Chapter VI: Subjective Remedies (3)

Of all forms of paganism, that of the Fire Worshipers[5] seems least unreasonable, for the sun is even now, to us, the best symbol of beneficence and unfailing energy. After thousands of years it shows no diminution of power, and although the imagination can conceive the possibility of its destruction, the most accurate scientific observations have not discovered the slightest indications of its lessening influence. “His going forth is from the end of the heaven, and his circuit unto the ends of it; there is nothing hid from the heat thereof.”

CHEMICAL ACTION.

In a preceding article the chemistry of fire has been considered at some length. It only remains to mention briefly a few of the physical phenomena attending it. When elements unite by the force of affinity, it is supposed that their atoms rush together, and that their motion is converted into heat.

In the case of the galvanic battery the impetuous movement of the atoms toward the poles becomes electricity. We have constantly recurring instances in nature of that great truth that energy, though constantly disappearing is never lost, but reappears under new manifestations and a new name. It may for a time remain dormant, and anon become perceptible, as in the case of latent heat. For example, in mixing five pounds of water at a temperature of 212° Fahrenheit, and five pounds of ice, seven hundred and fifteen units of heat disappear in melting the ice, and the aggregate temperature of the mass is proportionally lower than that of the substances united. But upon their returning to their former state, this latent heat reappears as sensible heat.

In chemical action producing fire, the uniting materials are usually converted, first, into a gaseous form, but there are some exceptions. The most interesting is the following: When a few flakes of iodine are placed upon a fragment of phosphorus, the atoms of the two elements rush together with great energy, producing spontaneous combustion, and liberating sufficient heat to burn the superfluous iodine, with the evolution of beautiful violet fumes.

The mechanical action in flame is full of interest. Its brightness always seems to depend upon the incandescence of solid particles. This can easily be seen in an ordinary lamp. A piece of cold porcelain inserted in a flame will cool the incandescent carbon, and it will be deposited as soot.

The Bunsen[6] burner clearly proves that the brilliancy of our lights depends upon the incandescence of the carbon. This is a contrivance for passing jets of air through a flame, so that the intimate mixing of the oxygen of the air with the carbon will cause the immediate combustion of the latter. This results in converting it instantly to invisible gas (CO₂) before incandescence, and consequently the Bunsen flame, while it is intensely hot, emits but a feeble light.

Any _physical_ change that facilitates the movement of atoms seems to increase the intensity of chemical action.

_Ex._—The rods are first placed near together, then as the circuit is formed they are drawn apart, and the electric light is formed between them.]

An instructive experiment illustrating the characteristics of different kinds of flame may be performed as follows: Place near each other a small alcohol lamp and a piece of paraffine candle; when lighted observe the two flames. The three cones in each can be easily discerned, the _candle_ burns with a much brighter light, showing it to be richer in incandescent carbon. Insert in each flame a piece of fine wire or narrow strip of glass, either of these will be much more quickly heated by the alcohol lamp, because its flame is richer in hydrogen. If a glass jar which is cold be placed over each, a film of vapor (H₂O) will gather on that covering the alcohol lamp with greater rapidity than on the other. If the jars remain over the flames until they are extinguished by the lack of oxygen, more carbonic anhydride (CO₂) will be formed from the combustion of the alcohol.

PERCUSSION.

When a blow is arrested by an object, the _motion_ is converted into heat. The ancient flint-lock gun and the percussion-cap fire-arm both illustrate this fact. In the former, the descending flint struck out the spark, and in the latter the cap is exploded by the arrested hammer. The stroke of a cannon ball is attended with a flash. If the world were suddenly stopped in its course, heat enough would be generated to set it on fire. Nitro-glycerine and dynamite are exploded by percussion. Familiar illustrations of this scientific truth meet us in everyday life. It has even passed into a proverb with a moral application, that “hard cracks make the sparks fly.” A novel effect of percussion may have been noticed when a fall upon the ice has resulted in a mechanical disturbance of the optic nerve which revealed whole constellations of stars never yet catalogued.

