Chapter I (1)

Long ago, and long ago it was, in the days when I used proudly to write “School Teacher” after my name, I bought a certain book for the express purpose of reading it to “the girls I’ve left behind me.” The book is one beloved by train boys, of which they and other venders have sold so many that the latest “dodgers” read, “Twentieth thousand now in press.” It is sensible in matter, attractive in style, and goes by the enticing name of “Getting on in the World.” Naturally enough it was written in Chicago, and like most “Garden City” notions, is “a success.” But the trouble with this volume was that it didn’t fill the bill. I wanted to read it to “my girls,” to stir up their pure minds by way of remembrance that “life is real, life is earnest,” and the rest of it. But as I scanned its bright and pleasant pages I found out—what do you think I found? Why, that with the light of a new dispensation blazing in upon him, and the soprano voices of several million “superfluous women,” crying, “Have you no _work_ for me to do?” this honored author had written never a word about creation’s gentler half! His book contained 365 pages, but if you had read a page each day, all the year round, you wouldn’t have found out at last that such a being as a woman was trying to “get on” in this or any other world. Not a bread-winning weapon had he put into the hand of the neediest among us, nor had he, even in a stray chapter or “appendix,” taken us off by ourselves and drawn us a diagram of “our sphere.”

I was so pained by this that I wrote Prof. Matthews (the gifted author, and my personal friend), asking him why he had thus counted out the women folks in his book upon success in life. I even ventured to hypothecate his reason, saying to him:

“DEAR SIR:—I do not think you did this with malice aforethought,
or from lack of interest in our fate, but simply and only
because, like so many of our excellent brethren, you ‘done forgot
all about us,’ as _Topsey_ would say.”

Whereupon came a prompt and gracious reply, with the frank and manly admission:

“You guessed aright. I simply forgot to speak of women.”

Now, you perceive, it set me thinking—this obliquity of mental vision, which had led a writer so talented and wise to squint thus at the human race, seeing but half of it. I recalled the fact that, into most families, are born girls as well as boys; nay, as many an over-burdened _pater familias_ can testify, they come not unfrequently in largely superior, if not exclusive numbers. Having, also, at a remote period of my history, belonged to the same helpless fraternity, I was haunted by the wish that I might write a sequel to the Professor’s excellent book, talking therein to girls and women about success in life. Perhaps my time has come; perhaps, in the generous pages of THE CHAUTAUQUAN, whose editor is so tolerant of the “strong minded” sisterhood, I have the largest audience that has yet consented to listen to my “views.” Anyhow, I mean, in these newly acquired pages to talk to girls of “How to Win” in something besides the sense treated of in books of etiquette and fashion magazines, or systematically taught in dancing schools.

And now, my dears, if you are patient and my small assistant keeps me in lead pencils, I shall try to show that if every young woman held in her firm little hand her own best gift, duly cultivated and made effective, society would not explode, the moon would not be darkened, the sun would still shed light. Somehow, dear girls, when I see an audience of young men, they remind me of a platoon of soldiers, marching with fixed bayonet, to the capture of their destiny. An assembly of young women, on the other hand, recalls a flock of lambs upon a pleasant hillside. They frisk about and nibble at the herbage and lie down in the sun, while above them soars the devouring eagle of their destiny, sweeping in concentric rings through the blue air, and ready to pounce down upon them, while the meek little innocents turn their white faces upward and mildly wonder “what that graceful creature is up yonder?” They remind me, too, of the reply given by a bright young friend of mine to the solemn exhortation that she should “make the most of life.”

“Humph!” she exclaimed with a rueful grimace, “I have no chance, for life is busy making the most of me!”

