Chapter XIII: Front Matter (13)

Jeannette, then, with the consent of M. le Curé, wrote a long and touching letter, which she addressed to Solange, in which she poured forth all the warmth and fire of her little heart. The poor child dared not write directly to Jeannet, in the fear that new events might prevent his receiving the missive; but she did not doubt that Solange would find means to read it to him who would receive so much consolation from its contents. The misfortune was that, in the midst of the fray, that good girl could hear nothing about her old friend; and, between ourselves, it was, I believe, because she had no permission to mix herself up in the affair, as she lived retired and absorbed in prayer with the other young sisters of the novitiate. It therefore followed that when Jeannet, in his turn, wrote to M. le Curé, it seemed, from the quiet, sad, and cold tone of his letter, that he knew nothing of this step of Jeannette’s, or, if he knew it, he attached no importance to it, and wished them to understand it was too late to repair matters.

It was this last idea which fastened itself in the child’s head as firmly as a nail in the wood. She became profoundly sad, which, according to her habit, she concealed as much as possible; and thus passed weeks and months without anything further being said of the return of the dear boy, so fondly desired by all at Muiceron.

So far affairs in Paris went on quietly, and the people who believed in scaffolds began to think they might sign the lease between their shoulders and heads. For now that all this fine story is over, it must be avowed the first part of the revolution was more laughable than terrible. I had it from Michou, who was present and witnessed many things in detail, which were served up for our amusement during many of the following winters. The good man never wearied of relating how the great city of Paris, that had driven off a king from a desire of giving herself a hundred thousand in his place, played at comedy for three months, for the sole purpose, I suppose, of affording other countries a perpetual diversion. Once, for example, in remembrance of spring‐time, a crowd of little trees were planted at all the corners, as signs of liberty; and as, for this amusement, each man became a gardener on his own hook, without ever having learned the trade, you can imagine what chance these precious emblems of freedom had of flourishing. It is not necessary to say that they fell down and were trodden under foot in a very short time, so that the beautiful green ornaments were renounced at the end of a few days!

Another time, the street‐boys assembled and formed the brilliant resolution that they would have a general illumination. And then—I really would not have believed it, if Jacques Michou had not vouched for the truth—these ragamuffins ran in troops through the streets, hand‐in‐hand, shouting out a song which had but two words, always sung to the same tune.

“Light up! light up!” they cried at the top of their voices; upon which, all classes, rich and poor, high and low, obediently placed candles in the windows, without daring to utter a word against the decree; and this lasted more than a fortnight.

I will only ask, if the king or our holy father, the Pope, had exacted such a thing even once, what would have been said? There was also the farce of the laborers, who were out of work, taking the air, and marching by thousands along the quays to the great château, where five or six fine men who were called the government resided, and who were very brave in words, but became half crazy when it was time to act; which must not be wondered at, as their task was none of the easiest. The men arrived, they would send one of their number to ask some little favor, which was sure to be promised for next day. Then they returned the same as they came, and so much the worse for those who were found in their way that day; for not a cat could have come out alive among so many legs. This amusement was called “a manifestation.” But to say what was ever manifested except want and misery in every house—for when such promenades are made, no work is done—is what you may learn, perhaps, sooner than I, if the day of discovery will ever come.

During this time, they pretended to make laws for the country, in a large building where a great number of men from the provinces talked themselves hoarse every day, insulting each other, and even, I have been told, flung whatever they happened to have near at hand at one another’s heads; so that he who appeared the master of all, and was called president, was forced to speak with a great bell, as he could no longer make his voice heard. For those who liked noise all this row was very amusing; but quiet people were obliged to shut their eyes and stop up their ears. In my opinion, instead of being contented with that, they should have descended into the streets, and enforced order with heavy blows of the cudgel; but, if they thought of that later, for the time being good people seemed asleep, which emboldened the rabble to such a degree they thought themselves masters of the situation.

You doubtless think our dear good master, M. le Marquis, was discouraged at seeing the republic established in place of his cherished hopes. Not at all. On the contrary, he was as ardent and fiery as ever, assured that it was “a necessary transition”—a phrase which I repeat as I heard it, without pretending to explain it, and which, probably, was profoundly wise. He was very busy coming and going with his friends, and arranging all, in words, for the approaching arrival of the young legitimate prince, who remained near the frontier with a large army, invisible for the time, but ready to march at a moment’s notice.

Jean‐Louis and Michou allowed themselves in secret to be rather doubtful of these fine assertions, but, respectful and devoted as they were to that excellent gentleman, they made the agreement to follow him about like his shadow, and to shield him whenever he might incur any risk. Thus, whenever M. le Marquis was seen, near him was always the handsome, brave Jeannet, with his pale, serious face, or the old game‐keeper, looking very jaunty, but with such fierce eyes and strong arms a man would think twice before attacking him. Dear mademoiselle, who was half dead with fear for her father’s life, confided him entirely to his village friends, and begged them every morning to be faithful to their trust. Besides, this good soul, formerly so desirous of seeing and living in Paris, yawned there almost as much as at Val‐Saint.