FRICTION.

It is a spirited sight to watch the operation of sharpening tools upon a grindstone or emery wheel run by steam. Showers of sparks are produced by the friction. We often observe the same phenomenon when the brakes are applied to rapidly revolving car wheels. Rails are heated by the friction of the passing train. You may have had the misfortune, while riding, to have one of your carriage wheels become set, caused by the box of the hub, and the axle becoming so heated by friction as to “unite” their surfaces. All machinery requires constant watching and lubrication to prevent undue friction and serious wearing.

Mills have not unfrequently been set on fire by rapidly revolving belts coming in contact with the woodwork. When the whale, frantic with the pain of the harpoon, darts away with lightning speed, the sailors are compelled to dash water over the spinning wheel on which the rope is wound.

In all these instances motion is transformed into heat.

ELECTRICITY.

Galvanic, frictional, magnetic, thermal and animal electricity are all capable of producing heat. The first also produces an intensely brilliant light. We have long been acquainted with the “Voltaic arc”[7] of the galvanic battery, but less familiar are the magnificent manifestations of frictional electricity. Dynamo-electric machines are of comparatively recent construction, and their object is to convert mechanical energy into that of electric currents, and vice versa.

A striking application of galvanic electricity is frequently seen in the discharge of gunpowder and other explosives, by making the electric current pass through a small platinum wire which is in close contact with them.

Electric energy is propagated in waves, and this wire, being so small, is incapable of transmitting them all at once, so they beat upon it until their repeated blows cause it to become red hot, and the material in contact is thus ignited.

Perhaps the grandest illustration of this action was seen in blowing up the rocks of Hell Gate[8] in the East River, and thus opening a safe passage for the commerce of the world. The tiny finger of a little child, the daughter of the engineer, at a given signal, pressed the key that closed the circuit, and, like Æolus,[9] when he struck the rock, set free the mighty elements of destruction.

This same principle, viz.: that resisted motion becomes heat and light, is seen in both the Brush and the Edison electric lights. In the former, electric currents pass along wires to carbon points, shaped like a crayon, and covered by a film of copper, and separated by a distance of about one half inch. The air between is a non-conductor, and here the flame is formed. In the Edison light, however, the two conducting wires enter a glass globe, from which the air is excluded. Here they are connected with a spiral wire about as large as a knitting needle, and three-quarters of an inch in length. When the electricity is turned on, this spiral glows with an intensely brilliant white light.

_Ex._—If we hold a pipe stem or rod of glass in one hand and a copper wire in the other, and apply the ends of these to a flame, the wire will convey the sensation much more quickly to the hand than the other. This shows that solids differ as to conducting power.]

A marvelous illustration of the relation between electric and sound vibrations is found in the telephone and microphone. The former is becoming a household necessity; the latter, though not so well known, is not less wonderful. It brings to our ear the tick of a watch miles away, and through it the walking of a fly sounds like the tramp of a horse.

DISTRIBUTION OF HEAT.

Heat is distributed by radiation, conduction, and convection. By the first we mean that heated bodies have the power of projecting from themselves, by means of the ether, their own vibrations. Thus the sun is constantly distributing its light and heat in all directions. Conduction takes place where the molecules of a substance nearest a fire first become heated and then impart their motion to the remainder of the mass, somewhat as in a row of suspended ivory balls, the first of which, when struck, transmits its motion from ball to ball, the last one flying off.

Convection takes place in liquids and gases. Here the particles in contact with the heated body becoming lighter by expansion, rise, and are followed by others, thus forming a current.

_Ex._—Fill a tube nearly full of water, applying a flame to the upper part of the tube. The water at this point will readily boil, while that in the lower part of the tube remains cool, showing that water is a poor conductor, and that liquids must be heated by convection.]

The process of warming a room illustrates the three methods of heat distribution. The heat passes through the stove by conduction, away from it by radiation, and to the remote parts of the room by convection.

EFFECTS OF HEAT.

