Chapter IV: Front Matter (4)

The liberal plan for the government of West New Jersey, previously drawn up by Penn, was adopted, and the colonists encouraged to govern themselves. The powers conferred on him personally were never used in selfishness, or to advance his personal interests, but only to further the complete establishment of freedom, justice, and the best interests of the people.

To the Swedes and others who had settled within his territory before he took possession, he introduced himself in a way so conciliatory and assuring that their friendship was at once won. His first message as governor was an admirable document—plain, honest, sensible in its every utterance. Its brevity allows it to be printed in full. “My friends, I wish you all happiness here and hereafter. These words are to let you know that it hath pleased God, in his providence, to cast you in my lot and care. It is a business that though I never undertook before, yet God hath given me an understanding of my duty, and an honest heart to do it uprightly. I hope you will not be troubled at your change and the king’s choice; for you are now fixed at the mercy of no governor that comes to make his fortune great. You shall be governed by laws of your own making, and live a free, and if you will, a sober, industrious people.…”

Before the proprietor’s arrival, with three shiploads of Quaker colonists, his deputy, as instructed, had respected the rights of all the settlers, of whatever nationality or religious faith, and had been specially careful to cultivate friendly relations, and form treaties with the Indian tribes located in or near the territory. The offers of friendship, honestly made, were received in the same kindly spirit that prompted them, and neither fraud nor violence was feared. Not long after Penn came, a general council was called of the chiefs and sachems, anxious to see him of whom they had heard, and whose promises, reported to them, they had believed. He met them, with a few friends, unarmed as they all were, and spoke kind words by an interpreter.

It was not his object to purchase lands, or to lay down rules to govern them in trading, but honestly to assure the untutored children of the forest of his friendly purposes and brotherly affection.

The covenant then made, not written with ink, nor confirmed by any oath, was sacredly kept. No deed of violence or injustice ever marred the peace or interrupted the friendly relations of the parties. For more than seventy years, during which time the province remained under the control of the Friends, the peace was unbroken. Not a war-whoop was heard, nor any hostile demonstration witnessed in Pennsylvania.

In December, 1682, a convention was held of three days’ continuance, and all needful provision made for territorial legislation.

The generous concessions of the proprietor harmonized the views of the assembly, and the results of the convention were eminently satisfactory.

After a month’s absence, during which there was a visit to the Chesapeake, and an amicable conference with Lord Baltimore, about the boundaries of their respective provinces, Penn returned, and busied himself in locating and making a plot of his proposed capital. The beautiful neck between the Schuylkill and Delaware was wisely chosen; the land purchased of the Swedes, who had begun a settlement there, and map of the city provided. Three or four cabins were the only dwellings on the site, and the lines of the streets were indicated by marks on the trees. Thus in the woods was founded Philadelphia, the City of Brotherly Love.

From the inception of his American enterprise, Penn showed himself a true philanthropist, not seeking his own aggrandizement, but the good of others. The oppressed and persecuted trusted him and were not disappointed. He promised them freedom, the love of which was a master passion with him, and the charter of their liberties dated at Philadelphia, and adopted by the first General Assembly, was even more generous than they expected. He conceded all the rights of legislation to the representatives of the people, reserving for himself only the right to veto any hasty and objectionable enactments of the council. His administration as executive met with much favor, and the tide of prosperity was for years unabated. Such was the condition of affairs in Pennsylvania when King James II. abdicated his throne. Penn, being a friend of the Stuarts, and having received his liberal charter from Charles II., sympathized with the fallen monarch, and, though loyal, had less confidence in William and Mary. For his sympathy and supposed adherence to the cause of the exiled king, he was persecuted, several times arrested and cast into prison. But investigations showed the suspicions of disloyalty unfounded; and his rights, so unjustly and to the great grief of his colonists, wrested from him, were fully restored. The new sovereign was a Catholic, and his fellow-communicants, like other dissenters from the Establishment, had suffered much. His anxiety to restore to them all the immunities of citizenship disposed him to listen to the logic and eloquence of the accomplished Quaker, who boldly contended for the toleration of all creeds, and the unlimited freedom of conscience. His influence during these years, in keeping up the tide of immigration to America, and especially to Pennsylvania, was something wonderful.

In 1699 he again visited his American colony, now grown into a state—the increase in population and all the resources of a prosperous community far exceeding his expectations.

In 1701, having carefully and satisfactorily arranged all his affairs in America, Penn bade a final adieu to his many friends, and returned to England. He left them, largely through the influence of his teaching and example and spirit, at peace among themselves and with all their neighbors.

