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FTER having applied my mind with more than ordinary attention to my studies, it is my usual custom to relax and unbend it in the conversation of such as are rather easy than shining companions. This I find particularly necessary for me before I retire to rest, in order to draw my slumbers upon me by degrees and fall asleep insensibly. This is the particular use I make of a set of heavy honest men with whom I have passed many hours with much indolence though not with great pleasure Their conversation is a kind of preparative for sleep; it takes the mind from its abstractions, leads it into the familiar traces of thought, and lulls it into that state of tranquillity which is the condition of a thinking man when he is but half-awake. . . .

I must own it makes me very melancholy in company when I hear a young man begin a story, and have often observed that one of a quarter of an hour long, in a man of five-and-twenty, gathers circumstances every time he tells it, until it grows into a long Canterbury tale of two hours by the time he is three score.

The only way of avoiding such a trifling and frivolous old age is to lay up in our way to it such stores of knowledge and observation as may make us useful and agreeable in our declining years. The mind of man in a long life will become a magazine of wisdom or folly, and will consequently discharge itself in something impertinent or improving

For

which reason, as there is nothing more ridiculous than an old trifling storyteller, so there is nothing more venerable than one who has turned his experience to the entertainment and advantage of mankind do

HAT a man in his sixties should be

able to write a series of works so robust, so fresh, so real, as those which Defoe, at that age, gave to the world is certainly a fact unequaled in the history of our literature. Among those works are Robinson Crusoe, the immortal; Colonel Jack, equally immortal; Moll Flanders; Roxana; and the Journal of the Plague Year

Here are five works, every one of which is enough by itself to make the reputation of an author; five works, one of which is read by every boy of all those who speak our English tongue, while the rest, for the student of literature, are as immortal as Robinson Crusoe himself It is as if the writer laughed at time, or as if he would crowd into the last ten years of his life he died at seventy-all the work which most men are contented to spread over their whole working time; or as if he would prove that even in old age he could recover the spring and flower of youth, could feel again the force of love, and be moved once more with the ambitions, the passions, the heats, the agitations-in a word, with all the emotion of youth.

Old age, for the most part, regards not the things of youth; it is the saddest thing to see theold man turning unmoved from the things which mean so much, so very much, to his grandsons. There is a senile callousness which is lamentable to witness; there is a sorrowful loosening of the hold with which the world has hitherto gripped the soul. With Defoe there is nothing of all this, absolutely nothing; he writes, save for his balanced style, as a young man of five-andtwenty.-Walter Besant.

In short, we who are in the last stage of D

life, and are apt to indulge ourselves in talk, ought to consider if what we speak be worth being heard, and endeavor to make our discourse like that of Nestor, which Homer compares to "the flowing of honey for its sweetness."-Sir Richard Steele.

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EMAGOGUES and agitators are very unpleasant, and leagues and registers may be very unpleasant, but they are incidents to a free and constitutional country, and you must put up with these inconveniences or do without many important advantages.

-Disraeli

Forty is the old age of youth; fifty is the youth of old age.-Victor Hugo.

OTHING is more unjust than to cast especial blame for resistance to science upon the Roman Church. The Protestant Church, though rarely able to be so severe, has been more blameworthy. The persecution of Galileo and his compeers by the older church was mainly at the beginning of the seventeenth century; the persecution of Robertson Smith, and Winchell, and Woodrow, and Toy, and the young professors at Beyrout, by various Protestant authorities, was near the end of the nineteenth century. Those earlier persecutions by Catholicism were strictly in accordance with principles held at that time by all religionists, Catholic and Protestant, throughout the world; these later persecutions by Protestants were in defiance of principles which all Protestants today hold or pretend to hold, and none make louder claim to hold them than the very sects which persecuted these eminent Christian men of our day, whose crime was that they were intelligent enough to accept the science of their time, and honest enough to acknowledge it.

