved me so I could hardly think of my charming day with any pleasure. I will mention only one of them-the poor, ragged little children running after me at that late hour of the night with what has always been to me a most pathetic appeal : "Please, ma'am, give me a flower!" I tried to detach some of the flowers from my fragrant bouquet, but the poverty and wretchedness of the poor little lives fell upon my heart like a weight of lead. But my sympathy alone would be of no use to them, and the mite I could give would only afford a few of these children a little bit of sweet country life. Then comes the question, Do these little ones, who know nothing better, need the change as much as the older girls who are struggling in shops and factories to gain a decent living or to support others, and into whose lives so little pleasure ever comes?
Will you help me to decide this, and send the small inclosure where it will be used to the best advantage? "MARY FRANCIS."
The above letter was received last week. That morning among the editors' mail were two letters, one from an East Side friend, a woman who had cared for a darling little girl, who had no father, for over two years, inclosing one from the mother of the little girl. The mother of this child had not been able to keep its board paid, and she wrote saying that if it could be sent to the country by some society for a little time she might catch up with the board. On reading the letter it seemed that nowhere in the world could there be any one quite so friendless as this little girl of three. Where to send the child to help lessen the mother's burden and give the child
an outing to relieve the loving foster-mother, who was ill, was a tremendous question until the above letter was read. Its inclosure made it possible to communicate with another friend who was going to the country club-house of a club of tenement-house women. She responded at once that she would take the child, and that problem was settled. This has but remote connection with The Outlook Vacation Fund. It only shows the great opportunities for lightening the burdens of life that come to a paper in the position of The Outlook. A week ago a young girl who needed a vacation came to one of the editors of The Outlook. She needed a vacation entirely different from that provided even by the houses of the Working-Girls' Vacation Society. She needed quiet, rest, freedom from noise, and the personal interest of some cheerful woman. Looking at this girl of eighteen, the awful burden was forced upon one's soul that, in spite of money, of good intention, of the new sense of brotherhood which is bringing men of all ranks of society closer together, there was really no place for this girl that would suit her physical and mental condition. The same day's mail brought The Outlook a letter from a reader offering to take as a guest for four weeks a working-girl. It was a special providence. An attempt was made to reach the girl who needed just this opportunity at once, but was not successful. When finally she was reached, she came, stating that, believing The Outlook could not provide her a vacation, she had accepted the offer to go to a country boarding-house as waitress. This, of course, greatly relieved her financially, if she was able to do the work. It not only gave her a change, but it gave her some money, and that she greatly needed. She could go for two months, have the change, and send her wages to her family. A new complication arose right here. How was the engagement to be kept with a lady who had offered a vacation to a working-girl? Suddenly and unexpectedly another girl appeared who needed a vacation under almost exactly the same conditions as the first girl. This girl could pay something for her board. The opportunity of going alone to this lady's house brought tears to her eyes. She paid her money, and is now the guest of the one who wishes to consecrate her guest-room to the uses of a working-girl for the month of August, and the money she was able to pay provides for another girl's vacation at one of the Vacation Houses.
The Books in the Attic
By Edward E. Hale
HERE were, in ordinary life, but six books in our attic. The home, below us, was full of books. My father edited a daily newspaper, and most of the books published in America were sent to him for review. There were not as many books published in the world then as are published now. He also had a well-selected library of general literature. In this collection we roved at will, and when we were downstairs we read everything.
But upstairs, in our attic, which was exclusively ours, we had but six books, or, for some period, seven. We did not select them. They selected themselves. They came there by the Divine Law of Selection. Indeed, there was not room for many more, certainly not time.
For the attic was our workroom and playroom. No lights were permitted there. Practically, except on Wednesday and Saturday afternoons, we were at school till dark. We never went there Sundays. So that, for all we had to do, there were only the two hours before dinner and after twelve, and the holy Wednesday and Saturday afternoons-holy indeed, holidays in which was so much to be done! You do not read many books when there is so little time. Think of it, only two half-holidays in a week, with so much to do!