The trouble is, we women have all along been set down on the world’s program for a part so different from the one we really play upon its stage. For instance, the program reads: “Woman will take the part of Queen in the Drama of Society,” but often times, before the curtain falls, the stage reveals her as a dressmaker, a school teacher, perchance that most abused of mortals, a reformer! The program reads: “This august actress will be escorted to the stage by Man, her loyal and devoted subject, to whom has been assigned the part of shielding her from the glare of the footlights, and shooting anybody in the audience who dares to hiss.” But, alas! ofttimes the stage reveals her coming in alone, dragging her own sewing machine, while her humble and devoted subject, with tailor’s goose in one hand and scissors in the other, indicates by energetic pantomime his fixed intention to drive her speedily behind the scenes. The program, my beloved innocents, attires you all in purple and fine linen and bids you fare sumptuously every day, but not infrequently the stage reveals you attired in calico gowns, and munching your hard-earned crackers and cheese. The world’s theory furnishes every young lady that draws breath, with a lover, loyal and true, but the world’s practice shoots him on the battlefield, or poisons him with alcohol and nicotine until he can only “rattle around” through life in the place God meant him to fill within home’s sacred sanctuary. It is just this discrepancy that I complain of, and the generous age we live in is complaining of it with a thousand tongues, so that “the logic of events” that happen, instead of events that ought to happen, is impelling toward nobler fortunes that phenomenal creature whom a French author has called “the poor woman of the nineteenth century.”

Naturally enough, in thinking over the “case,” I contrast your aims in life with what were once my aims, your outlook upon life with mine. The other day—a rainy one, you may be sure—I brought from the vasty deep of the family garret some of my girlish journals, which I was curious to compare with the diary of a friend and former pupil at Evanston. Let me give you a few parallel passages because of the lesson they teach. My pupil (aged sixteen) writes thus:

“Was registered this day a member of the Freshman class in the
Northwestern University. The president advises me to take the
classical course, and I’ve made up my mind to try it.”

From mine at fifteen years I read:

“Caught a blue jay in my trap out in the hazel thicket. I knew he
wasn’t “game” and let him go. The school house in our district is
finished at last. A graduate of Yale College, and former tutor at
Oberlin, is to be our teacher. I shall attend regularly, visiting
my traps on the way.”

Later:

“Sister and I got up long before light to prepare for the first
day at school. We put all our books in mother’s satchel; had a
nice tin pail full of dinner. I study arithmetic, geography,
grammar, reading and spelling, which takes up every minute of my
time. Stood next to Pat O’Donahue in spelling, and Pat stood at
the head.”

From my pupil’s diary, a few months later, take this extract:

“I am thinking seriously about my future. Perhaps this is
premature, for I am only in my freshman year, but I have just
about decided that I’ll study medicine.”

From mine, at a similar age (you see precocity was not among my failings):

“Sister was sick, and I brought out all my little bottles of
sugar, salt and flour. Besides these medicines, I dosed her with
pimentoes and poulticed her with cabbage leaves, but she grew no
better, quite fast, so mother called another doctor. Dear me, if
I were my brother, instead of being only a girl, we’d soon see
whether I’ve a talent for medicine or not.”

From my young friend I quote again:

“I am greatly interested in the question for debate in our
literary society this week, especially as I am chief disputant on
the affirmative. It reads as follows: _Resolved_, That the votes
of women are needed to help put down the liquor traffic.”

From mine:

“It is election day and my brother is twenty-one years old. How
proud he seemed as he dressed up in his best clothes and drove
off with father to vote for John C. Fremont, like the sensible
‘Free Soiler’ that he is! My sister and I stood at the front
window and looked out after them. Somehow I felt a lump in my
throat, and then I couldn’t see their wagon any more, things
looked so blurred. I turned to Mary, and she, dear little
innocent, seemed wonderfully sober, too. I said: ‘Wouldn’t you
like to vote as well as Oliver? Don’t you and I love the country
just as well as he, and doesn’t the country need our ballots?’
Whereupon she looked scared, but answered, ‘Of course we do,
but don’t you go ahead and say so, for then we should be called
strong minded.’”

From my pupil at seventeen I quote once more:

“The recent articles by members of the ‘Women’s Congress,’ some
people would call radical, but they express precisely my opinions
on the dress question. It is time for me to assume the garb of a
young lady, but upon two things I am determined: First, I will
never trail my garments on a filthy pavement while I live. If I
am the only young lady in this university, who, when she walks,
wears walking costume, I will still be true to my individual
sense of cleanliness and taste. I will also carry the jewel of an
_unpunctured ear_ through life, though, by so doing, I oblige Mr.
Darwin to confess ‘a missing link’ between me and my evolutionary
ancestors.”