Most unjustly, then, would Protestantism taunt Catholicism for excluding knowledge of astronomical truths from European Catholic universities in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, while real knowledge of geological and biological and anthropological truth is denied or pitifully diluted in so many American Protestant colleges and universities in the nineteenth century.

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Nor has Protestantism the right to point with scorn to the Catholic Index and to lay stress on the fact that nearly every really important book in the last three centuries has been forbidden by it, so long as young men in so many American Protestant universities and colleges are nursed with ecclesiastical pap rather than with real thought, and directed to the works of " solemnly constituted impostors," or to sundry "approved courses of reading," while they are studiously kept aloof from such leaders in modern thought as Darwin, Spencer, Huxley, Draper and Lecky . . .

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As to the older errors, the whole civilized world was at fault. Protestant as well as Catholic. It was not the fault of religion; it was the fault of that shortsighted linking of theological dogmas to scriptural texts which, in utter defiance of the words and works of the Blessed Founder of Christianity, narrow-minded, loudvoiced men are ever prone to substitute for religion. Justly it is said by one of the most eminent among contemporary Anglican divines that "it is because they have mistaken the dawn for a conflagration that theologians have so often been foes of light."-Andrew D. White.

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EARNED men in all ages have had

their judgments free, and most commonly disagreeing from the common judgment of the world; such also have they published both with pen and tongue; notwithstanding, they themselves have lived in the common society with others, and have borne patiently with errors and imperfections which they could not amend. Plato, the philosopher, wrote his book on the commonwealth, in which he condemned many things that then were maintained in the world, and required many things to have been reformed; and yet, notwithstanding, he lived under such policies as then were universally received, without further troubling of any state. Even so, madam, am I content to do, in uprightness of heart, and with a testimony of a good conscience.

-John Knox to Mary, Queen of Scots.

HEN it shall be said in any country

in the world, "My poor are happy; neither ignorance nor distress is to be found among them; my jails are empty of prisoners, my streets of beggars; the aged are not in want, the taxes are not oppressive; the rational world is my friend, because I am a friend of its happiness "—when these things can be said, then may that country boast of its constitution and its government.

Ꮽ Ꮽ

-Thomas Paine.

Ignorance is the night of the mind, but a night without moon or star.-Confucius.

taken Lillo's cheeks between her hands, and his young eyes were meeting hers.

"There was a man to whom I was very near, so that I could see a great deal of his life, who made almost every one fond of him, for he was young, and clever, and beautiful, and his manners to all were gentle and kind. I believe, when I first knew him, he never thought of

T is only a poor sort of happiness that could ever come by caring very much about our own narrow pleasures. We can only have the highest happiness, such as goes along with being a great man, by having wide thoughts, and much feeling for the rest of the world as well as ourselves; and this sort of happiness often brings so much pain with it, that we can only tell it from pain by its being what we would choose before everything else, because our souls see it is good. There are so many things wrong and difficult in the world that no man can be great-he can hardly keep himself from wickedness-unless he gives up thinking much about his pleasure or his rewards, and gets strength to endure what is hard and painful. My father had the greatness that belongs to integrity; he chose poverty and obscurity rather than falsehood. And there was Fra Girolamo (Savonarola);

Time, you old gipsy man,

Will you not stay,
Put up your caravan
Just for one day?

All things I'll give you
Will you be my guest,
Bells for your jennet
Of silver the best,
Goldsmiths shall beat you
A great golden ring,
Peacocks shall bow to you,
Little boys sing,

Oh, and sweet girls will
Festoon you with May.
Time, you old gipsy,
Why hasten away?

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anything cruel or base. But because he tried to slip away from everything that was unpleasant, and cared for nothing else as much as his own safety, he came at last to commit some of the basest deeds such as make men infamous. He denied his father, and left him to misery; he betrayed every trust that was reposed in him, that he might keep himself safe and get rich and prosperous. Yet calamity overtook him."

