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author, to have the pupils imagine pic--the spirits of fire, air, earth and water; tures of their own from the author's description, and then to show the pupil, if possible, the pictures others have worked up from the same descriptions. You may call it work in literature, you may call it work in art; it matters little by what name it goes. It is work among thoughts that concern all the great forms of expression. There is a valuable correlation about it all, and one of the issues to be expected from such work is a gain in the æsthetic sense.

"

Or take constructions of various kinds. It is not quite possible in the higher grades of manual work to establish elementary conceptions of what Ruskin means by his seven lamps of architecture?" May not pupils be led to see some of these lamps, if never so dimly burning the lamps of truth, of power, of beauty, of sacrifice, for instance? May they not be led to discover them in humble constructions, as well as in palaces and cathedrals!

There is really no end to the chances for stirring up thought in matters relating to the expression of things. The other day, in company with an artist, I was looking over a beautiful Japanese picture book. I recall in one picture some seagreen mountains-one pale unbroken wash of green from the foreground to the mountain tops miles away; also some gorgeous red flowers out of all proportion to everything else, and drawn without regard to distance. There was scarcely a trace of perspective, aerial or any other. The picture was full of untruths-nevertheless, we both liked it. The artist said it was due to certain rhythms in the grouping of the masses and in grading of the colors. That is, the picture contained some truths that saved its art and made it reputable and enjoyable. Pertinent questions arise at once: How much of what is false in art can the truth float? What is the nature of that truth whose saving potency is so great? There is some virtue in understanding questions if they cannot be answered. Thus, in the pleasure we derive from some things that are only partly true, we get an inkling of the strange, coy, elusive, but real thing that

art is.

It is my fortune every Sunday to sit opposite the Horsford Memorial windows in the Shepard Church at Cambridge. There are four in all, and four spirits occupy them in the form of glorified women

are.

and above them clouds of celestial musicians. And the longer I observe them the deeper their meaning becomes and the deeper their mystery as well. What I have sometimes minded, outside of the spell of their beauty, is a certain conflict between the ideal and the actual, which each spirit of the quartette embodies. Each one of them is intensely human, except that she has great, expanded, glorious wings. The effect is uplifting. One is ready to fly with her. But think for a moment what those beautiful wings really Anatomically they are an additional pair of arms. The spirit is fourarmed, multi-limbed, like a Hindoo god. And when we cast about for the bony framework within the body to support such wings, for the muscles to move them, for the connecting nerves and veins and arteries, and all that, the idea grows more and more grotesque. And yet the wings delight us. There is truth about them somewhere that triumphs over the false. There are suggestions in them of upward movement, of unobstructed flight, of things not yet attained, of things celestial and eternal. Thus the spirit becomes a veritable messenger of the Lord, while a sense of shame comes over us that we ever stooped from the message to question the anatomy.

In the study of such things as these,' young people can be led to see and feel that splendid supremacy of major truths over minor untruths that characterizes so much of what we see in art. Thus they may get a glimpse or two into the fascinating realm of symbolism in art. With such a glimpse, and with an inkling of Bible history, how the famous mural decorations of Sargent in the Boston Public Library would appeal to them.

I am aware that I have not pointed out wherein actual drawing or actual constructions can themselves be made more artistic. I am also aware that the teacher of English does not set himself the task of insuring the presence of æsthetic elements in the composition he requires. If, in each case, a feeling for better things is developed and a longing to attain them, that is enough, or, at least, it is all that is attainable in school. It means a growing knowledge of better things, and a promise of some movement towards them.

But enough in this vein. Let me not be misunderstood. Expression in the public schools is not likely at its best to

rise above production that is commonplace. The very thing that prevents its having commercial value often gives it its educational value. That is, the educational value of doing a thing is extracted from such doing long before the thing done comes to have a commercial value. The master-pieces of material workmanship must always be as far above the handiwork of the schools as the masterpieces of literature are above the compositions of the schools. The methods of acquiring a taste for literature through reading and studying what is the best, suggest corresponding methods for acquiring a taste for art. Taste in any form of expression can be developed long before artistic execution is possible. Taste comes through imitation, through absorption; it develops in the dark, as it were; the best that the teacher can do is to give it suitable soil to grow in. Hence the necessity for abundant art material, for skillful use of it, and consequently for teachers able to use it. Indeed, this paper is really a plea for the cultivation of the æsthetic sense in the teacher. If the teacher has it and the means to work with, the development of the aesthetic sense in the pupil may take its course. In all these suggestions I propose, not additions to a curriculum, but only higher aims in existing instruction.