There was not much amusement going on in society. Rich people stayed at home, and guarded their money, which was carefully concealed in some secure place, ready to fly in case of necessity; as for out‐door amusements, none were thought of. M. le Marquis had something else to do than drive out with his daughter; and to circulate around among the manifestations was not the most pleasant performance—far from it. Poor mademoiselle seemed doomed to the miserable fate of always running after some distraction, _fêtes_, and other disturbances of that kind, without ever finding them. Add to all this, she was in a constant state of fear, as she was little accustomed to the cries, songs, patrols, and threats which filled the capital. Her only consolation was to hope that there would soon be an end of all this; and Dame Berthe encouraged her to be patient, showing herself all the while full of the idea of the near triumph of _the cause_, as she said. And mean‐time, while waiting for it, she embroidered little strips of white satin by the dozen, to decorate the belts of the king’s officers when the triumphal entry would be made into Paris.

Their happiest moment was in the evening, when these five persons, drawn together through friendship and devotion, were reunited to talk over the events of the day, and to plan for the next. M. le Marquis ordered the servants off to bed—for they were not sure but there might be spies among them—and, keeping Jeannet and Michou, he joyfully laid before them all his plans and hopes. Jean‐Louis listened with one ear; and fortunate was it that respect prevented him from joining in the conversation, as his remarks might have been very _malàpropos_. Can you guess why? He thought of other things; and while his master soared away in imagination to the frontier, where the invisible army of the king manœuvred, in heart and soul he was in the beloved spot, where he lived over again the happy days of his childhood.

And thus they advanced, without knowing it, to the terrible days which gave the death‐blow to the republic, in the midst of the blood of so many honest men, which flowed and mingled with that of the rabble, for love of good order, which could easily have been established without so much suffering. Alas! it was not the first time in our gay, beautiful France that things have begun with songs and pleasant jokes, and ended amid the noise of cannon and the cries and lamentations of the wounded.

Before relating this last part of my story, I must tell you that our _curé_, always in correspondence with Jean‐Louis, was much astonished at the uniform coolness of his letters. At last he thought best to ask an explanation during the month of May, advising him to go and see Solange, who for a long time had had good news for him. Do you think it was long before Jeannet ran quickly to the convent? When he read that Jeannette loved him and desired his return, he nearly became wild with joy. Solange let him have the precious letter, which he read and re‐read all one night, so as to be better able to reply to it. It was time for things to change, as Jeannette declined visibly from the pain she suffered in believing herself disdained.

It is always so with women (I must make the remark); they torture without mercy, or at least with very little thought, the poor hearts which become attached to them; and then the day they feel pain in their turn all must end in the quickest manner, otherwise they will die; and then, again, they will have all the pity and sympathy on their side. So our two dear children made up and became friends with a few words written on paper; and enchanted were they both, I can assure you. Now it was easy to wait. Jean‐ Louis, in his answer, showed the same heart, the same tenderness, as formerly. He wished no excuses from his sister, saying that all the fault was on his side—which was a big story, as every one could see but himself, and made them both laugh and weep at Muiceron. As for his return, it was not necessary to promise anything. They knew well that the day duty would no longer detain him he would take the first train and our good friends, the Ragauds, while not wishing him to leave M. le Marquis, commenced to prepare for the happy moment, so ardently desired by all.

Ragaud told the women it was not the time for economy, and the following week he called in the painters and the masons to replaster all the house, and to give it an air of freshness inside, which, I must acknowledge, was very much needed. Jeannette directed the changes in Jean‐Louis’ room, and I can assure you she spared nothing, and spent at least fifty francs of her father’s crowns in a splendid paper for the walls, which was yellow, covered with large bouquets of bright flowers that had the most beautiful effect. The month of June found them busily occupied; and then they began to count, not the days, but the hours, that would separate Jean‐Louis from the dear home that had adopted him.

His last letter announced his speedy departure. The joy at Muiceron, and its holiday look, was touching to see. Jeannette, pink and white, like an eglantine rose, had never looked prettier.

Suddenly, one morning, M. le Curé entered the farm, and, in the midst of all this happiness, pronounced these terrible words:

“My children, they are fighting in Paris, and we must pray to God, for the danger has never been greater; happy those who will come safe out of it!”

XXI.

I shudder when I speak of that horrible time. Alas! we all know about the fearful struggle of blood and tears called “The days of June, 1848.”

Never did the lowering storm‐clouds more quickly burst, and never did a great city, in all the pride of her beauty and wealth, come nearer complete ruin. Each quarter, each place, each cross‐way, were battle‐ fields. Houses were demolished, that barricades might be erected across the streets; and this time, if extravagant accounts went abroad, not one appeared exaggerated in face of the real truth.

For three long, weary days—why, no one ever knew—the army kept hidden; then the sovereign people were masters of the situation, and acted as best pleased their capricious will; and I rather think nobody but a fool could have helped being disgusted with serving such kings.