They are four in number. Rise of temperature, expansion, liquefaction, evaporation. The first indication of the presence of heat is discovered by an elevation in temperature. Though man is not a reliable thermometer, he would be able, ordinarily, even if blind, to chronicle the progress of the sun, from horizon to horizon, by the increasing and decreasing warmth. The little thermometer placed beneath the tongue of the invalid gives reliable report of the combustion going on within his system. We see a thousand illustrations of the expansive effects of heat, many of which are familiar to all. The exceptions are more interesting than the rule, and less known, the ordinary rule being that heat expands and cold (absence of heat) contracts. Water _contracts_ by cold until it reaches the temperature of 39°, and then _expands_ with great violence until congelation is completed, at 32°. A British officer in Quebec filled a twelve inch shell with water, and closed the fuse hole with a wooden plug securely driven in with a mallet. Upon being exposed to intense cold the plug was projected a distance of several hundred feet, and a long tongue of ice was found protruding from the opening.

It is supposed that sufficient heat would convert all solids first into liquids, and then into gases. In the process of distillation, if we wish to retain its products, we combine both heating and cooling.

The knowledge of the melting and vaporizing point of substances is of immense value. We are enabled thus to drive off and secure the various ingredients entering into many complex substances. A notable instance is seen in the means used to secure the rich and varied products of petroleum.

THERMOMETERS.

These are not the only measurers of heat. We have the pyrometers, used for ascertaining the temperature of extremely hot bodies, and the thermo-electric pile, an apparatus which constitutes the most delicate test for heat which has been devised. It will detect heat in the body of a fly walking near it.

_Ex._—Place a small amount of water, colored with ink, in a flask, and apply heat. The water will be vaporized, and in passing through the tube, which is surrounded by another tube containing cold water, it is condensed as a colorless liquid.]

Thermometers are of three kinds, as to the materials used. They are air, alcohol, and mercurial. In each case the contraction and expansion of these respective substances are made to register variations of heat and cold. They are of three kinds, as to their system of grading—Réaumur’s, the Centigrade, and Fahrenheit’s. The first two make zero the freezing point; the last makes 32°. The boiling point of Réaumur’s is 80°, the Centigrade 100°, and Fahrenheit’s 212°. Once more changing the basis of classification, we find thermometers divided into three classes, with reference to the purposes they serve. The ordinary thermometer records the degree of heat or cold at the moment of observation. The differential thermometers can be made of two ordinary thermometers, by wrapping a piece of cloth around the bulb of one; these would show at any given moment whether it was growing warmer or colder. If it is growing warm, the column of mercury in the thermometer with the covered bulb will stand lower than the other, as the cloth prevents the heat reaching the quicksilver as readily as in the other. If it is higher than in the other, the weather is growing colder, as the cover prevents the heat from going off as rapidly as from the other. The third class, the registering thermometer, is so called because it marks the extremes of temperature. Without going into detail, it is perhaps sufficient to say that a minute bar of steel is placed on top of the column of mercury, and remains at any point to which it is pushed, thus recording the greatest degree of heat during any given interval of time. Somewhat similar in arrangement is the alcohol thermometer, marking the greatest degree of cold. It will, of course, be understood that almost all apparatus is greatly varied to serve special purposes. The limits of our article will preclude further discussion of fire in relation to light, although the subject of both physical and physiological topics is full of fascination and value.

_End of Required Reading for March._

The most important question for the good student and reader is not, amidst this multitude of books which no man can number, how much he shall read. The really important questions are, first, what is the quality of what he does read; and, second, what is his manner of reading it. There is an analogy which is more than accidental between physical and mental assimilation and digestion; and, homely as the illustration may seem, it is the most forcible I can use. Let two sit down to a table spread with food; one possessed of a healthy appetite, and knowing something of the nutritious qualities of the various dishes before him; the other cursed with a pampered and capricious appetite, and knowing nothing of the results of chemical and physiological investigation. One shall make a better meal, and go away stronger and better fed, on a dish of oatmeal, than the other on a dinner that has half emptied his pockets. Shall we study physiological chemistry and know all about what is food for the body, and neglect mental chemistry, and be utterly careless as to what nutriment is contained in the food we give our minds? Who can over-estimate the value of good books, those ships of thought, as Bacon so finely calls them, voyaging through the sea of time, and carrying their precious freight so safely!—_Prof. W. P. Atkinson._

THE MOHAMMEDAN UNIVERSITY OF CAIRO.