About this time a measure was proposed in England that, if passed, would seriously affect the colonists in all parts of the country. The ministers formed the design of abolishing all the proprietary estates, with the view of establishing royal governments in their stead. The presence of Penn was greatly needed in England to prevent the success of this scheme, and not without much effort was the purpose defeated. It required a man of power and influence in the king’s court to do it. From this time the government, though still in Penn’s right, was administered by his deputies, some of whom disappointed him. John Evans, an ambitious man, and not true to the peace principles of the Friends, greatly troubled the province by purchasing military equipments, and attempting to organize a regiment of militia. The council and citizens protested so strongly against his proceedings as irreconcilable with the policy of Penn, that Evans was removed from the office, and another appointed. His charge to the deputies appointed had been, “You are come to a quiet land; rule for him under whom the princes of this world will one day esteem it an honor to govern in their places.” Those who heeded the charge had peace and prosperity in their borders. As proprietor of his vast possessions in America, Penn was not faultless; but his mistakes bore an amiable character. Conscious of his own integrity and freedom from cupidity, he placed too much confidence in the untried virtue of others, and exposed inferior men in the way of temptation to dishonesty that they were not able to resist. The rascality of his agent, Ford, whose false accounts involved the honest proprietor in debt to a large amount, well nigh accomplished his financial ruin. He was imprisoned, and after weary months of confinement was released by influential friends, who compounded with the creditors in whose power the crafty agent had placed him.

The simplicity of his Quaker habits and enthusiasm for religion seemed inconsistent with his great influence in the corrupt court of the king, and he was suspected of acting a double part—was thrice arrested, charged with treasonable intentions, and as often acquitted. But the strain was too great. His natural force abated, and the infirmities of age came on him rapidly. His acquittal, and the complete vindication of his character cast a bright light on the clouds, and its radiance gave a kind relief for the six years of feebleness and suffering that remained after life’s mission seemed mostly accomplished. The attacks of enemies and contemporary rivals are more readily condoned. But the abortive attempt of Lord Macaulay to asperse the character of the deceased governor, whose enterprise in the New World eclipsed all others, reflects little honor on the name of the great historian. Certainly the great Quaker’s record on this side of the Atlantic can never be tarnished, and his principles of liberty and equality are better understood and appreciated by American freemen.

The colonial possessions of Penn were bequeathed to his three sons, by whom, and their deputies, the government was administered until the American Revolution. Afterward, in 1779, the entire claim of the Penn family to the soil and jurisdiction of the state, was purchased by the legislature for a hundred and thirty thousand pounds sterling. The early history of the Keystone state is one of special interest and pleasure. The reader lingers over it because it recounts bloodless victories, and the triumph of kindness and right over violence and wrong.

When nations grow mercenary and grasping, the strong justifying their aggressions and conquests by the false plea that success, and the probable hereafter of the conquered races justify their assaults, the early annals of Penn’s state will stand a perpetual protest against fraud and violence, however successful for a time. Might does not make right, even when the highest civilization confronts the lowest barbarism. Even savages had rights that the most cultured Englishmen were bound to respect.

The brotherhood of man includes those of lowest estate. So thought the founder of the great state that bears his name. With his charter in hand he fearlessly plunged into the vast wilderness, saying, “I will here found a free colony for all mankind.” The words had the true ring, and the asylum was opened for men of every nation who loved liberty and hated the oppressor’s wrongs. And it was a most fitting thing that the “bells of his capital should ring out the first glad notes of American independence.”

GEORGIA.

Every philanthropist must take satisfaction in the founding of the colony in Georgia; for, perhaps beyond any other, it had its origin in the spirit of pure benevolence. The unfortunate debtor in England was by the laws liable to imprisonment; and thousands were, for this cause alone, languishing in prisons. The miserable condition of debtors and their desolate families, was at length thrust on the attention of Parliament. In 1728 a commission was appointed to inquire into the state of the poor, and report measures of relief. The work was accomplished, the jails thrown open, and the prisoners returned to their families. But, though liberated, they and their friends were in no condition to maintain themselves respectably in the land of their birth. There was a land beyond the sea where debt was not a crime, and poverty not necessarily a disgrace. To provide somewhere a refuge for the poor of England, and the distressed Protestants of other countries, the commission appealed to George II. for the privilege of planting a colony of such persons in America. A charter was issued giving the desired territory to a corporation, for twenty-one years, _to be held in trust for the poor_. In honor of the king the new province was named Georgia. The high-souled philanthropist who initiated and went steadily forward in this enterprise was James Oglethorpe. Born a loyalist, educated at Oxford, a high churchman, a soldier, a member of Parliament, benevolent, generous, full of sympathy, and far-sighted in comprehending the results of his enterprise, he sacrificed much, giving the best position of a life so full of energy and promise to the noble charity of providing homes for the poor, under such conditions that the largest benefit could be received by them without any sense of degradation. Ridpath says: “The magnanimity of the enterprise was heightened by the fact that he did not believe in the equality of men, but only in the duty of the strong to protect the weak, and sympathize with the lowly. Oglethorpe was the principal member of the corporation, and to him the personal leadership of the first colony planted on the banks of the Savannah was naturally intrusted. His associations were with cultured people, and his refined tastes would be subjected to some crucial tests by the rude scenes in the wilderness, and his association with unlettered men. But he was not a man to shirk responsibility, and promptly determined to share the privations, hardships, and dangers of his colony.

“With one hundred and twenty emigrants, in January, 1735, he safely reached the coast, proceeded up the river, and selected, for the site of his first settlement, the high bluff on which Savannah was built. There, amidst the pines, was soon seen a village of tents and rude dwellings, the nucleus of the fine city, intended for the capital of a new commonwealth, in which there would be freedom of conscience and no imprisonment for debt.”