I have not touched the value of the æsthetic element in the arts of production and design. I have been thinking rather of its value to the pupil himself. There is no sound reason why in any form of handiwork both teacher and pupil should not rise to the appreciation of the æsthetic and spiritual aspects of the themes too rashly supposed to be outside the pale of such appreciation.

Steam, electricity, and their mighty engines, are by no means impossible themes for the stirring of the art sense within us.

Poets have neglected such themes, it is true. It is this neglect that provokes a stirring outburst from Rudyard Kipling: "I'm sick of all their quirks and turnsthe loves and doves they dream; Lord, send a man like Robbie Burns to sing the song o' Steam."

For this particular song, I am not sure but that Kipling himself is the longed-for Robbie Burns. Have you read his recent McAndrews's hymn-that hymn all a quiver with the activities of two souls-that of a sturdy engineer and that of a mighty engine that drives his ship through the seas? Won

der, pride, poetry, reverence, deep religious feeling-they are all there in the man, in the machine, one hardly knows in which, so transfused they seem to be throughout them both. In all parts of the great obedient engine, the poet sees: Interdependence absolute, foreseen, ordained, decreed,

To work, ye'll note, at any tilt and every rate o' speed,

Fra' skylight-lift to furnace bars, backed, bolted, braced and stayed,

And singing like the mornin' stars for joy that they are made.

Nay, so skillful is the poet's touch, that for a moment, the handiwork of man, gloriously transfigured, seems greater than the man himself.

"No doot for the machine," he sings, "but what about the man?"

"The man that counts, wi' all his runs, one million miles of sea,

Four times the space from earth to moon-
How far, O Lord, from Thee?"

That, my friends, is the final question in all educational discussions,-what about the man? Processes begun, elements mastered, lessons learned-no doubt about them all, but what about the man? We do not do our best by him in school until we plant in him the germs of great thoughts and cause his soul to be nobly stirred.

If the handiwork of the student does not rise above the commonplace while he is in school, it is to be devoutly hoped that his soul will, If art is long (as Goethe says and Longfellow sings), the beginnings at least of the artistic sense are reasonably short. Art creation belongs to the later life, or, more likely, it will never come at all; but the feeling for art-there is something lacking in any education that does not early aim for its quickening, its extension, and its refinement, for it is the blossoming out of the higher nature.

OLD AND YOUNG.

They soon grow old who grope for gold
In marts where all is bought and sold:
Who live for self and on some shelf
In darkened vaults hoard up their pelf,
Cankered and crusted o'er with mold,
For them their youth itself is old.
They ne'er grow old who gather gold
Where Spring awakes and flowers unfold;
Where suns arise in joyous skies,
And fill the soul within their eyes.
For them the immortal bards have sung:
For them old age itself is young!

C. P. Cranch, in Scribner.

IN

THE COLLEGE WOMAN.

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N the November number of the North American Review, Charles F. Thwing, LL. D., President of the Western Reserve University and Adelbert College, discusses with interest the question, What becomes of college women?" We are told that 55 per cent. of the graduates of our woman colleges marry, thus showing that the fear that college women would prefer a public to a domestic career has no foundation in fact. The unmarried graduates are engaged in almost every employment, doing work of the highest educational, ethical and civil value. The most popular field of work is in the school room, and in the hundreds of high schools throughout the country the college graduate is found bringing to her routine work "the richness of culture and the breadth of sympathy which produce results far more precious than the ordinary routine of educational service." alone in the high schools is she found, however, for, according to the census of 1890, there are 735 women, the majority of whom are graduates, who are professors in colleges and universities. These women are giving to the cause of education, of culture and of higher civilization, says Dr. Thwing, the same contribution which men in similar positions in the colleges for men are giving. Evidently, however, the women graduates do not care much for the professions. Out of 4,000 women physicians, not more than 200 have had a college training. Very few college women are found among the 1,235 preachers and 208 lawyers, and the law, the ministry and journalism apparently have no charms for those fortunate representatives of the gentler sex who have had the advantages of the "higher education" for women.