BY BISHOP JOHN F. HURST, D. D., LL.D.

Years ago I had taken pains to gain all accessible information concerning the most celebrated, and certainly also the largest, university in the entire Mohammedan world. In 1871 when in Cairo a number of days, through lack of a proper guide and full knowledge of this important institution, I left the city without seeing it. I was determined this time, therefore, to make sure of a visit to it, and to see carefully, with my own eyes, this marvel of the Mohammedan faith. The University is located in a mosque, and is, in fact, the one chief business of the mosque itself. Religion—such as it is—is the fundamental feature of all Moslem education. Not a science is taught in any school of Mohammedanism which does not begin with the Koran, and again come back to it. Whether law or medicine or geometry—in fact, whatever is communicated to the young, the first and ever predominant lesson imparted with it and through it is, that the Koran is the fountain of all science. Very naturally, then, the school is a part of the service of the mosque. This idea is not new. It is an oriental habit. We find proofs even in the Scriptures that the church was God’s first school. In ancient Egypt the temple, the palace, and the school were the perfected trinity in every city, and often the temple and the school were so closely enclosed that no careful observer could tell where one began and the other ended. The same idea re-appears in the arrangements which Charlemagne made for the higher education of the Frankish empire. The school was often located under the palace and in close connection with the chapel roof, and was called _scholia palatina_, or the school of the palace. At first the object seems to have been that the emperor’s children and other children of the court might have the best opportunity for learning; but very soon the limits became broader, and all who wanted to learn could have every advantage, within close distance of both church and palace.

The approach to the University of Cairo is a narrow street, with open booths on either side, where the artisans ply their crafts in full view of every passer-by. Three industries take the lead of all others—book-selling, book-binding, and hair-shaving. The nearest street to the University bears the name of the Street of the B, and such it may well be called. The Mohammedan has always a shaven head. He wears a great turban, of white or some other color. Green is the most infrequent shade, for that indicates that the wearer is a descendant of the prophet Mohammed. Not one hair is allowed under that turban. When it gets a little long the barber must shave the pate as clean as an ostrich egg. All along a part of the street leading to the University the barbers sit on the floors their shops, and shave the heads of their customers. The one to be shaved does not sit in a chair, but simply stretches out full length on the floor and puts his head in the lap of the barber, who also sits on the floor, with his feet doubled up under him. Then begins the process of shaving. It is a most lowly operation. No paper is used during the process, the barber getting rid of the shaved hair and soap by wiping the razor on his customer’s face until the entire tonsorial feat is finished and an ablution of cranium and face is in order. In addition to the barber shops there are probably not less than twenty-five book shops, as many binderies, and a good number of stationery stalls. These are all of modest dimensions, but are well stocked with everything that a student needs that is to say, a student of the Mohammedan order.

Between the point where the street ends and the University enclosure proper, there is a large fore-court. Here one sees such a medley of all forms of life and strange habits, in connection with study, that he can never forget it. It is the place where no serious study goes on, but where the news is discussed and conversation enjoyed. Even the barbers have spilled over into this court, for I saw a number of them busily shaving the heads of outstretched students. One of them, seeing a Frank scanning his work, stopped a moment, and holding up his razor from the pate which he had nearly made bald again, asked me if I did not want to be shaved too. I thanked him—but had not time. Imagine a half-dozen students lying about in Mead Hall, in Drew Seminary, near the doors of Drs. Butts, or Strong, or Miley, or Crooks, or Upham, and having their heads shaved by busy barbers, who sit flat on the marble floor and relieve the crania of their theological patrons of their last capillary endowment! Then think of students munching at a crust of dark bread or a pomegranate, or some edible, good or poor, according to his resources. Some students have families, and here the children come and play about them, at times when their fathers are not busy with their books. So far as I could see, there was no formal studying in this great fore-court. Perhaps there were a hundred persons in it, lying, sitting, walking. Some alone with their meditations, others entertaining a group of eager listeners, and gesticulating with oriental realism. Only one class had the appearance of any work, a group of boys. One of the number displeased his teacher, whereupon the latter beat him smartly with his fist until the little fellow’s eyes swam in tears; my blood fairly boiled at the teacher’s cruelty. I thought I was already in the University proper, but this was a serious error. The institution was yet to come; I was only approaching the great establishment.