Finally, from mine:

“This is my seventeenth birthday, and the date of my martyrdom.
Mother insists that at last I _must_ have my hair ‘done up woman
fashion.’ She says she can hardly forgive herself for letting me
‘run wild’ so long. We had a great time over it all, and here I
sit, like another Samson, ‘shorn of my strength.’ That figure
won’t do, though, for the greatest trouble with me is that I
never shall be shorn again! My ‘back hair’ is twisted up like a
corkscrew; I carry eighteen hair-pins; my head aches, my feet
are entangled in the skirt of my new gown. I can never jump over
a fence again so long as I live. As for chasing the sheep down
in the shady pasture, it’s out of the question, and to climb to
my ‘Eagle’s Nest’ seat in the big burr oak would ruin this new
frock beyond repair. Altogether, I recognize the fact that ‘my
occupation’s gone.’”

My readers smile at this, but they may be assured there are such blots upon the page where it was written, as briny drops alone can make.

You see, dear friends, from this contrast I have drawn, showing a glimpse of past and future in two eager, young lives, how fast this world is getting on. What is the difference in the outlook of your life that is, and mine that used to be? Let us consider: I was a daring sort of girl; you are the sort of girls who dare. I had aspiration; you have opportunity. I breathed an atmosphere laden with old time conservatisms, from which my glorious mother’s liberality of soul was my one safety valve of deliverance. But you are exhilarated by the vital air of a new liberty. “The world is all before you, where to choose.” If I required but little of myself, it was because the world required so little of me. No college of first rank in east or west—save noble old Oberlin and generous Antioch—could have been coaxed to count me in when she made up her jewels. Briefly, public opinion proposes to give you a chance. It proposed to let me shirk for myself. It means to put a shield in your left hand and a sword in your right. It let me go forth, as best I could, to beat the air with unarmed hands, or to sharpen my weapons on the field and in plain sight of the enemy.

Society set before me very few incentives, and commended to me only the passive virtues. Indeed, she never really bestirred herself on my behalf at all, save that she ceased not in story and poem, by sermon and song by precept and example, and (most cogently of all) by setting no other hope before me to ground me, so far as she was able, in the philosophy that sustained the illustrious _Micawber_. “Now my daughter,” thus was she wont to speak, “do you but be docile and obedient, as a young woman should, and something, something very particular indeed will most assuredly turn up.”

But I learned early to distrust a Mentor who took so little cognizance of the imperious ardor of my youth; who was so stupidly oblivious of the varied possibilities in brain and hand and heart, and so I began early to follow out my own devices as to a plan of character and work. Would that the generous impulse of your enthusiasm, guided by your broader opportunity, might

“Give me back the wild pulsation
That I felt before the strife,
When I heard my days before me,
And the tumult of my life.”

More anon.

EVANSTON, January 31, 1885.

NOTES ON POPULAR ENGLISH.

BY ISAAC TODHUNTER.

I have from time to time recorded such examples of language as struck me for inaccuracy or any other peculiarity; but lately the pressure of other engagements has prevented me from continuing my collection, and has compelled me to renounce the design once entertained of using them for the foundation of a systematic essay. The present article contains a small selection from my store, and may be of interest to all who value accuracy and clearness. It is only necessary to say that the examples are not fabricated; all are taken from writers of good repute, and notes of the original places have been preserved, though it has not been thought necessary to encumber these pages with references. The italics have been supplied in those cases where they are used.

One of the most obvious peculiarities at present to be noticed is the use of the word _if_ when there is nothing really conditional in the sentence. Thus we read: “If the Prussian plan of operations was faulty, the movements of the crown prince’s army were in a high degree excellent.” The writer does not really mean what his words seem to imply, that the excellence was contingent on the fault; he simply means to make two independent statements. As another example we have: “Yet he never founded a family; if his two daughters carried his name and blood into the families of the _Herreras_ and the Zuñigos, his two sons died before him.” Here again the two events which are connected by the conditional _if_ are really quite independent. Other examples follow: “If it be true that Paris is an American’s paradise, symptoms are not wanting that there are Parisians who cast a longing look toward the institutions of the United States.”