[End of Required Reading for April.]

LIGHT AT EVENTIDE.

By E. G. CHARLESWORTH.

I met an old man in my way;
For many years the light of day
Had been to him but memory;
Poor, blind, half-deaf, and lame was he:
My heart was bent to sympathize,
I looked toward the dead closed eyes,
Hopeful, by some apt words, a light
To bring to mingle with his night.

A falling tide was on the sand.
Slowly, that he might understand,
I said,
“The ebbing tide, and then the flood;
The darkest hour, then the dawn;
Death, then——”
Some inner sun’s streaks in his face
Shone on this image of his case,
And twice, with Faith and Hope’s sunshine,
He brightly filled my shortened line—
_Death, then the morn—Death, then the morn!_

* * * * *

For though you might not be able to break or bend the power of genius—the deeper the sea, the more precipitous the coast—yet in the most important initiatory decade of life, in the first, at the opening dawn of all feelings, you might surround and overlay the slumbering lion-energies with all the tender habits of a gentle heart, and all the bands of love.—_Richter._

THE COOPER INSTITUTE.

By the REV. J. M. BUCKLEY, D.D.

Among the monuments and illustrations of the spirit of philanthropy—the noblest distinction between ancient and modern civilization—the Cooper Institute has stood for a quarter of a century, an object of interest proportionate to the intellectual and moral elevation of those who behold it.

The early struggles, great success and marked mental progress of its founder, no less than a liberality as beautiful as it was then rare, invest his life with a peculiar charm. Nor did he retain his possessions until death loosened his grasp, employing in beneficence only that which he could no longer retain. Thus he became the ancestor of many who are their own executors. “May their tribe increase!” To these qualities was added a simplicity which made it impossible not to feel that Peter Cooper was a kind of universal “Uncle.” It pleased Almighty God in a providence, which was no strain upon faith, as it seemed preëminently in harmony with the sense of fitness, to allow him to live until he had seen the desire of his heart, and could not doubt either the perpetuity, the wisdom or the success of his plans for promoting the welfare of the people. To comparatively few philanthropists on so large a scale, has this privilege been vouchsafed; for most of them are old before their accumulations justify large responsibilities.

The death of Peter Cooper gave to New York the opportunity, which was itself a blessing, of showing by spontaneous tributes whose reflex influence strengthens every spring of virtue, counteracting the barbarizing tendencies of the struggle for bread or riches or honors, and the weakening effects of mere idleness and the prevailing distrust of human goodness, its estimate of disinterestedness. The opportunity was improved, for never within the memory of the oldest inhabitant has the death of a private citizen evoked more tender exhibitions of respect and affection than that of the patriarchal Peter Cooper.

It is my purpose to describe this institution; to tell all about it, so that those who read and have not seen may know what those who have seen are pleased to recall.

On the 29th of April, 1859, Peter Cooper executed a deed in fee simple of the property known as the Cooper Institute without any reservation, to six trustees, upon the conditions specified in the act of the legislature authorizing the gift to be made, “that the above mentioned and desirable premises, together with the appurtenances and the rents, issues, income, and profits thereof shall be forever devoted to the instruction and improvement of the inhabitants of the United States in practical science and art.”

The location of the property and its dimensions are thus described by the founder in his letter to the trustees accompanying the trust deed:

“GENTLEMEN:—It is to me a source of inexpressible pleasure, after
so many years of continued effort, to place in your hands the
title of all that piece and parcel of land bounded on the west
by Fourth Avenue, and on the north by Astor Place, on the east
by Third Avenue, and on the south by Seventh Street, with all
the furniture, rents and income of every name and nature, to be
forever devoted to the advancement of science and art in their
application to the varied and useful purposes of life.”

That the spirit of Peter Cooper and the purposes which he had in this munificent gift may be the more fully understood, and the reader may judge how near the trustees have come to fulfilling the same, I shall quote some salient passages from that unique letter. “The great object I desire to accomplish by the establishment of an institution devoted to the advancement of science and art is to open the volume of nature by the light of truth—so unveiling the laws and methods of Deity that the young may see the beauties of creation, enjoy its blessings, and learn to love the Being ‘from whom cometh every good and perfect gift.’ My heart’s desire is, that the rising generation may become so thoroughly acquainted with the laws of nature _and the great mystery of their own being that they may see, feel, understand and know that there are immutable laws designed in infinite wisdom, constantly operating for our good—so governing the destiny of worlds and men that it is our highest wisdom to live in strict conformity to these laws_.”

The italics are his. Mr. Cooper felt a special interest in the advancement of women; nor did this interest take a mere sentimental, much less an unpractical, form. It did not effervesce in honeyed compliments or futile denunciation of the existing state. It was thus expressed: “To manifest the deep interest and sympathy I feel in all that can advance the happiness and better the condition of the female portion of the community, and especially of those who are dependent upon honest labor for support, I desire the trustees to appropriate two hundred and fifty dollars yearly to assist such pupils of the Female School of Design as shall, in their careful judgment, by their efforts and sacrifices in the performance of duty to parents, or to those that Providence has made dependent on them for support, merit and require such aid. My reason for this requirement is, not so much to reward, as to encourage the exercise of heroic virtues that often shine in the midst of the greatest suffering and obscurity, without so much as being noticed by the passing throng.”