I had no sooner touched the threshold of the great central hall than a man met me, and, with a most polite salaam, informed me that I must now put on slippers. He was a magnificent specimen of a well developed Egyptian—tall, muscular, grave, yet pleasant, and only answering such questions as were put to him. Unlike the European guides in blue and brass, those of Africa have no stereotype speeches which they hurl at you, as they have done at the thousands before you. In a moment four pairs of soft slippers, of yellow sheepskin, were brought to my companions and myself, and the wary hands which brought them slipped them on over our boots and tied them on with red strings. We were now to enter upon the holy stone floor of the great hall of Mohammedan learning, and only holy dust must fall upon that tessellated floor, and then only with softest touch. Here was a scene which baffles all description. The hall was about two hundred and fifty feet long and two hundred wide. All the classes were reciting, engaged in work, or listening to the professor. Every one who recited did it loudly. I stood beside one of the theological professors and watched his method. His class numbered forty students, whose various physiognomies showed that they had come from every part of the broad Mohammedan world. The professor sat squat on the floor, with his bare feet doubled up about him. There is no craze as yet among Mohammedans for only young teachers. This man, like many others, had long since passed beyond middle life. His heavy gray beard and very dark face were lighted up by as keen a pair of black eyes as ever became diamonds, when they saw in his young days the prophet’s torch in Mecca, or in vision beheld the curtain drawn aside which hides the Moslem paradise from human sight. The forty students sat about him in a circle, yet in such way that all were before him at once. He was one of the circle, in fact, and as he taught he swayed to and fro, and looked off into the distance as if in reverie, and then again at his class, and, with an intensity that only an Arab possesses, he burned his ideas into the very brain of the students. He sat at the foot of a stone pillar, and leaned against it at intervals, when his weary form needed a little rest.

This theological professor had the method of all. He held a thin book in his hand which seemed to be his own brief, and, after reading snatches from it, he gave a comment or explanation of it, and then had one student and then another repeat what he had said. Our American infant class method of teaching verses, and having them committed to memory while the class are together, and then repeating them, so that the teacher can see that the work is well and surely done, is precisely the method of both elementary and advanced education in this greatest university of the Mohammedan world. The brief of this theological professor was merely his collection of definitions, and these were committed to memory on the spot. Some of the students had sheets of tin, something smaller than the sheets of roofing tin with which we are familiar in the United States. On these they wrote in ink, with reed styles, and with such dexterity that a whole page was filled in a very short time. What was written on these tin slates was taken away, and designed to be committed to memory, when that process was not finished during the session of the class.

Now the entire floor of this immense hall was covered with classes at work. No teacher or student sat in a chair. There was not even a footstool in the entire University. The professors and students formed little or large groups all over the immense space, no class interfering with another, and each going on with its work as if alone, and yet not a partition or a curtain dividing the groups at study. I saw only a little eating here, an occasional student slily making a lunch of new dates, the fruit with “gold dust” on it, now just in from the country.