Again Romola paused. Her voice was unsteady, and Lillo was looking at her with awed wonder. "Another time, my Lillo I will tell youanother time."-From the Epilogue to Romola by George Eliot.

(Concluded on next page)

he had the greatness which belongs to a
life spent in struggling against powerful
wrong, and in trying to raise men to the
highest deeds they are capable of. And
so, my Lillo, if you mean to act nobly and
seek to know the best things God has
put within reach of men, you must learn
to fix your mind on that end, and not on
what will happen to you because of it.
And remember, if you were to choose
something lower, and make it the rule
of your life to seek your own pleasure
and escape from what is disagreeable,
calamity might come just the same; and
it would be calamity falling on a base
mind, which is the one form of sorrow
that has no balm in it, and that may well
make a man say-' It would have been
better for me if I had never been born.'
I will tell you something, Lillo."
Romola paused for a moment. She had

Books are the true levelers. They give to all who faithfully use them the society, the spiritual presence, of the best and greatest of our race.-W. E. Channing.

Some people have a perfect genius for doing nothing, and doing it assiduously.

-Thomas C. Haliburton.

HE delusive idea that men merely

toil and work for the sake of preserving their bodies, and procuring for themselves bread, houses, and clothes, is degrading and not to be encouraged ›☛ The true origin of man's activity and creativeness lies in his unceasing impulse to embody outside himself the divine and spiritual element within him.-Froebel.

HE changes which break up at short intervals the prosperity of men are advertisements of a nature whose law is growth. Evermore it is the order of nature to grow, and every soul is by this intrinsic necessity quitting its whole system of things, its friends, and home, and laws, and faith, as the shell-fish crawls out of its beautiful but stony case, because it no longer admits of its growth, and slowly forms a new house.

In proportion to the vigor of the individual these revolutions are frequent, until in some happier mind they are incessant, and all worldly relations hang very loosely about him, becoming as it were a transparent fluid membrane through which the form is always seen and not as in most men an indurated heterogeneous fabricofmany dates and of no settled character, in which the man is impris

oned. Then there can be enlargement

may come in We are idolaters of the old. We do not believe in the riches of the soul, in its proper eternity and omnipresence. We do not believe there is any force in today to rival or re-create that beautiful yesterday We linger in the ruins of the old tent, where once we had bread and shelter and organs, nor believe that the spirit can feed, cover, and

I went to the dances at Chandlerville,
And played snap-out at Winchester.
One time we changed partners,

Driving home in the moonlight of middle
June,

And then I found Davis.

We were married and lived together for
seventy years,

Enjoying, working, raising the twelve
children,

Eight of whom we lost

Ere I reached the age of sixty.

I spun, I wove, I kept the house, I nursed
the sick,

I made the garden, and for holiday

Rambled over the fields where sang the
larks,

And by Spoon River gathering many a

shell,

And many a flower and medicinal weed-
Shouting to the wooded hills, singing to

the green valleys.
At ninety-six I had lived enough, that is all,
And passed to a sweet repose.

What is this I hear of sorrow and

weariness,

Anger, discontent and drooping hopes?
Degenerate sons and daughters,
Life is too strong for you-
It takes life to love Life.

"Lucinda Matlock," by Edgar Lee Masters

and the man of to-
day scarcely recog-
nizes the man of
yesterday. And such should be the out-
ward biography of man in time, a putting
off of dead circumstances day by day, as
he renews his raiment day by day. But
to us, in our lapsed state, resting not
advancing, resisting not co-operating
with the divine expansion, this growth
comes by shocks.