In prescribing rules for the practice of debate, and the facilities for the hearing of lectures, he says: “To aid the speakers, and those that hear, to profit by these lectures and debates, I hereby direct to have placed in the lecture room, in a suitable position, full-length likenesses of Washington, Franklin and Lafayette, with an expression of my sincere and anxious desire that all that behold them may remember that notwithstanding they are dead they yet speak the language of truth and soberness.”

Here follows a provision far in advance of his time, but now becoming common, if not popular: “Desiring as I do that the students of this institution may become preëminent examples in the practice of all the virtues, I have determined to give them an opportunity to distinguish themselves for their good judgment by annually recommending to the trustees for their adoption such rules and regulations as they, on mature reflection, shall believe to be necessary and proper to preserve good morals and good order throughout their connection with this institution.”

The letter contains an account of the religious opinions which had taken an “irresistible possession” of his mind. These—which may be inferred from the extracts made—and the offer of ten thousand dollars additional, to the board of trustees, for which they were to draw at their pleasure, as fast as the same could “be wisely used to advance the interests of the institution,” conclude this remarkable letter.

Mr. Cooper continued to assist the Institute in every possible way until his death. In his will he bequeathed to it $100,000. Soon after his death his children notified the trustees that “in accordance with what they understood to be Mr. Cooper’s final wishes, they would in a few months contribute the sum of $100,000 in addition to the bequest of $100,000 contained in his will.”

The trustees—of whom not one has died in the long period of their service, the only death being that of the President, Peter Cooper—give the following succinct statement of the principles upon which they proceeded in the execution of so weighty a trust. They say that they laid down as the fundamental basis of their operations the following principles:

First, that the details of the institution in all the departments should be arranged with especial reference to the intellectual wants and improvement of the working classes. And, second, that as far as might be consistent with the first principle, all interference with the plans or objects of other existing institutions in the city should be avoided. Guided by these principles the trustees arrived at the following broad scheme, as best calculated to instruct, elevate, and improve the working classes of the city:

1. Instruction in the branches of knowledge which are practically applied in their daily occupations, by which they support themselves and their families.

2. Instruction in the laws by which health is preserved and the sanitary condition of families improved; in other words, in personal hygiene.

3. Instruction in social and political science, by virtue of which communities maintain themselves, and nations progress in virtue, wealth and power.

4. Instruction addressed to the eye, the ear, and the imagination, with a view to furnish a reasonable and healthy recreation to the working classes after the labors of the day.

In pursuance of these objects and in harmony with the above comprehensive principles the following departments are maintained at the present time in most effective operation:

1. Free Reading Room and Library. Here between 430 and 440 periodicals are kept on file, and upward of 17,000 volumes are upon the shelves. In 1883 the number of books used was 194,963, the number of patent office reports examined 8,324, and the number of visitors to the patent office room 1,487. In all 559,707 persons visited the Free Reading Room and Library during 1883.

2. Free Art School for Women. There were no less than 1,450 applications for admission during the year, a number far in excess of the accommodations; 275 were admitted to the morning classes, of whom 202 remained at the close of the term, and 160 received certificates. There are also a “pay class” for pottery painting in this department, and a pay class for drawing in the afternoon; 43 were in the pottery class, and 221 in the drawing class.

3. Free School for Women in Wood Engraving. Thirty-two students were received during the year 1882, of whom 28 continued to the close of the term.

4. Free School of Telegraphy for Women. The number of applicants was 160, of whom 55 were admitted.

5. Free Night School of Science. In this important department are classes in algebra, geometry, trigonometry, analytical geometry, descriptive geometry, differential and integral calculus, elementary mechanics, natural philosophy, engineering, astronomy, elementary chemistry, analytical chemistry, geology, mechanical drawing, oratory and debate. One thousand one hundred and sixty-nine were admitted into the School of Science, 705 remained till the close of the year, and 405 obtained certificates.

6. The Free Night School of Art. Here is taught perspective drawing, mechanical drawing, architectural drawing, drawing from cast, form drawing, industrial drawing, ornamental free hand, rudimental free hand, modeling in clay. In this school were 1,797 pupils.

In addition to these departments a course of ten free lectures is given in the great hall on successive Saturday evenings for ten weeks. The lecturers are men of considerable eminence and generally specialists. Probably the most interesting ever delivered was the course by the famous naturalist, the Rev. J. G. Wood, of London, England. This course crowded the hall, and was concluded January 19th of the present year by a lecture, with illustrations, on “The Ant.”

The term begins in the free Night Schools for Science and Art on the 1st of October, and closes term work in April. Applications for admission must be made during the month of September on Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday evenings, and on Thursday evenings afterward. Each applicant must be at least fifteen years old, and bring a letter of recommendation from his employer. Ladies are admitted to any of the classes in the School of Science for which they are fitted, but not to the School of Art. The regular course of study requires five terms, and to those who successfully complete it the Cooper medal and diploma are awarded.