At the end of these three days, at last the cry was heard from all the barracks, “Forward!” And as in the time of the great Napoleon, generals in fine uniforms and waving plumes dashed about on horseback, and there was a terrific noise of cannon and musketry. How terrible was the anger of the Lord! For these enemies, who grappled in the fierce death‐struggle, were children of the same mother, and yet forgot it in the midst of their senseless fury and thirst for vengeance, when, in truth, they had nothing to avenge.

What more shall I tell you? You know it all better than I; perhaps you were there; and, besides, it is not so long ago that you cannot remember it; and when you recall it, pray fervently to the good God such a time may never again be ours.

When the battalions moved, every honest citizen left his bed, and armed, to be ready to assist the army. M. le Marquis was one of the first on the scene, accompanied by his two body‐guards. Mademoiselle, when she saw them leave, wept, and threw herself on her knees in her room, unwilling to listen to Dame Berthe, who still could have the heart to speak of “the triumph of the right,” so rooted in her head was this fixed idea. Leave these poor women, more to be pitied than blamed, lamenting and praying to God, while listening, with hearts half dead with agony, to the noise of the battle, and we will see what became of the combatants.

When they left the house, there was no appearance of extraordinary excitement, and even the quarter where M. le Marquis lived, very quiet at all times, seemed calmer even than usual, for the very good reason that, of all who occupied it, those that were brave ran elsewhere, and the cowards buried themselves, like moles, in the cellars. Our friends first went down one long street, crossed a second, a third, and only then, when coming up to a great bridge with a Prussian name very difficult to spell—and therefore I cannot write it—began to see and hear the horrors of the deadly combat.

M. le Marquis stopped.

“Friends,” said he, “let us make the sign of the cross; perhaps one of us will not return to sleep in his bed, but may be killed, wounded, or made prisoner. It is well to provide ourselves with a passport for the other world, and one more blessing for this one.”

And this excellent gentleman instantly put in practice what he preached, pronouncing aloud the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.

“Come,” said he joyously, “I feel younger by ten years. Ah! while I think of it, have you white cockades in your pockets?”

“Faith! no,” said Michou; “I confess to M. le Marquis I did not dream of taking that precaution. But we need not worry about that; if we want them, I will tear off an end of my shirt.”

Jean‐Louis had been equally forgetful of the white cockades; M. le Marquis told them their heads were turned, but forgot to add he was in the same fix; for they had rushed to arms in such a hurry, each one had only taken time to dress quickly and seize his gun, so ardently desirous were they to see the end of the masters of Paris.

Soon they were in the midst of the troops and a crowd of volunteers like themselves.

The fight was hot. The height and solidity of the barricades, for the most part cemented with stone and mortar like ramparts, forced them to establish a siege; and the thick walls that sheltered the rioters were only destroyed with the aid of cannon, and after many deaths. I must be frank, and say it was not a war very much to the taste of our soldiers, who like to see the faces of the enemies at whom they aim; neither, as a first effort, was it very amusing for our friend Jeannet, who had never before seen any fire but that in the chimney at Muiceron. So when he found himself in the midst of the scuffle, surrounded with dead and wounded, smoke in his eyes, loud oaths and curses in his ears, without counting the whistling of the balls, which I have been told produces a very droll effect when not accustomed to it, he stopped short, and looked so stupefied Michou laughed at him. That old soldier had been present at the battle of Wagram, and, being very young at the time, was at first half crazy with fear, which did not prevent him from showing great bravery when he recovered his senses. He therefore understood from experience precisely how Jeannet felt, and, giving him a hard blow on his shoulder, shook the young fellow’s gun, which he was carelessly pointing at random.

“Are you going to let yourself be killed like a chicken?” he cried to him, swearing tremendously; “be quick, my boy; you can sleep to‐morrow.”

Jean‐Louis jumped; he drew himself up to his full height, and his handsome face reddened with shame, although he had done nothing dishonorable.

“Jacques,” said he, “I am afraid I am a coward.”

“Big mule!” gaily cried the game‐keeper; “on the contrary, by‐and‐by you are going to see how we will amuse ourselves.”

They were at the time before a barricade, which was most obstinately defended. The conversation could not last long, but Jacques Michou did not lose sight of the boy. He saw that he soon recovered himself, and kept out of the way of the balls as well as he could—something which required as much skill as coolness—and handled his gun with as firm a hand as though he were hunting.

Fighting went on there for a good hour. The soldiers began to be furious, and, notwithstanding the number of killed on both sides, no advantage was gained. Cannon were brought up; at the first fire, a large breach was effected, and it was seen that the insurgents were reduced to a small number, who attempted to escape.

At that sight, the soldiers and volunteers could not be restrained.

“No prisoners!” cried a hundred voices, hoarse with rage.

That meant death to every one. Our officers were no longer masters; the tide, once let loose, soon overflowed, and a horrible mixture of shots, cries, and oaths, frightful to hear, pierced the air.