Do you wonder that we always disliked schools! How horrible it was when once in two winters dancing-school came in and gobbled up Wednesday and Saturday! I have hated waltzing, from this association only, since those days. So much to do, and to have to go to school Wednesday and Saturday afternoons!
Nor was there much room for books. I have lately revisited the attic, by the kindness of a gentleman who now occupies it as a part of his architect's office. It was fifteen feet square. It had then a sloping roof, and in a part of it one could not sit erect. What matter! he could lie on his back, if he had to be there. In the higher part a pair of " parallel bars," for exercise, occupied a space eight feet by three. A Luthern (Luzerne) window gave the most available space. If the printer will kindly make for me a little map-though I know he will hate to: have I not set type myself?—if he will kindly make me a little map from twelve em dashes, I can explain how the floor of the attic divided itself.
Give about seven feet square for each of these imagined subdivisions, and you will see that there was not much room for books in the attic.
Nor was much room needed. There were but two of us-with occasional sisters. Occasionally, also, we had John and Tom as guests, and welcome guests. I remember others as unwelcome. They did not fit in, and things had to be explained to them. Where there was so little time and so much to do, we wanted only those who could catch on, as John and Tom could.
For we had perpetual motion to discover; we had to make locomotives from whalebone, ribbon rollers, and spools; we had the dolls' school-room to furnish; many magnetical discoveries to make with black sand-anticipating Tesla and Roentgen; we had to illuminate the room with gas-made sometimes from turpentine, sometimes from "sea coal," as, like Shakespeare, we called it. We had to make Leyden jars and to communicate by telegraph, sometimes across the attic, sometimes with Point Aderton, ten miles away. We had plays to act, scenery to paint, parts to learn, to abridge, and to expand. We had two
weekly newspapers to edit. We had many experiments to try on the strength of materials. We had to calculate the weight of air so that our balloons should be of the right size. We had naval battles to fight in floats on the floor. We had to paint portraits on the walls of our belles and their friends, and landscapes representing the places we visited in summer. There was no regular order assigned for these duties. But, like all duties, they were imperative. It will be seen that they required some books of reference. But, as has been said, there was not room for many.
For these purposes-by the law of selection, as has been said also-six books had provided themselves. They were: 1. Scott's minor poems-one thin volume in boardsof which the longest was "Search after Happiness." 2. "Scientific Dialogues."
it was good enough poetry for us. It told what was.. most boys had not read "The Sultan of Serendib" and "MacGregor's Lament," and knew "Pibroch of Donald Dhu" only because it was in "Mother Goose." Why? Heaven only knows!
I have never seen another copy of that Philadelphia edition of those Poems. Ours was yellow, with many stains on the covers from wet retorts which had been set on it when they were cooling. But though it was dirty, it was good. And we did not have our books for their covers. Glory and honor and immortality be to dear Sir Walter !
2. "Scientific Dialogues" had been used in the High School. It had been extolled in "Harry and Lucy." Even then we knew that half of it was wrong. Now I suppose
that they have proved that half the other half is wrong. But certain Eternal Truths, made out by Isaac Newton and others, will always prove true. And these were in Joyce's "Scientific Dialogues Joyce's "Scientific Dialogues "-are now if a copy lingers in any archæological museum.
And a few Eternal Truths are excellent for boy or man to possess and build upon.
3. "Harry and Lucy." Not the first part. That is only for children. The last three volumes, published in 1825 for the first time. The volumes which have JOY, JOY, Joy in them, and the tragic narrative of Harry's burn.
4. "The Treasury of Knowledge was a very curious collection, published by Connor & Cook in New York, in the infancy of American publication. I never saw the first volume till I picked it up a few years ago in a secondhand book-store. But the second volume contained a Dictionary of Quotations, Sir Richard Phillips's "Million.