The annual term in the Woman’s Art School begins October 1st and ends May 30th. Ladies desiring admission must apply in person or writing, and give a written responsible reference as to character, fitness, and inability to pay for instruction. The ages are from sixteen to thirty-five years. Pupils who do not exhibit proficiency after two months’ trial will be dropped. The morning classes are reserved for those who do not pay. But to meet the wants of those who wish to study as an accomplishment, “paying classes” are organized for the afternoon. Lessons are given in elementary drawing from objects, cast drawing, life drawing, oil painting, engraving. Lessons of two hours in length are given three times a week. Terms, $15 for thirty lessons.

The rules of admission to the Free School in Telegraphy for Women are that the candidates shall present themselves for examination on the first Tuesday in October. They will be examined in reading poor manuscript, writing from dictation, penmanship and spelling. They must be at least sixteen years old, and _positively_ not over _twenty-four_.

In the report for 1882, published in May, 1883, Mrs. Carter the Principal of the Woman’s Art School, says: “One hundred and twenty-six present pupils are learning. Of these fifty-four are in the photograph classes, and eighteen in the engraving class. Twenty-six now in the school are teaching drawing, and three of these are in nineteen public schools in this city. One young woman who left the art school in the winter teaches twenty-five hours a week in eight public schools here at two dollars an hour.”

The form of application to the Cooper Union includes name of applicant, residence, age, occupation, name of employer, place of business. Parents or guardians, in the case of minors, fill out the blanks, but applications must be made in person. It only remains to say that the applications are in advance of the capacity of the Institute, but that the democratic principle of “first come first served” is rigorously applied. Applications do not hold over from one year to another, but must be renewed. It is possible for persons from any part of the country to avail themselves of the facilities here afforded. Board for gentlemen can be obtained at very reasonable rates, not far from the Union. Two rooming together and lunching at restaurants can live well at a low rate. Ladies also can procure board in Brooklyn, or in the suburban towns, or even in the city itself, at a rate far below what is generally supposed possible.

Passing the Cooper Institute, as the writer does nearly every day, he looks with undiminished interest upon the young men and young women who go in and out of the building; while to attend one of the lectures is a pleasure far greater than that of merely listening. If it were possible to assemble in one place all who have been helped upward and onward here, among them would be found men and women now in the most influential positions, and the intelligence visible in the countenances of those who, though still earning their bread by the sweat of the brow, are filled with elevating thoughts, and are consciously members of the aristocracy of intellect, would be an ample reward to founder, trustees and teachers, for all their work and labor of love. Nor is this all; these pupils will transmit influences through their posterity to the end of time. Peter Cooper, like Washington, Lafayette, and Franklin, still speaks “words of truth and soberness.” He shakes hands with every aspiring young man, saying: “My son, I will help you;” with every young woman who cherishes a high ambition: “My daughter, I have a deep sympathy with you.” It is useless to say, “Long may his memory endure!” It can not die.

In concluding this paper the writer must be permitted to express his satisfaction that the sketch is to appear in a magazine called into being by an institution which on another principle, equally efficient and much more widely diffused in the sphere of its influence, promotes the advancement of Science and Art by bringing them within the reach of all aspirants, without distinction of race, sex, age, or previous condition of servitude.

GREEN SUN AND STRANGE SUNSETS.

During the first half of September, the sun in Ceylon and India, and also in the West Indies, presented at rising and setting the appearance of a green or greenish-blue disc. Even when at his highest the sun appeared pale blue in Ceylon (from the other places no account of the sun’s aspect at high noon has reached me). On September 2, at Trinidad, the sun looked like a blue globe after five in the evening, “and after dark,” says the report, “we thought there was a fire in the town, from the bright redness of the heavens.” At Ongole, as the sun approached the horizon, his disc passed from a bluish tinge to green, which became tinged with yellow as he approached the horizon. “After he had set, light yellow and orange appeared in the west, a very deep red remaining for more than an hour after sunset; whereas, under ordinary conditions, all traces of color leave the sky in this latitude,” says the narrator, “within half an hour after the sun disappears.” These accounts, from both the eastern and western hemispheres, seem clearly to associate the green sun which attracted so much attention in the tropics early in September, with the remarkable sunsets seen in Arabia, in Africa (North and South), and throughout Europe during October and November. For we see that whatever may have been the explanation of the green sun, the phenomenon must have been produced by some cause capable of producing after sunset a brilliant red and orange glow, for a time much exceeding the usual duration of the twilight afterglow. The occurrence of the afterglow, with the same remarkable tints and similar exceptional duration elsewhere—though some weeks later—shows that a similar cause was at work.

Two points are clear. First, the cause alike of the greenness of the sun and the ruddy afterglow was in the air, not outside; and, secondly, the matter, whatever it was, which made the sun look green when he was seen through it, and which under his rays looked red, was high above the surface of the earth. It can readily be shown, so far as this last point is concerned, that matter at a lower level than sixteen miles could not have caught the sun’s rays so long after sunset as the glow was seen. On the other point it suffices, of course, to note that if some cause in the sun himself had been at work, the whole earth would have seen the green sun, while the afterglow would have found no explanation at all.