Jeannet became as crazy as the rest. He fired so often, his gun was burning in his hands; his dishevelled hair, and his face, blackened with powder, changed his appearance so completely no one would have recognized him. He loaded and reloaded, fired at hazard, and no longer heard Michou, who, always at his side, cried, “Look out!” every moment. Suddenly the game‐keeper gave a yell that resembled the howl of a wolf. A man, covered with blood, had just leaped upon the ruins of the barricade, and aimed at Jean‐Louis, who was not three steps from his gun.

It is not easy to make you understand the rapidity with which old Michou threw himself before Jeannet to preserve his life. It was like a flash of lightning, but that flash sufficed; he had time to fire before the rioter, who rolled lifeless on the heaped‐up pavement.

All was ended. Five minutes afterwards, at least in that corner, it only remained to remove the dead, and carry the wounded into the neighboring houses, where the women were ready to dress the wounds. There was time to breathe.

Alas! the poor, blinded people paid dearly in that quarter for their folly and madness. All the unfortunate wretches who had raised that barricade were dead or dying.

Jacques looked around for his master and his friend. M. le Marquis, with his arm all bleeding, was seated leaning against a post, very weak and faint from his wound; but his eyes sparkled, and a smile was upon his lips. The game‐keeper rushed to him.

“It is nothing, old fellow,” said our master, “only a scratch on the wrist; lend me your handkerchief.”

By the mercy of God, it was really not much; and our dear lord quietly wrapped up his hand, while he asked about Jeannet.

“Heaven has worked miracles for that child,” said Michou proudly. “Ah! he is a brave boy, I tell you. He fought both like a fox and a lion!”

“I wish to see him,” said M. le Marquis. “Go bring him to me.”

Jacques willingly obeyed. It was some time before he found his pupil—for such he could be called. He was in the midst of a crowd that surrounded him and loaded him with congratulations and compliments on his bravery. His conduct had been noted, and the commanding officer was then asking him his name and residence, that he might inscribe them in his report. Jeannet, who shrank from observation, looked like a criminal before his judges. Michou, seeing him so timid and confused, told him he was a fool, and came very near being angry himself.

“Just see how frightened you are now!” said he to him, in such a cross tone the officer smiled. “Excuse him, colonel, he always looks sheepish when before people he don’t know. His name is Jean‐Louis Ragaud, and he comes from the commune of Val‐Saint‐sur‐Range, near Issoudun.”

“All right,” said the officer; “that is enough, my brave fellow. Jean Ragaud, Gen. Cavaignac will hear of you, ... and, if it depends on me, you will hear from him.”

Jeannet bowed as awkwardly as possible, which made the game‐keeper grumble again.

“Again I beg of you,” said he, “to keep that bewildered stare. You look like the head of S. John the Baptist, cut off and laid on a dish, that is painted in our church. I suppose it is because you are so unhappy! The general will no doubt send after you to have you hanged—unless he sends you the Cross of the Legion of Honor....”

“The cross!” cried Jeannet, seizing the game‐keeper by the arm.

“Yes indeed, idiot! I know how soldiers talk; would the colonel have said as much unless he was sure of the fact?”

“The cross!” repeated Jean‐Louis, with tears in his eyes. “O Jacques Michou! if it were true!”

“That would make you bold, eh? And it would be a fine present to take back to Muiceron.”

“Hush!” said Jeannet: “the bare thought makes me crazy.”

“I hope not,” replied Michou; “but I would be half wild myself. Come, now, let us be off; we have earned our dinner. M. le Marquis is asking for you.”

“Wait a moment, good, kind Jacques,” said Jean‐Louis. “I have not yet thanked you; and yet I know you saved my life.”

“What nonsense!” said Michou, who in his turn looked embarrassed. “In such a battle, do you think a fellow looks after any one’s skin but his own?”

“Oh! I saw you,” replied Jeannet. “You sprang before me, or I would have been killed.”

“Listen,” said Michou in a solemn tone, “before God, who hears me, and conducts all by his divine hand, it was not so much your life that I wished to save, ... it was another’s that I wished to take.”

“How?”

“We should not love revenge,” replied the game‐keeper; “but the temptation was too strong; faith! I am ready to confess it, if it was a sin—of which I am not sure. Jeannet, he who aimed at you from the barricade—didn’t you recognize him?”

“No,” said Jeannet, “I saw no one.”

“It was Isidore Perdreau. God have mercy on his soul!” said the game‐ keeper, blessing himself. “My poor Barbette in heaven will ask for my pardon....”

To Be Continued.

Fragment Of Early English Poetry.

To Those Who Get Their Lyvyne By The Onest Craft Of Masonry.

Knele ye both ynge and olde, And both yer hondes fayr upholde, And say thenne yn thys manere, Fayre and softe withouten bere; Jhesu, Lord, welcome Thou be Yn forme of bred as y The se; Now Jhesu for Thyn holy name, Schielde Thou me from synne and schame, Schryff and hosel, grant me bo, Ere that y schall hennus go.