The college graduate, according to Dr. Thwing, is not distinguished in the field of literature, and, in fact, the number of books written by college women is very few. Since the time the first college was opened to women no graduate has yet arisen whose work is at all comparable to that of Miss Murfree, of Miss Wilkins, or of Miss Phelps. One or two graduates have achieved some measure of distinction as essayists, but the woman college has thus far given us no great novelist. This, says Dr. Thwing, is in the nature of a startling induction, and "it is certainly true that the colleges for women have not

made the contribution to literature that they have made to scholarship, or to teaching, or to administration." Of 633 women named in Appleton's Cyclopædia, the distinguished women who are not graduates are noted either for their writings, as singers or actresses, as sculptors or painters, as educators, as philanthropists, as missionaries and as doctors. The distinguished class, in fact, according to the cyclopædia, are found outside of the graduate class, thus leading Dr. Thwing to remark that the college woman has not become famous. But the college woman has been a possibility for a comparatively short time only, and in the years to come she may earn distinction in every branch of the arts. That marriage does not reduce her chances of winning fame is to be deduced from the fact that of the 663 distinguished women whose names are handed down to posterity in the pages of the cyclopædia, fully one-half were married. Dr. Thwing's conclusion is that the American college has helped American women to get strength without becoming priggish, vigor of heart without becoming cold, to become broad in sympathy without wanting a public career, and large minded and broadminded without neglecting humble duties. This will be the ideal woman, not the caricatured "new woman."—Phila. Ledger.

W

WHITTIER AND CHILDS.

BY F. W. FARRAR.

ITH the Quaker poet, John Greenleaf Whittier, I spent part of a delightful day, in his own house, with Dr. Phillips Brooks. I had a warin admiration for the venerable poet. He has, in his verses, given splendid expression to the conviction which I tried to set forth in "Eternal Hope." He was one of the most modest and most saintly men I ever saw. The deepest yet most tolerant religious feeling breathes through all his poems, from those of his early youth to those written in advanced age. I was further drawn to him by the noble passion with which, all his life long, he had thrown himself into every movement in the cause of humanity and mercy. Further, I found in his writings a far nearer approach to the true religion of Christ than I did in most books professedly religious. Of course Mr. Whit

tier was, in one sense, not a very great poet; he did not stand in the front line. Some of his poems lack intensity and compression. But his best verses will undoubtedly live. What concentrated force there is in his lines on the great orator, Daniel Webster, after the sort of volleface through which he went on the subject of slavery, on becoming a candidate for the Presidency:

So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn
Which once he wore!

The glory from his gray hairs gone
For evermore!

All else is gone; from those great eyes
The soul has fled :

When faith is lost, when honor dies,

The man is dead!

Again, how marvelously touching are his lines in contemplation of death! When on my day of life the night is falling, And in the winds from unsunned spaces blown,

I hear far voices out of darkness, calling
My feet to paths unknown,

I have but Thee, My Father! let Thy Spirit
Be near me then to comfort and uphold;
No gate of pearl, no branch of palm I merit,
Nor street of shining gold.

Suffice it if-my good and ill unreckoned,
And both forgiven through Thy abounding

grace

I find myself by hands familiar beckoned
Unto my fitting place;

Some humble door, among Thy many mansions,
Some sheltering shade where sin and striving

cease,

And flows forever through Heaven's green expansions

The river of Thy peace!

Mr. Whittier's home was as simple and unpretending as it could possibly be, yet all about it there was an indescribable air of refinement. No one was at lunch except Phillips Brooks and myself, and though the meal was as plain as possible, it was truly delightful. We were waited upon by the poet's niece, and I felt so uneasy at seeing her come in with the dishes and hand us the plates, that at last I said: "This is a reversal of the proper order of things! What we ought to do is to wait on the young lady, not she on us." "Not at all!" said Mr. Whittier. "You are the guests; there is nothing in the smallest degree derogatory in a young lady enjoying the pleasure of waiting on you. This is our old, simple New England custom." We had to be content! Immediately after the

meal the young lady put on her riding habit and, mounting her horse, which was led to the door, she went for a ride with the young gentleman to whom she was engaged.

After lunch I asked Mr. Whittier to sign for me his photograph. This led to a conversation about autographs, He said that the number of letters in the year which he received, asking for his autograph, was immense, and at last became embarrassing. This I can easily imagine; for in America, at one time, there was such a rage for autographs that I have often had birthday books, etc., left in carriages which were merely standing at the door of a shop into which I had gone to buy something! He asked Emerson how he treated requests for his autograph. Emerson said that he, at one time, always sent his autograph to any one who wrote to ask for it; but when the applications came to be counted by hundreds he had ceased to do so. "But what do you do," asked Whittier, "when they enclose stamps?" "Oh," said Emerson, "the stamps come in handy"! This, however, was a bolder impropriation than the conscience of the Quaker poet could permit, and whenever a stamped envelope came he enclosed his signature in it.