As to the actual cause to which both phenomena are to be ascribed, we must, I think, exculpate Krakatoa from all part or share in producing these strange effects. The appearance of a blue sun at Trinidad, followed two or three days later by a green sun in the East Indies, can not possibly be associated with the occurrence of an earthquake on the Javan shore a few days earlier. Beside, it must be remembered that we should have to explain two incongruous circumstances; first, how the exceedingly fine matter ejected from Krakatoa could have so quickly reached the enormous height at which the matter actually producing the afterglow certainly was; and, secondly, how having been able to traverse still air so readily one way, that matter failed to return as readily earthward under the attraction of gravity. Again the explanation, which at first seems a most probable one, that unusually high strata of moist air, with accompanying multitudes of ice particles, caused the phenomena alike of absorption and of reflection, seems negatived—first, by the entire absence of any other evidence of extraordinary meteorological conditions in September, October and November last; and, secondly, by the entire absence of any of the optical phenomena which necessarily accompany the transmission of sunlight through strata of air strewn with many ice particles.

We seem obliged then to adopt a theory, first advanced, I believe, by Mr. A. C. Ranyard, that the phenomena were caused by a cloud of meteoric dust encountered by the earth, and received into the upper regions of the air, thence to penetrate slowly (mayhap not till many months have passed) to the surface of the earth. Mr. Ranyard calls attention to the circumstance that probably the early snows of the winter 1883-’84 would bring down the advanced guard of such meteoric dust; and even as I write I learn that Mr. W. Mathieu Williams has followed the suggestion. He carefully collected the snow which fell in his garden, eighty yards from his chimneys and half a mile from any to windward. Slicing off a top film of the snow with a piece of glass he thawed it, and found a sediment of fine brownish-black powder. Ferrocyanide of potassium added to the snow-water produced no change of color, showing the absence of iron in solution, nor was there any visible reaction on the black dust till he added some hydrochloric acid. Then the blue compound indicating iron was abundantly formed all round the granules, and presently, as their solution was effected, a bluish-green deposit was formed, and the whole liquid deeply tinged with the same color. “It was not,” says Mr. Williams, “the true Prussian-blue reaction of iron alone, but just the color that would be produced by mixing small quantities of the cyanide of nickel (yellowish green) and the cyanide of cobalt (brownish white) with a preponderating amount of Prussian blue.”

If this explanation of the green sun and the extraordinary sunsets should be confirmed, it appears to me that a most interesting result will have been achieved. Of course, it is no new thing that as the earth rushes onward through space she encounters yearly many millions of meteoric bodies, large and small; nor ought it to be regarded as strange that beside these separate bodies, millions of millions in the form of fine cosmical dust should be encountered; but the actual evidence, derived from the behavior of sunlight (the red and yellow rays reflected and relative superabundance of green and blue rays therefore transmitted), would be an interesting and important addition to our knowledge of matters meteoric.—_The Contemporary Review._

ANTHONY TROLLOPE’S AUTOBIOGRAPHY.

By W. W. GIST.

A peep into a literary workshop is always interesting. There is always some curiosity to know how a man of letters does his work. This fascinating autobiography gives us a clear insight into Anthony Trollope’s manner of study, and states many other facts that are intensely interesting.

Anthony Trollope’s parents were both of a literary turn of mind. His father had no business capacity, and everything he attempted went wrong. His mother and brother came to America and opened a bazar at Cincinnati, hoping to amass a fortune. This proved a failure, and upon returning to England, Mrs. Trollope wrote a book on America, which brought a fair compensation. For years she supported the family by her pen. There is indeed something heroic in her watching by the bedside of her dying husband and son, and writing her books during the intervals that the sick did not demand her attention. Her first book was written when she was fifty years of age. She wrote in all one hundred and fourteen volumes.

Anthony Trollope’s school advantages were poor, and the trials of his childhood were greater than those of the average youth. In 1834, at the age of nineteen, he entered the postal service and continued in it for thirty-three years, effecting many valuable reforms and proving himself an efficient government officer.

His literary work was done in such a manner as not to interfere in the least with his duties as inspector of postoffices. Few men have the power of will to hold themselves to the rigid, exacting plan of study that he imposed upon himself. He hired a man to call him at 5:30 each morning, and his literary work was done between that hour and 8:30, before he dressed for breakfast. He did not, however, spend the whole of the three hours in writing. During the first half hour he read aloud what he had written the day before, so that his ear could detect any lack of harmony in expression, and that he might catch the spirit of his last day’s work. Can anything be more systematic than his method of writing a book, as told in his own language:

“When I commenced a new book I always prepared a diary, divided into weeks, and carried it on for the period which I allowed myself for the completion of the work. In this I have entered, day by day, the number of pages I have written, so that if at any time I have slipped into idleness for a day or two, the record of that idleness has been there staring me in the face and demanding of me increased labor, so that the deficiency might be supplied.… I have allotted myself so many pages a week. The average number has been about forty. It has been placed as low as twenty, and has risen to one hundred and twelve. And as a page is an ambiguous term, my page has been made to contain two hundred and fifty words; and as words, if not watched, will have a tendency to straggle, I have had every word counted as I went. In the bargains I have made with publishers, I have—not, of course, with their knowledge, but in my own mind—undertaken always to supply them with so many words, and I have never put a book out of hand short of the number by a single word. I may also say that the excess has been very small. I have prided myself on completing my work exactly within the proposed dimensions. But I have prided myself especially in completing it within the proposed time—and I have always done so. There has ever been the record before me, and a week passed with an insufficient number of pages has been a blister to my eye, and a month so disgraced would have been a sorrow to my heart.”