—_Christian Schools and Scholars._

Self‐Education.(69)

Words the most familiar, and which convey to the mind the most clearly marked associations of ideas, very frequently grow vague and obscure when we seek to limit their meaning by accurate and scientific definitions. When we attempt to define that which is complex, or to make a generalization of facts of diverse natures, we find it extremely difficult to avoid including more than we intend, or leaving out something that should be embraced.

This will become evident to any one who will take the trouble, for instance, to examine into the various definitions of life which have been given by philosophers and scientists.(70) Still, they all agree, however widely they may differ in their views concerning what life is in itself, that the law of growth applies to all living beings. This is true, not of physical life alone, but of intellectual and moral life as well. What I have to say on this subject at present relates more especially to intellectual life, which consists in the union of the intelligent principle with the objects submitted to it, and which it apprehends as true—that is, as being in reality what they seem to be, and resulting from this, as good or beautiful.

Truth is the harmony of thought with things.(71) Intellectual growth is a continual approach to the perfect harmony of thought with things, which, however, to the finite mind, is unattainable; and this fact constitutes one of the great charms of the cultivation of the mind.

The nature of the human intellect places limits to mental progress, though they are not assignable in any given case, but may be indefinitely extended. That there are limits, however, you will readily perceive by reflecting that we do not possess even one idea which does not, either in itself or in its postulates, contain something which transcends all human comprehension.

What, let us ask ourselves, is the law of intellectual growth? The condition of all growth is effort. Life is a struggle in which lesser forces are overcome by greater. This is true of the individual as of the race. It is only by effort, by the exertion of power, that we live and consequently grow. Labor, then, is the law of intellectual as of all progress.

Before going further, let us examine into the obstacles which tend to prevent improvement of mind.

These are to be sought for either in the circumstances which surround us or in ourselves. We are to such an extent the creatures of circumstances that, when these are unfavorable, it is almost impossible that we should make great head‐way.

As occasion makes the thief, it is also required to make the scholar. In the first place, leisure is essential to mental culture, since education is a work of time and of labor. We therefore look for little or no cultivation of mind in those who lead lives of manual toil, and who, during the brief moments allowed for recreation, are so fatigued as to be incapable of sustained mental effort.

Here and there an individual from this class, of remarkable gifts, and endowed with great energy and will, surmounts the obstacle, and, having risen to a higher level, succeeds, by perseverance and industry, in making very considerable intellectual progress. But, as a rule, all will admit that it would be absurd to look for much mental training in men who work ten or even eight hours a day in factories and mines, or in tilling the soil.

Intercourse with educated men is of the greatest advantage in the work of self‐education; and where this is wanting, intellectual progress will rarely be found. The presence of highly developed and gifted minds has a magnetic power which creates emulation, awakens admiration, and stimulates to effort. Hence we find the great men of the world, whether philosophers, poets, statesmen, orators, or artists, in schools and historic groups.

Books, too, are required; but to this part of the subject we shall return.

The obstacles to mental growth within ourselves are of various kinds. Some have their origin in the body, some in the intellect, others in the will.

Infirm health, the love of ease, and excessive fondness of eating and drinking are generally incompatible with intellectual growth; and yet some of the greatest minds have wrought through feeble bodies, whilst many literary men have indulged to excess in the pleasures of the table, though always to their own injury.

The literary man, it may be well to remark, is not necessarily the thoroughly educated man; very often, indeed, he has nothing of the true man except the talent for letters. Vain, selfish, conceited, restless, a fickle friend, an unfaithful husband, the mere man of letters, poet, novelist, or scribe, is too often a caricature on human nature.

There are in the mind itself obstacles to mental progress which vary with the peculiarities of the individual. There are weak minds, slow minds, inattentive minds; in fact, all minds are in different degrees subject to these defects, and it is only relatively and by comparison that some are said to be feeble, whilst others are strong. Education supposes these weaknesses, and it is its aim to correct them. Obstacles to intellectual growth may exist also in the will; since the mind, under the influence of inordinate passion, is incapable of the deliberation and sustained attention which are required for calm and serious thought.

These, briefly and imperfectly stated, are, it seems to me, the chief difficulties with which those who seek to improve their minds have to contend.

They are not imaginary, but they are not so great as to frighten men in your condition of life. For you, young gentlemen, the obstacles of circumstance do not, I may say, exist. Your occupations leave you a few hours out of the twenty‐four, which you are free to devote to study; you may enjoy, if such be your desire, the conversation of men of thought and learning, whilst books of all kinds are within your reach. I may add that, in a great metropolis like this, you possess special advantages. Here you have the best of everything. Where there is the greatest demand for the most perfect, thither will it gravitate by a law as universal as that of attraction. To this city, from two worlds, come the best orators, the most learned men of science, the finest singers, the most accomplished actors, for the same reason that the fattest beeves, the choicest wines, and the most costly fabrics are sent hither—that is, because there is a demand for them. On the other hand, life in great cities has its intellectual dangers. There is here so much of the mere noise of life that most men find it difficult to dwell within themselves, to receive as welcome guests thoughts that do not concern the business or the pleasure of the hour—difficult not to be drawn into the whirlpool of human passion, where men eddy round and round, shouting, rushing, struggling, in wild confusion, forgetful of themselves, forgetful of truth. In a great commercial centre, too, we are apt to become the victims of the prevailing opinion which attaches honor and respect to wealth before all things; and I know of nothing more hurtful to intellectual growth than the absorbing pursuit of riches or that narrow disposition of soul which causes men to fawn upon the rich, even though they have nothing but money. That it is of importance to every one to think correctly, to possess a trained and cultivated mind, I need not attempt to prove. The harmonious development of our faculties in accordance with the principles of eternal wisdom is, I may say, the great work of life; for the proper training of the intellect necessarily involves the cultivation of the moral faculties. Of the necessity and priceless value of such education there can be no diversity of opinion among enlightened, men. Nor wealth nor place can give to man the dignity which is derived from the perfection of his own powers. We are greater than whatever ministers to our wants and vanities.