I gave a letter from Mr. Whittier to my friend, the famous philanthropist, Mr. George W. Childs, together with the quatrain which he wrote for the Milton window in St. Margaret's. Of this window Mr. Childs was the donor, and I asked Mr. Whittier to write the inscription, which he gave in the following letter:

The new world honors him whose lofty plea For England's freedom, made her own more

sure,

Whose song, immortal as its theme, shall be Their common freehold while both worlds endure.

DANVERS, MASS. 11th mo. 28, 1887. My dear Friend:-I was glad to comply with thy request and that of our friend Archdeacon Farrar. I hope the lines may be satisfactory. It is difficult to put all that should be said of Milton in four lines. How very beautiful and noble thy benefactions are! Every one is a testimony of peace and good will. I am with high respect and esteem thy aged friend,

JOHN G. WHITTIER.

Mr. George W. Childs was for many years the owner of the Puble Ledger, one of the most honorable of the American papers. He never made any secret of the

fact that he had risen from the very humblest and lowest position. I believe he once swept out the office as a penniless office boy. By conduct and character he rose rapidly to wealth, influence, and universal respect. I never knew a kindlier, more large-hearted, or more lovable man. I was his guest at Philadelphia, and I met him at dinner at Mr. Vanderbilt's, and in other houses. He gave me two memorable receptions. One was to the clergy, black and white and of all denominations, in the neighborhood of Philadelphia, to the number of seven hundred. Not a few of them were very poor, and the large and loving heart of Mr. Childs delighted in showing them an act of kindness. I was also the guest of the evening at an entertainment to which he had invited all the numerous representatives of the press in Philadelphia and the neighborhood. I had the difficult task of addressing them almost on the spur of the moment, and I spoke of the immense power which they wielded, and the awful temptations to abuse the safeguard of anonymity by using the poisoned dagger as well as the mask. I spoke of the intense and ruinous pain which a single careless paragraph in a newspaper might cause. Such a paragraph might have been written with no villainous intention, but merely in thoughtlessness to make "copy," and yet might be reverberated a millionfold, as though a colossal telephone, microphone, and phonograph all in one. And I told the press men, in all humility, that if they abused the enormous power which they were thus enabled to wield, they might do more mischief than the madman, who, in scriptural phrase, "scatters firebrands, arrows, and death." Mr. Childs was most deeply interested in what I saidordinary as it was, "From the first day I owned the Public Ledger," he said to me, "I made up my mind that nothing mean or dishonorable, no malignant malignant gossip, no debasing reports, should stain its pages. To that I attribute its success; and I would rather have given a thousand dollars than you should not have said what you did to our journalists."

He then made me accept a gold pocket-knife and a gold pencil-case, which I possess to this day. More than any man I ever knew he found his highest, almost his exclusive, happiness in doing works of personal kindness and public munificence. He was almost the

only living man (Dean Stanley used to say) who, for more than half a century, had given a purely spontaneous gift to Westminster Abbey; the gift was the beautiful window in honor of the poets George Herbert and Cowper. When I told Mr. Childs how closely Milton had been connected with St. Margaret's, Westminster, where his bauns of marriage were published, and where his dearest wife my late espoused saint") and infant daughter lie buried, he gladly consented to give a window to Milton's memory. When it was executed, he sent at once the sum which it cost-which was, I believe, more than £600. He, too, it was, who erected the memorial fountain to Shakespeare at Stratford-onAvon, and the memorial windows to Bishop Ken at Winchester, and to Keats. The name of one of the humblest and most unassuming of men will thus be permanently connected with some of the noblest and fairest names in English literature. And what was very remark able was that, so far from making much of his munificence, he regarded himself as indebted to those who had called it forth.-The Independent.

A

DISTRICT HIGH SCHOOLS.

BY A. S. MARTIN.

SCHOOL system which fails to extend equal opportunities and advantages to all grades of pupils is defective and should be improved. It is evident to all right-thinking minds that no school system is completed when provision has been made for the primary and grammar grades only. Yet such is the typical school system of the rural districts of Pennsylvania, and the system which is now in vogue in this great county is not an exception. It is a lamentable fact that, under the existing system, after a pupil of the country district has reached the eighth or ninth year at school, his educational opportunities at home are exhausted. Instead of offering the boys and girls of our country schools the incentive of the open door of the high school where their minds would be led to drink more of the truths of science, the beauty of art, and the good of literature, the school authorities have built in front of them, at the very start of their career, an impenetrable wall barring all future

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