He was not satisfied to hold himself rigidly to specified hours. Much of the time he wrote with his watch open before him, and his task was to complete a page every fifteen minutes. “I have found that the two hundred and fifty words have been forthcoming as regularly as my watch went.” He seems to feel that the one only who has acquired a facile style can expect to produce a given quantity in a given time. “His language must come from him as music comes from the rapid touch of the great performer’s fingers; as words come from the mouth of the indignant orator; as letters fly from the fingers of the trained compositor; as the syllables tinkled out by little bells form themselves to the ear of the telegrapher.”

In comparing himself with the authors who follow no systematic method of work, he says: “They have failed to write their best because they have seldom written at ease. I have done double their work—though burdened with another profession—and have done it almost without an effort. I have not once, through all my literary career, felt myself even in danger of being late with my task. I have known no anxiety as to copy.”

In another connection he speaks of having three unpublished novels in his desk, and adds: “One of these has been six years finished, and has never seen the light since it was first tied up in the wrapper which now contains it. I look forward with some grim pleasantry to its publication after another period of six years, and to the declaration of the critics that it has been the work of a period of life at which the power of writing novels had passed from me.”

His method in writing enabled him to produce books quite rapidly, and this accounts in part for the unpublished works on hand. Only once did he permit a story to appear as a serial. In all other cases the story was completed before the printer saw any part of it.

He defends his habit of work as follows: “I have been told that such appliances are beneath the notice of a man of genius. I have never fancied myself to be a man of genius, but had I been so I think I might well have subjected myself to these trammels. Nothing, surely, is so potent as a law that may not be disobeyed. It has the force of the water-drop that hollows the stone. A small daily task, if it be really daily, will beat the labors of a spasmodic Hercules.”

His duties as a government officer required him to travel a great deal, and he soon learned to do much of his literary work while on his journeys. He wrote on a tablet while riding in the cars; one story was written while traveling on three different continents; “Lady Anna” was written while making a voyage from Liverpool to Australia.

Anthony Trollope had very positive views on the subject of criticism. Early in his literary career he reached this conclusion: “I made up my mind then that, should I continue this trade of authorship, I would have no dealings with any critic on my own behalf. I would neither ask for nor deplore criticism, nor would I ever thank a critic for praise, or quarrel with him, even in my heart, for censure.” A critic of the _Times_ once commended his books very highly. The critic afterward ventured to inform Mr. Trollope that he was the author of the criticism. The blunt reply was to the effect that he was under no obligations for the complimentary notice.

He once censured a professional critic for accepting a handsome present from an author whose works the critic had commended. His idea was that the man who has received a present for praising a book will not feel free to criticise adversely the next book by the same author. He states his views at length on this point: “I think it may be laid down as a golden rule in literature that there should be no intercourse at all between an author and his critic. The critic, as critic, should not know his author, nor the author, as author, his critic.… Praise let the author try to obtain by wholesome effort; censure let him avoid, if possible, by care and industry. But when they come, let him take them as coming from some source which he cannot influence, and with which he should not meddle.”

He once made an earnest plea that the critic’s name should be appended to his article, believing that this would make the writer more careful both of his censure and praise, and that the reader could determine the value of the criticism. On the subject of critical dishonesty he says: “If the writer will tell us what he thinks, though his thoughts be absolutely vague and useless, we can forgive him; but when he tells us what he does not think, actuated either by friendship or animosity, then there should be no pardon for him. This is the sin in modern English criticism of which there is most reason to complain.”

Anthony Trollope thinks that it is wrong that a literary name should carry so much favor with it. He says: “I, indeed, had never reached a height to which praise was awarded as a matter of course; but there were others who sat on higher seats, to whom the critics brought unmeasured incense and adulation, even when they wrote, as they sometimes did write, trash which from a beginner would not have been thought worthy of the slightest notice. I hope no one will think that in saying this I am actuated by jealousy of others. Though I never reached that height, still I had so far progressed that that which I wrote was received with too much favor. The injustice which struck me did not consist in that which was withheld from me, but in that which was given to me. I felt that aspirants coming up below me might do work as good as mine, and probably much better work, and yet fail to have it appreciated.”

Mr. Trollope is undoubtedly right in his general statement. While as a rule literary productions stand on their merits, the name of Tennyson or some other writer of equal fame will insure the sale of an article which, if written by an unknown writer, would be promptly rejected. Young writers need not complain of this. Distinguished names render articles marketable, and give them a commercial value that publishers can not ignore. To test the correctness of his theory, Mr. Trollope wrote two novels anonymously, which were not received with favor.

Mr. Trollope’s success in a pecuniary point of view was very slow. During the first ten years of his literary career he did not receive compensation enough to buy the pens, ink and paper he used. Twelve years passed before he received any appreciable increase of salary from his books. From that time his compensation was good. His books brought him in all something like $350,000.