Another consideration which you will permit me to present to your attention, as suggestive of salutary thought in connection with the benefits to be derived through an association like yours, is this: no man who has done nothing more than go through a college course, it matters not how brilliant he may have been, can rightly be called educated. Education is the work of the man, and not of the boy. The best that school‐training can do is to teach the boy how he should study when he has become a man. Though there will generally be found a certain refinement, correctness of expression, and intelligent appreciativeness in those who have made a collegiate course, yet, if this be not followed up by the study of the man, they will be found to possess neither mental strength nor logical accuracy.

Before entering upon the direct treatment of the proper method to be pursued by those who seek to improve their minds, allow me to say a word of the work of preparation, which is twofold, intellectual and moral.

We should prepare the mind for the reception of truth by freeing it from all those opinions which rest upon no other foundation than prejudice. There are personal prejudices, family prejudices, national prejudices, prejudices of childhood, prejudices of old age, prejudices of men, prejudices of women, all of which tend to prevent the view of things as they are in themselves, by directing the mind, in an undue manner, to their relations to ourselves.

Personal prejudice inclines each one to think too well of himself, his talents, his acquirements; it is that, in a word, which makes it almost impossible that any power should

“The giftie gie us
To see oursels as ithers see us.”

It is the great obstacle to self‐knowledge and the fruitful source of error, warping the judgment and perverting the will. It creates within us a tendency to deceive ourselves concerning whatever we love or hate.

National prejudice is another very common phase of this universal weakness. How few men are capable of forming just and fair opinions of the manners, customs, and opinions of foreign nations! The infirmity of even great minds is, in this respect, lamentable; above all, this is an original sin of the English people; for they—if I be not myself under the influence of the prejudice which I condemn—are the most narrow and insular, in their self‐conceit, of all the peoples of the earth. It is next to miraculous that an Englishman should judge fairly of the Irish, the French, the Italians, or the Americans; and this unfortunate defect of the national mind has been stamped upon the literature of the country.(72)

Americans, more, probably, from the force of circumstances which were not under their control than from any other cause, are less narrow in their nationalism, though by no means free from prejudice. In the past, at least, we were too often guilty of the folly of looking upon our form of government as ideal, forgetting that no form of government should be considered in the abstract, or as good or better, except relatively to the circumstances to which it is applied.

Then, we, a young people, affect contempt for antiquity, and become superficial, and lose veneration.

It is not necessary that I should enter further into this part of the subject.

There is, I have said, a work of preparation which directly concerns the moral nature. As the mind is to be freed from prejudice, the will is to be taken from beneath the yoke of passion. It is through the will that the intellect is warped by prejudice. He who is the slave of passion will rarely have an honest desire to improve his mind; and, even where this exists, the tyrant into whose hands he has surrendered his soul will deprive him of the power. Sensual indulgence produces a deterioration of the nervous system, which, of course, causes a corresponding degeneracy in the intellectual faculties. How can there be a love of excellence without self‐respect, and how can a man who habitually violates the sanctity of his nature respect himself?

“Nothing,” says Cicero, “is so injurious, so baneful, as lust, which, were it stronger or of greater duration, would extinguish the very light of reason. It prevents thought, blindfolds the eyes of the mind, and can have no society with wisdom.”

“I will simply express my strong belief,” says Faraday, one of the greatest men of science of this century, “that that point of self‐ education which consists in teaching the mind to resist its desires and inclinations until they are proved to be right, is the most important of all, not only in things of natural philosophy, but in every department of daily life.”

The assent of the mind is, in a marvellous manner, subject to the power of the will. How readily we give credence to what flatters our vanity, or is, from whatever cause, agreeable to us!

We easily persuade a man that what he wishes to do is right, but usually labor in vain when passion pleads against us.

In this undoubted psychological fact is found the hidden cause of the infidelity of many young men. They do wrong, and passion seeks to justify their conduct to their intelligence, which becomes the tool of the perverted will.

Or, if you prefer to take another view of the subject, I will say that what the French call _l’interiorité_—the habitual dwelling with one’s own thoughts—is an essential condition of mental growth. But this is painful to the sensual man, who has violated the sanctuary of his soul, and can consequently no longer dwell there in peace.