Other examples, differing in some respects from those already given, concur in exhibiting a strange use of the word _if_. Thus we read: “If a big book is a big evil, the ‘Bijou Gazetteer of the World’ ought to stand at the summit of excellence. It is the tiniest geographical directory we have ever seen.” This is quite illogical; if a big book is a big evil, it does not follow that a little book is a great good. “If in the main I have adhered to the English version, it has been from the conviction that our translators were in the right.” It is rather difficult to see what is the precise opinion here expressed as to our translators; whether an absolute or contingent approval is intended. For the last example we take this: “… but if it does not retard his return to office it can hardly accelerate it.” The meaning is, “This speech can not accelerate and may retard Mr. Disraeli’s return to office.” The triple occurrence of _it_ is very awkward.

An error not uncommon in the present day is the blending of two different constructions in one sentence. The grammars of our childhood used to condemn such a sentence as this: “He was more beloved but not so much admired as Cynthio.” The former part of the sentence requires to be followed by _than_, and not by _as_. The following are recent examples: “The little farmer (in France) has no greater enjoyments, if so many, as the English laborer.” “I find public school boys generally more fluent, and as superficial as boys educated elsewhere.” “Mallet, for instance, records his delight and wonder at the Alps and the descent into Italy in terms quite as warm, if much less profuse, as those of the most impressible modern tourist.” An awkward construction, almost as bad as a fault, is seen in the following sentence: “Messrs ⸺ having secured the coöperation of some of the most eminent professors of, and writers on, the various branches of science.…”

A very favorite practice is that of changing a word where there is no corresponding change of meaning. Take the following example from a voluminous historian: “Huge pinnacles of bare rock shoot up into the azure firmament, and forests overspread their sides, in which the scarlet rhododendrons sixty feet in _height_ are surmounted by trees two hundred feet in _elevation_.” In a passage of this kind it may be of little consequence whether a word is retained or changed; but for any purpose where precision is valuable it is nearly as bad to use two words in one sense as one word in two senses. Let us take some other examples. We read in the usual channels of information that “Mr. Gladstone has issued invitations for a full-dress Parliamentary _dinner_, and Lord Granville has issued invitations for a full-dress Parliamentary _banquet_.” Again we read: “The government proposes to divide the occupiers of land into four categories;” and almost immediately after we have “the second class comprehends…”: so that we see the grand word _category_ merely stands for _class_. A writer recently in a sketch of travels spoke of a “Turkish gentleman with his _innumerable_ wives,” and soon after said that she “never saw him address any of his _multifarious_ wives.” One of the illustrated periodicals gave a picture of an event in recent French history, entitled “The National Guards Firing on the People.” Here the change from _national_ to _people_ slightly conceals the strange contradiction of guardians firing on those whom they ought to guard.

Let us now take one example in which a word is repeated, but in a rather different sense: “The grand duke of Baden sat _next_ to the emperor William, the imperial crown prince of Germany sitting _next_ to the grand duke. _Next_ came the other princely personages.” The word _next_ is used in the last instance in not quite the same sense as in the former two instances; for all the princely personages could not sit in contact with the crown prince.

A class of examples may be found in which there is an obvious incongruity between two of the words which occur. Thus, “We are more than doubtful;” that is, we are _more than full_ of doubts: this is obviously impossible. Then we read of “a man of more than doubtful sanity.” Again we read of “a more than questionable statement;” this is I suppose a very harsh elliptical construction for such a sentence as “a statement to which we might apply an epithet more condemnatory than _questionable_.” So also we read “a more unobjectionable character.” Again: “Let the Second Chamber be composed of elected members, and their utility will be _more than halved_.” To take the _half_ of anything is to perform a definite operation, which is not susceptible of more or less. Again: “The singular and almost excessive impartiality and power of appreciation.” It is impossible to conceive of _excessive impartiality_. Other recent examples of these impossible combinations are, “more faultless,” “less indisputable.” “The high antiquity of the narrative can not reasonably be doubted, and almost as little its _ultimate_ Apostolic _origin_.” The ultimate origin, that is the _last beginning_, of anything seems a contradiction. The common phrase _bad health_ seems of the same character; it is almost equivalent to _unsound soundness_ or to _unprosperous prosperity_. In a passage already quoted, we read that the czar “gave _audience_ to numerous _visitors_,” and in a similar manner a very distinguished lecturer speaks of making experiments “_visible_ to a large _audience_.” It would seem from the last instance that our language wants a word to denote a mass of people collected not so much to hear an address as to see what are called experiments. Perhaps if our savage forefathers had enjoyed the advantages of courses of scientific lectures, the vocabulary would be supplied with the missing word.