I could not help noticing the various ages of the students. Some were really very advanced in years. They were waked up very late in life. Something had broken loose under their twenty-five yards of cotton cloth which they call a turban, and they had come down the Nile with the rise, or had been wafted from the Darfur sands, and were going to study. They could do more, and be more, when they went back again. Here, too, was the old-time idea. The notion that a university is a thing for the young alone is a modern affair. The old conception was, it was everybody’s place—the _universum_ of men as well as studies. In Mohammedanism, as in Christianity, when once the passion for learning strikes one, the years count nothing. The person in the fifties or even in sixties is just as apt to be overwhelmed, swept on, by the learning frenzy as though he were only eighteen and smitten by other inspirations.

The entire number in attendance at this greatest University of the Mohammedans is about thirteen thousand. Some calculations place it at fifteen thousand. They come from every part of the world where the cimetar of Mohammed and his successors has drawn blood, and where the crescent now floats. Each part of the large hall has its nation, where the students are grouped territorially. Here, in one place, are the Benguelese, from southwestern Africa; in another place are the Algerines, from the sound of the Mediterranean surf. Yonder are only Thracians, from south of the Balkans. This group, as black as your hat, consists entirely of Nubians. Another is made up solely of natives of Zanzibar. These divisions reach into nearly all the Asiatic and African lands. There are Afghanistaneze and others from still farther east, from the very heart of India, and even from the far Pacific islands. One has only to see these collections of students, massed around a teacher of their own language and nationality, to become convinced of the broad field of Mohammedanism and the mightiness of the effort needful to uproot it.

Poverty! That is no name for the condition of the students. They come to Cairo from the far-off regions, impelled by some passion bordering on that for learning, living on a little crust and fruit, having no sleeping place at night save the space of the sacred mosque which serves as a university, never paying a piastre for all the instruction of years, and looking forward with earnest longing to the time when they can leave again and impart to their native villages, or the very desert wastes, the wisdom which they have gained in the shades of the great hall of learning in the Cairo of the caliphs. There is a dash of self-seeking in their coming hither. When the tocsin of war is sounded, there is no exemption from conscription save learning. He who has once entered the doorway is safe from the conscription list. Were an attack made on the very citadel where Mohammed Ali put to death every plotting Mameluke—except one, who leaped upon his faithful Arab steed and plunged safely into the depths below—nothing could touch him. He has come to the fountain of knowledge, and Mars has no claim upon him. At the present time the number of students is not so large as usual, for there is no fear of a war, except such as the English are fighting and holding themselves responsible for. I looked carefully at the kind of food which these students ate, and in all cases it was of the simplest quality. Some were taking their solid dinner, and it was nothing more than a rude bowl of lentil soup or a flat cake of pounded grain. The clothing in most cases betokened the same poverty. The slippers were of rude construction, such as fifteen cents would buy, and even these are to be worn at the general prayer, which begins the day for all the students, only to be laid aside during the later hours. The habit is a loose black, or other colored robe, which has become threadbare by long usage. I am sure I saw many students, and professors as well, whose entire dress could not have cost five francs apiece. This dress they have on, moreover, is the whole scope of their wardrobe. When they get another suit it will probably be when they reach home again, and enter upon their calling for life.

The professors get no salary. They have passed through various stages of learning, and when once they have committed every word of the Koran, and perhaps some of the more noted commentaries on it to memory, and have given other proofs of aptness at teaching, they are declared able to instruct. But they get no pay for teaching. Neither the University treasury pays them, nor does the student do it. Their instruction is positively gratuitous. Now, if by copying the Koran or other book, or by private teaching in families, or by doing some outside manual work, they can be supported, well and good. But for sitting squat on the sacred marble floor and teaching students the holy laws, and all the holy sciences that come from them, there must be no itching palm. This is the one place, and only one, so far as I can recall, where I have been where there has been no call for backsheesh.

How, then, is this immense establishment supported? I answer, that many students are sustained, and so permitted to remain at the University, by the funds of the institution. The treasury, instead of taking care of the professor, goes rather to keeping the student from starvation. There are many endowments which have fallen into the hands of the state which constitute a large part of this treasury. Education has always been an attractive investment, and many Mohammedans have left sums of money for this purpose, and so the University of Cairo owes a good part of its wealth to this source. Again, when funds fall from certain causes, into the treasury of the state—perhaps property for which there are no heirs—it is devoted to this purpose. The building and all its belongings, and all really needy students are thus provided for. Out of the three hundred professors and other teachers, only one is paid a salary. He is the general director, or rector, and his salary amounts to 10,000 piastres, or about five hundred dollars of our money.