What pleasure can the father find in the bosom of his family, when he has betrayed the wife whom he swore to love, and has brought shame upon the name which his children have received from him?

To him, then, who wishes to begin the life‐work of self‐improvement I would say: Seek to have a large mind, from which no narrowing prejudice shuts out the full light of truth; have a pure heart, with the strength to love all that is right.

Then, I ask of him the will to work and to persevere in labor. Labor is the great law of progress, the necessary condition of all improvement. He who wishes to be an educated man must have courage; he must consent to see himself forgotten for a time, overshadowed by the easy‐won reputations of those of his own age, who will wear their honors full‐blushing, whilst all his life is still concentred in the bud that wraps it close and nurtures it.

Is it easy, in the fresh‐blown flower of manhood, in the enthusiasm of a newly‐found liberty, when fair hands hold out the cup of pleasure, when bright eyes and smiling lips woo to indulgence—is it easy, then, to choose rather silence and solitude, a life of toil more earnest and not less regular than the enforced labor of the college? And yet this must be. There is no royal road to science.

“A king of feasts and flowers, and wine and revel,
And love and mirth, was never king of glory.”

I have heard the question—you have asked it yourselves—Where are the young men who go forth year after year from our colleges? What becomes of them? We never hear of them. Is not something wrong? They cease to study, they cease to grow, and are lost in the crowd.

But your presence, young gentlemen, assures me that you have not ceased to labor, and that you do not intend to cease to grow.

Permit me, then, to present to you a few suggestions concerning the proper method of study. We do nothing well except what we do with system and order. Set apart, therefore, stated times for the improvement of your minds, and suffer not a slight circumstance to interfere with this arrangement. And now I feel that I must be brief, when the subject which I am treating most requires development. How to study and what to study are problems which engage the attention of the profoundest thinkers of our age, the adequate solution of which can be found only in a perfect philosophy of education, which possibly has not yet been written. Without aiming, then, to be either deep or thorough, I shall strive to be practical. To study, as I have already intimated, means to work with the mind. The mind grows by union with truth, by the assimilation of knowledge, which never takes place except by direct application of the thinking subject to the object thought. This continued application—in other words, attention—is difficult; it wearies the mind, it fatigues the body. To read is not to study. Some of the most indolent men I have ever known, intellectually indolent, were passionately fond of reading. To read requires no mental effort, and demands merely that sort of attention necessary to form a vague notion of each sentence as it passes through the mind. A man may read all the books in the Astor Library, and acquire hardly more knowledge than there will remain water in a sieve through which a stream has been pouring. Indiscriminate, inattentive reading confuses the mind, and, if persevered in, begets a mental habit incompatible with clear and accurate thinking; and the important thing, from an educational point of view, is not so much to get knowledge as to strengthen and develop the intellect, that it may be prepared to grapple intelligently and successfully with the problems which greatly concern or interest us as rational beings.

But you will readily understand that it is far from my thought to wish to dissuade you from cultivating a fondness for reading. On the contrary, this, if you have it not, you must acquire, if you hope to make progress in the work of self‐education. Read, then, but read intelligently, thoughtfully. One should read at his writing‐desk, pen in hand, taking note of new and striking thoughts, of graceful and forcible modes of expression; bringing the author’s ideas into the presence of higher truths, of principles that are fixed; rejecting what is false, assimilating what is just. Better still, write yourselves. Do not imagine that I have the faintest desire to encourage you to become authors; there would be fewer and better authors if men were in the habit of doing what I would have you do. Write, not that others may read your thoughts, but that they may become clear to your own minds.

“I confess,” said S. Augustine, “that by writing I have learned many things which nothing else had taught me.” You will recall to mind the apothegm of Bacon: “Reading makes a full man, talking a ready man, and writing an exact man.”

I have no hesitation in saying that, of all means of mental culture, writing is the best, as well for extending and deepening the intellectual faculties, as for giving them justness and polish.

Do I propose to you to go back to the drudgery of task compositions? Such is not my thought.

I suppose you to be interested in certain subjects, of which you wish to get at least a tolerably thorough knowledge. You take the authors who have treated most exhaustively of these matters; you read them, you study them; you apply your own minds, in sustained thought, to the facts and principles which they give you. And here precisely lies the difficulty; for you will find that, when you will have acquired the power of sustained thought, you will be able to master almost any subject.

Now, to get this mental habit, nothing will aid you like writing. I do not believe that any man who has never translated his thoughts into written language is able to think profoundly or correctly. Do not, however, misunderstand me. One may write negligently and thoughtlessly, as he may read with indolence and inattention. Put your hand to the pen, and begin to meditate upon the thoughts that fill your mind. Should you, for weeks and months, not write one sentence for every hour you hold the pen, do not be discouraged, and, above all, be persuaded that this time has not been lost. Think neither of style nor of the reader; give all your attention to truth and to your own soul. The style is the man. Write out the life that is within you. Keep what you have written, and after months and years, in looking back, you will perceive that you have grown steadily, increased day by day in intellectual vigor and refinement; and there will always be special worth in words written, not to please the vulgar crowd, not to propitiate a false and intolerant public opinion—written to gain neither applause nor gold, but for God and truth, and the dignity of the human soul.