_Talented_ is a vile barbarism which Coleridge indignantly denounced; there is no verb _to talent_ from which such a participle could be deduced. Perhaps this imaginary word is not common at the present; though I am sorry to see from my notes that it still finds favor with classical scholars. [Webster says: “This word—which is said to be of American origin—has been strongly objected to by Coleridge and some other critics, but as it would seem, upon not very good grounds, as the use of _talent_ or _talents_ to signify mental ability, although at first merely metaphorical, is now fully established, and _talented_, as a formative, is just as analogical and legitimate, as _gifted_, _bigoted_, _turreted_, _targeted_, and numerous other adjectives having a participial form, but derived directly from nouns, and not from verbs.”—ED. THE CHAUTAUQUAN.]

_Ignore_ is a very popular and a very bad word. As there is no good authority for it, the meaning is naturally uncertain. It seems to fluctuate between _wilfully concealing_ something and _unintentionally omitting_ something, and this vagueness renders it a convenient tool for an unscrupulous orator or writer.

The word _lengthened_ is often used instead of _long_. Thus we read that such and such an orator made a _lengthened_ speech, when the intended meaning is that he made a _long_ speech. The word _lengthened_ has its appropriate meaning. Thus, after a ship has been built by the Admiralty, it is sometimes cut into two and a piece inserted; this operation, very reprehensible doubtless on financial grounds, is correctly described as _lengthening_ the ship. It will be obvious on consideration that _lengthened_ is not synonymous with _long_. _Protracted_ and _prolonged_ are also often used instead of _long_; though perhaps with less decided impropriety than _lengthened_.

A very common phrase with controversial writers is, “we _shrewdly_ suspect.” This is equivalent to, “we _acutely_ suspect.” The cleverness of the suspicion should, however, be attributed to the writers by other people, and not by themselves.

The simple word _but_ is often used when it is difficult to see any shade of opposition or contrast such as we naturally expect. Thus we read: “There were several candidates, _but_ the choice fell upon ⸺ of Trinity College.” Another account of the same transaction was expressed thus: “It was understood that there were several candidates; the election fell, _however_, upon ⸺ of Trinity College.”

The word _mistaken_ is curious as being constantly used in a sense directly contrary to that which, according to its formation, it ought to have. Thus: “He is often mistaken, but never trivial and insipid.” “He is often mistaken” ought to mean that other people often mistake him; just as “he is often misunderstood” means that people often misunderstand him. But the writer of the above sentence intends to say that “He often makes mistakes.” It would be well if we could get rid of this anomalous use of the word _mistaken_. I suppose that _wrong_ or _erroneous_ would always suffice. But I must admit that good writers do employ _mistaken_ in the sense which seems contrary to analogy; for example, Dugald Stewart does so, and also a distinguished leading philosopher whose style shows decided traces of Dugald Stewart’s influence.

I should like to ask why a first charge is called a _primary_ charge, for it does not appear that this mode of expression is continued. We have, I think, second, third, and so on, instead of _secondary_, _tertiary_, and so on, to distinguish the subsequent charges.

Cobbett justly blamed the practice of putting “&c.” to save the trouble of completing a sentence properly. In mathematical writings this symbol may be tolerated because it generally involves no ambiguity, but is used merely as an abbreviation, the meaning of which is obvious from the context. But in other works there is frequently no clue to guide us in affixing a meaning to the symbol, and we can only interpret its presence as a sign that something has been omitted. The following is an example: “It describes a portion of Hellenic philosophy; it dwells upon eminent individuals, inquiring, theorizing, reasoning, confuting, &c., as contrasted with those collective political and social manifestations which form the matter of history.…”

A recent cabinet minister described the error of an Indian official in these words: “He remained too long under the influence of the views which he had imbibed from the board.” To imbibe a view seems strange, but to imbibe anything from a board must be very difficult. I may observe that the phrase of Castlereagh’s which is now best known, seems to suffer from misquotation; we usually have “an ignorant impatience of taxation;” but the original form appears to have been, “an ignorant impatience of the relaxation of taxation.”