Of one thing I was very careful to make inquiry. I mean as to the bearing of this institution on the propagation of Mohammedan ideas. In all descriptions I had become familiar with concerning the great purpose of the students, the thought was made predominant that the students went away with a missionary zeal, and became intense propagators of the faith throughout their lives. The Rev. Mr. Harvey, of that noble cause and magnificent institution for Egypt, the United Presbyterian Mission, from the United States, was a very kind escort during my visit. He has been many years a resident of Cairo, and is very familiar with every form of Mohammedan life, and he informs me that this zeal for the Moslem faith does not exist, that the students do not go away with it, and never exhibit it, except in rare cases, in later life. Their stay in the University may be long. They may be three or four or five years, and if no way to work opens they may spend most of their life there, but whenever they do leave, sooner or later, they go off not simply as teachers of theology, but as jurists, mathematicians, or professional men of other callings, and religion is less in mind than secular work. Even when they go out as imams, or priests, that profession carries with it certain functions which belong both to the town clerk or the district judge, and hence the priesthood is absorbed in certain legal and administrative functions which eclipse the sacred office altogether. As to a burning zeal to disseminate Mohammedanism, it does not exist. It has no unquenchable love for itself, and is only continuing its own means of propagation because of something better. That something better is at its doors, and is beginning to thread the labyrinths of the Dark Continent. In due time Christianity will do for Africa what it has done for Europe, and is this day doing for the half of Asia.

The darkest feature of my visit to the University was the absence of women. Alas! you never see the Mohammedan woman in these oriental lands, save with veiled face and hesitant step. Only yesterday I saw a handsome carriage being driven along one of the principal Cairene streets, preceded by a gaily dressed herald, who cried, “Make way, make way,” as is the fashion here still. The silken curtains were drawn, but the occupants were two ladies. They must live in the dark. In the mosque they must sit in the lofty spaces, far back behind the wooden screen work, and even then be veiled. The very small girls, who trip about with little rattling and tinkling bells around their ankles, are hardly old enough to learn the way to the next street before the veil is drawn over their face, and only their little eyes are permitted to look out. In the multitudes which I saw at the University, both as students and teachers, there was but one woman. She was probably the wife of a professor, and had come merely to bring the learned man his dinner, and then slip back again to the dark rear room of the house misnamed a home, and await his coming, and be the menial still to prepare his evening meal. Mohammedanism has no place for woman in its educational system. Its best interpretation of her office is that she is simply man’s slave. But the better day is coming, and may it soon be here, when the right of all women, in all these oriental countries, to the highest and the largest knowledge, shall be recognized as equal to that of any men beneath the shining sun.

AS SEEING THE INVISIBLE.

BY MRS. EMILY J. BUGBEE.

To stand at the post of duty
Whether we rise or fall,
If this be a place of beauty,
Or the homeliest lot of all.

To walk with a soul undaunted
In the God appointed way,
Whether with praise enchanted,
Or in shadow land it lay.

The good of the world’s bestowing
Is vanishing as the air,
And its loftiest honors throwing
A burden of ceaseless care.

But to live as always seeing
The invisible source of things
Is the blessedest state of being,
In the quietude it brings.

For in all of the strife and clamor,
And the evil that is done,
We know that the Lord will finish
The good that he hath begun.

And we need not grope in blindness
Because of the dreadful days,
But sure of the Infinite kindness
May stand in the certain ways.

Oh! for a strong uplifting
And a courage that will stand
While the Judge of the earth is sifting
The peoples of every land.

Oh! Earth so full of the glory
Reflected from above,
We wait for your finished story,
In the faith of a deathless love.

NATIONAL AID TO EDUCATION.