“There is nothing,” says Seneca, “however difficult or arduous, which the human mind cannot conquer, and assiduous meditation render familiar. Whatever the soul demands of itself it obtains.” But how are you to learn the secret of assiduous meditation, to acquire the habit of retaining difficulties in mind, to be considered and reconsidered, to be taken up at the leisure moment, and laid down as deferred but not abandoned?

As the soldier takes the sword, the painter the brush, the musician his instrument, the mechanic the tools of his trade, each to perfect himself in his art, so he who wishes to learn how to think must take the pen and do honest work.

“But words are things, and a small drop of ink
Falling, like dew, upon a thought, produces
That which makes thousands, perhaps millions think.”

I shall conclude this part of my subject with a quotation from Sir William Hamilton: “The primary principle of education is the determination of the pupil to self‐activity—the doing nothing for him which he is able to do for himself.” This principle is applicable to every stage of the mind’s development, and in it will be found the secret of success in the great work of self‐education.

The student, I have said, should cultivate a fondness for intelligent and thoughtful reading; for in books chiefly all human knowledge is treasured up.

“Many a man lives a burden to the earth,” says Milton; “but a good book is the precious life‐blood of a master‐spirit, embalmed and treasured up on purpose to a life beyond life.” But only a few books are good. The great mass of those that are written fall upon the world dead, or at best survive but a short time.

We are about to celebrate the centennial anniversary of our national existence, and, in the hundred years of our life, we have made many books. How many of them will be read in the next century? A dozen? Hardly.

There is the Augustan age, the age of Leo X., the Elizabethan age, the age of Louis XIV., the age of Queen Anne, all remarkable for literary excellence and the number of great writers whom they produced, and yet you can count on your fingers the really good books that each has bequeathed to us. And this, too, is worthy of remark: a considerable portion of the books that survive are saved by style alone, and not on account of more solid worth. Books which have the inductive sciences as their object can, from the nature of things, live but a short time, since these sciences, being in a state of continuous development are constantly outgrowing their own conclusions, and the treatises of even the ablest observers are superseded by those of men who, with less genius, have more certain and numerous data.

Works of imagination, poetry and romance, may meet with temporary success, without possessing the higher qualities, from the fact that they describe a mental, moral, or social phase of existence whose chief interest lies in its actuality. When this is past, the literary efforts called forth by it die. In fiction, only the very best is worthy of study.

“Mediocribus esse poetis
Non homines, non dî, non concessere columnæ.”

And here is a case in point, in which we should know how to rise above prejudice—the vulgar prejudice of the insipid and intellectually indolent society of our day, in which it is considered the proper thing for a man of culture to read each worthless production that happens to have a run.

Persons of intellectual aspirations should, as far as possible, associate with their superiors in knowledge and elevation of thought, and should exclude the common herd from intellectual companionship.

There is at least an aristocracy of mind, to which neither gold nor title can give admission, but only kinship of spirit, smitten with the love of high thinking. What Tennyson has written of a different union may be applied to that of mind with mind:

“Yet it shall be, thou shalt lower to his level day by day,
What is fine within thee growing coarse to sympathize with clay.
As the husband is, the wife is; thou art mated with a clown,
And the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee
down.”

Allow me, in this connection, to say a word of periodical literature.

A book can wait for success; the best books have not been understood by the generation for which they were written; but a newspaper or magazine must succeed at once, or fail utterly, since its life is necessarily ephemeral. Hence the great probability is that it will be guided, not by principle, but by policy; that it will aim, not to uphold truth, but to flatter the prejudices of its readers. If it is the organ of a party, it must defend its interests blindly; and hence, whenever argument is attempted, it will be found to consist of little else than special pleading and sophistry. But since the average newspaper‐reader is not fond of logic, the partisan organ will deal rather with men than with principles; and the whole basis of this procedure is double‐ dealing—untruth erected into the dignity of a principle. Its business will be to whitewash its friends, and besmear its enemies. When its party is out of office, it will swell with indignation at the public corruption, and will use what are called the argus eyes of the press to discover things which do not exist; but when the spoils are in the hands of its friends, it will devote itself to covering up their misdeeds. There is also what is called the independent press, which generally has less of principle than that which is avowedly partisan. It in turn affirms and denies everything, plays fast and loose, palters in a double sense, and, with a seeming honesty, is most unfair, lending all its influence to persuade men that there is no such thing as truth, and that morality is only cant.

There are yet other heads of indictment that may be brought, without injustice, against the press. Its columns are filled with details, more or less minute, of all the horrible and disgusting crimes which disgrace society, with sins against the decencies of life, with coarse personalities, and advertisements which are an opprobrium to human nature.

This, I must confess, is a one‐sided view of the question; it is, however, the view which my subject forces me to take in treating of the means of self‐education.