The following sentence is from a voluminous historian: “The _decline_ of the material comforts of the working classes, from the effects of the Revolution, had been incessant, and had now reached an alarming _height_.” It is possible to ascend to an alarming height, but it is surely difficult to decline to an alarming height.

“Nothing could be more one-sided than the point of view adopted by the speakers.” It is very strange to speak of a point as having a side; and then how can _one-sided_ admit of comparison? A thing either has one side or it has not; there can not be degrees in one-sidedness. However, even mathematicians do not always manage the word _point_ correctly. In a modern valuable work we read of “a more extended point of view,” though we know that a point does not admit of extension. I suppose that what is meant is, a point which commands a more extended view. “Froschammer wishes to approach the subject from a philosophical standpoint.” It is impossible to _stand_ and yet to _approach_. Either he should _survey_ the subject from a _stand_-point, or _approach_ it from a _starting_-point.

A large school had lately fallen into difficulties owing to internal dissensions; in the report of a council on the subject it was stated that measures had been taken to _introduce more harmony and good feeling_. The word _introduce_ suggests the idea that harmony and good feeling could be laid on like water or gas by proper mechanical adjustment, or could be supplied like first-class furniture by a London upholsterer.

A passage has been quoted with approbation by more than one critic from the late Professor Conington’s translation of Horace, in which the following line occurs:—

After life’s endless babble they sleep well.

Now the word _endless_ here is extremely awkward; for if the babble never ends, how can anything come after it?

To digress for a moment, I may observe that this line gives a good illustration of the process by which what is called Latin verse is often constructed. Every person sees that the line is formed out of Shakspere’s “After life’s fitful fever he sleeps well.” The ingenuity of the transference may be admired, but it seems to me that it is easy to give more than a due amount of admiration; and, as the instance shows, the adaptation may issue in something bordering on the absurd.

The language of the shop and the market must not be expected to be very exact: we may be content to be amused by some of its peculiarities. I can not say that I have seen the statement which is said to have appeared in the following form: “Dead pigs are looking up.” We find very frequently advertised, “_Digestive_ biscuits”—perhaps _digestible_ biscuits are meant. In a catalogue of books an “Encyclopædia of Mental Science” is advertised; and after the names of the authors we read, “invaluable, 5_s._ 6_d._;” this is a curious explanation of _invaluable_.

The title of a book recently advertised is, “Thoughts for those who are Thoughtful.” It might seem superfluous, not to say impossible, to supply thoughts to those who are already full of thought.

The word _limited_ is at present very popular in the domain of commerce. Thus we read, “Although the space given to us was limited.” This we can readily suppose; for in a finite building there can not be unlimited space. Booksellers can perhaps say, without impropriety, that a “limited number will be printed,” as this may only imply that the type will be broken up; but they sometimes tell us that “a limited number _was_ printed,” and this is an obvious truism.

Some pills used to be advertised for the use of the “possessor of pains in the back,” the advertisement being accompanied with a large picture representing the unhappy capitalist tormented by his property.

Pronouns, which are troublesome to all writers of English, are especially embarrassing to the authors of prospectuses and advertisements. A wine company return thanks to their friends, “and, at the same time, _they_ would assure _them_ that it is _their_ constant study not only to find improvements for _their_ convenience.…” Observe how the pronouns oscillate in their application between the company and their friends.

In selecting titles of books there is room for improvement. Thus, a _Quarterly Journal_ is not uncommon; the words strictly are suggestive of a _Quarterly Daily_ publication. I remember, some years since, observing a notice that a certain obscure society proposed to celebrate its _triennial anniversary_.

A few words may be given to some popular misquotations.

“He that runs may read” is often supposed to be a quotation from the Bible; the words really are, “He may run that readeth,” and it is not certain that the sense conveyed by the popular misquotation is correct.

A proverb which correctly runs thus: “The road to hell is paved with good intentions,” is often quoted in the far less expressive form, “Hell is paved with good intentions.”

“Knowledge is power” is frequently attributed to Bacon, in spite of Lord Lytton’s challenge that the words can not be found in Bacon’s writings.