We can not part with our friends. We
can not let our angels go. We do not see
that they only go out that archangels

nerve us again. We can not again find aught so dear, so sweet, so graceful. But we sit and weep in vain. The voiceof the Almighty saith,

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Up and onward for evermore!" We can not stay amid the ruins. Neither will we rely on the new; and so we walk ever with reverted eyes, like those monsters who look backwards o And yet the compensations of calamity are made apparent to the understanding also after long intervals

of time. A fever, a

mutilation, a cruel disappointment, a loss of wealth, the loss of friends, seems at the moment unpaid loss, and unpayable

But the sure years reveal the deep remedial force that underlies all facts. The death of a dear friend, wife, brother, lover, which seemed nothing but privation, somewhat later assumes the aspect of a guide or genius; for it commonly operates revolutions in our way of life, terminates an epoch of infancy or of youth which was waiting to be closed, breaks up a wonted occupation, or a household, or style of living, and allows the formation of new ones more friendly

T

HAT to which the great is Criticism, as Arnold points out,

sacred books of the world conform, and our own most of all, is the evolution of the highest conceptions, beliefs and aspirations of our race from its childhood through the great turningpoints in its history. Herein lies the truth of all bibles, and especially of our own. Of vast value they indeed often are as a record of historical outward fact; recent researches in the East are constantly increasing this value; but it is not for this that we prize them most: they are eminently precious, not as a record of outward fact, but as a mirror of the evolving heart, soul and mind of man. They are true because they have been developed in accordance with the laws governing the evolution of truth in human history, and because in poem, chronicle, code, legend, myth, apologue or parable they reflect this development of what is best in the onward march of humanity. To say that they are not true is as if one should say that a flower or a tree or a planet is not true; to scoff at them is to scoff at the law of the universe. In welding together into noble form, whether in the book of Genesis, or in the Psalms, or in the book of Job, or elsewhere, the great conceptions of men acting under earlier inspiration, whether in Egypt, or Chaldea, or India, or Persia, the compilers of our sacred books have given to humanity a possession ever becoming more and more precious; and modern science, in substituting a new heaven and a new earth for the old -the reign of law for the reign of caprice, and the idea of evolution for that of creation-has added and is steadily adding a new revelation divinely inspired

In the light of these two evolutions, then-one of the visible universe, the other of a sacred creation-legendscience and theology, if the master minds in both are wise, may at last be reconciled.-Andrew D. White.

Do I contradict myself? Very well, then, I contradict myself; (I am large. I contain multitudes).-Walt Whitman.

I

that creates the intellectual atmosphere of the age. It is Criticism . . that makes the mind a fine instrument..

...

It is Criticism, again, that, by concentration, makes culture possible s☛ It takes the cumbersome mass of creative work, and distils it into a finer essence..

The thread that is to guide us across the wearisome labyrinth is in the hands of Criticism. Nay more, where there is no record, and history is either lost or was never written, Criticism can re-create the past for us from the very smallest fragment of language or art, just as surely as the man of science can from some tiny bone, or the mere impress of a foot upon a rock, re-create for us the winged dragon or the Titan lizard that once made the earth shake beneath its tread, can call Behemoth out of his cave, and make Leviathan swim once more across the startled sea. Prehistoric history belongs to the philological and archæological critic It is to him that the origins of things are revealed.

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The self-conscious deposits of an age are
nearly always misleading... It is Criti-
cism that makes us cosmopolitan
It is only by the cultivation of the habit
of intellectual criticism that we shall be
able to rise superior to race prejudices...
Criticism will annihilate race prejudices,
by insisting upon the unity of the human
mind in the variety of its forms . . .
It is Criticism that, recognizing no
position as final, and refusing to bind
itself by the shallow shibboleths of any
sect or school, creates that serene philo-
sophic temper which loves truth for its
own sake, and loves it not the less because
it knows it to be unattainable.

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-Oscar Wilde.

The stomach is a slave that must accept everything that is given to it, but which avenges wrongs as slyly as does the slave. -Emile Souvestre.

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Man is so essentially, so necessarily, a moral being that, when he denies the existence of all morality, that very denial already becomes the foundation of a new morality.-Maeterlinck.

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