The chapter that he devotes to the English novelists of his day is very interesting. He places Thackeray first, George Eliot second, and Dickens third. Most readers would perhaps reverse this order. Of Thackeray’s great work he says: “I myself regard ‘Esmond’ as the greatest novel in the English language, basing that judgment upon the excellence of its language, on the clear individuality of the characters, on the truth of its delineations in regard to the time selected, and on its great pathos.” He pays a high tribute to Charlotte Bronte, and then adds: “‘Jane Eyre’ and ‘Esmond,’ and ‘Adam Bede,’ will be in the hands of our grandchildren, when ‘Pickwick’ and ‘Pelham’ and ‘Harry Lorrequer’ are forgotten; because the men and women depicted are human in their aspirations, human in their sympathies, and human in their actions.” He commends Wilkie Collins and Charles Reade quite highly, but thinks the latter has no clear conception of literary honesty.

Mr. Trollope relates an amusing incident concerning one of his favorite characters. He was seated in a club room, when two clergymen entered and commenced to criticise his works. “The gravamen of their complaint lay in the fact that I introduced the same characters so often. ‘Here,’ said one, ‘is the archdeacon whom we have had in every novel he has ever written.’ ‘And here,’ said the other, ‘is the old duke whom he has talked about till everybody is tired of him. If I could not invent new characters, I would not write novels at all.’ Then one of them fell foul of Mrs. Proudie. It was impossible for me not to hear their words, and almost impossible to hear them and be quiet. I got up, and standing between them, I acknowledged myself to be the culprit. ‘As to Mrs. Proudie,’ I said, ‘I will go home and kill her before the week is over.’ And so I did. The two gentlemen were utterly confounded, and one of them begged me to forget his frivolous observations. I have sometimes regretted the deed, so great was my delight in writing about Mrs. Proudie, … and I still live much in company with her ghost.”

Mr. Trollope made a number of visits to the United States, and was in Washington at the time of the Mason and Slidell controversy. Mr. Sumner was opposed to giving up the men. Mr. Seward’s counsel prevailed with President Lincoln, and the men were released. He says that this “was the severest danger that the Northern cause encountered during the war.” He describes a visit to Brigham Young as follows:

“I called upon him, sending to him my card, apologizing for doing so without an introduction, and excusing myself by saying that I did not like to pass through the territory without seeing a man of whom I had heard so much. He received me in his doorway, not asking me to enter, and inquired whether I were not a miner. When I told him that I was not a miner, he asked me whether I earned my bread. I told him I did. ‘I guess you’re a miner,’ said he. I again assured him that I was not. ‘Then how do you earn your bread?’ I told him that I did so by writing books. ‘I’m sure you’re a miner,’ said he. Then he turned upon his heel, went back into the house, and closed the door. I was properly punished, as I was vain enough to conceive that he would have heard my name.”

This autobiography is a delightful book. The candor with which the writer speaks of his own books, pointing out their defects and calling attention to their merits, the freedom with which he speaks of his early struggles, his method of work, and his success, the spirit of fairness with which he criticises his contemporaries—all these reveal a mind healthy in tone, and call forth our hearty admiration.

SABBATH CHIMES.

By PHEBE A. HOLDER.

O’er the city’s restless surges,
Heaving like the ocean tide,
Steals the night with hush of silence,
And the waves of toil subside.
Noiseless drops the soft, dark curtain,
While the mighty throbbings cease,
Starry eyes watch o’er the city
Sleeping in the depths of peace.

Comes the morning fair and radiant,
Bathed in sunshine—breathing balm,
Heaven’s blue dome a benediction,
With its pure, unspotted calm,
Like Jerusalem, the golden,
Coming down to earth from heaven,
Clad in robes of bridal beauty
Seems this morn the Lord has given.

As I tread the streets, still peaceful,
Turning to the house of God,
Drinking in this wondrous beauty,
And this glory of the Lord,
Through the crystal air of morning
Ring the bells with mellow chime,
In a strain of sweetest music,
Hallowed as the Sabbath time.

Like the songs I heard in childhood,
Or a sainted mother’s psalm,
Fell those chimes upon my spirit
With a holy, restful calm.
Like the tones of angel voices,
Sounding from seraphic choir,
Seemed this call our God to worship
In this holy house of prayer.

Still entranced I paused to listen
To the chiming, silvery, clear—
When the thrilling strain had ended
Yet I waited—fixed to hear;
While upon my listening spirit
Came a sense unfelt before,
Of our Lord’s most precious blessing
In the Sabbath’s holy power.

Coming like a guest from heaven
To our earthly, toil-worn lives,
A sweet influence, pure, uplifting,
To our struggling souls it gives.
Pointing with prophetic finger
To the perfect Sabbath rest
In the fair, Celestial City
Of the sainted and the blest,—

As with angel voice it calls us,
Now to seek that home of light
Where the gates of pearl shall open
To the pure with garments white.
Day beloved! thy blessed service
In the temple of our God,
Draws us nearer—ever nearer,
To our glorious, risen Lord.