It seems impossible to prevent writers from using _cui bono?_ in the unclassical sense. The correct meaning is known to be of this nature: suppose that a crime has been committed; then inquire who has gained by the crime—_cui bono?_ for obviously there is a probability that the person benefited was the criminal. The usual sense implied by the quotation is this: What is the good? the question being applied to whatever is for the moment the object of depreciation. Those who use the words incorrectly may, however, shelter themselves under the great name of Leibnitz, for he takes them in the popular sense; see his works, vol. v., p. 206.

The _Times_, commenting on the slovenly composition of the queen’s speeches to Parliament, proposed the cause of the fact as a fit subject for the investigation of our _professional thinkers_. The phrase suggests a delicate reproof to those who assume for themselves the title of _thinker_, implying that any person may engage in this occupation just as he might, if he pleased, become a dentist, or a stockbroker, or a civil engineer. The word _thinker_ is very common as a name of respect in the works of a modern distinguished philosopher. I am afraid, however, that it is employed by him principally as synonymous with a _Comtist_.

The _Times_, in advocating the claims of a literary man for a pension, said, “He has _constructed_ several useful schoolbooks.” The word _construct_ suggests with great neatness the nature of the process by which schoolbooks are sometimes evolved, implying the presence of the bricklayer and mason rather than of the architect.

[Dr. Todhunter might have added _feature_ to the list of words abusively used by newspaper writers. In one number of a magazine two examples occur: “A _feature_ which had been well _taken up_ by local and other manufacturers was the exhibition of honey in various applied forms.” “A new _feature_ in the social arrangements of the Central Radical Club _took place_ the other evening.”]—_Macmillan’s Magazine._

THE CHAUTAUQUA SCHOOL OF LIBERAL ARTS.

BY CHANCELLOR J. H. VINCENT, D.D.

Beyond the “Inner Circle,” which leads to the “Upper Chautauqua,” we come to the Uppermost Chautauqua—the University proper, with its “School of Liberal Arts,” and its “School of Theology.” Here we find provision made for college training of a thorough sort. Students all over the world may turn their homes into dormitories, refectories, and study rooms, in connection with the great University which has its local habitation at Chautauqua. Thus “hearers” and “recipients” in the Assembly, “readers” in the C. L. S. C., “student readers” in the “inner circle”—the “League of the Round-Table,” may go beyond, even to the School of Liberal Arts, the _bona fide_ College of Chautauqua.

Chautauqua exalts the college. She believes that the benefits of a college training are manifold.

1. The action by which a youth becomes a college student—the simple going forth—leaving one set of circumstances and voluntarily entering another, with a specific purpose—is an action which has educating influence in it. It is a distinct recognition of an object and a deliberate effort to secure it. The judgment is convinced, the will makes a decision, and corresponding action follows. We have the thought, the aim, the standards, the resolve, the surrender, and the embodiment of all in an actual physical movement. There must follow these activities a reflex influence on the youth himself. It becomes a “new birth” in his life. He has gone to another plane. His everyday conduct is modified by it. He looks up and on. According to the standard he has set, the idea he entertains of education, and the motives which impel him will be the subjective effects of his action—the real power of his new life.

2. There is educating power in the complete plan of study provided in the college curriculum, covering as it does the wide world of thought, distributed over the years, with subdivisions into terms, with specific assignments of subjects, with a beginning and an ending of each division, and many beginnings and endings, with promotions according to merit, and final reviews, recognitions, and honors. There is great value in the enforced system of the college. It tends to sustain and confirm new life, begun when the student made his first movement toward an institution.

3. The association of students in college life is another educating factor. Mind meets mind in a fellowship of aim, purpose, and experience. They have left the same world; they now together enter another world. They look up to the heights and to the shining of crowns which await the gifted and faithful. They are brothers now—one “alma mater” to nourish them. They sing their songs—songs which, although without much sense, have power to awake and foster sympathy. Even a man of sense loves to listen to them. He laughs at the folly, and, though himself a sage, wishes he were one of the company of singers. The laws of affinity work out. Soul inspires soul. Memories grow apace. Attachments that endure, adventures seasoned with fun or touched with sadness, absurdities, failures, heroisms, triumphs, are crowded into the four years, and like fruitage of bloom and fragrance from a conservatory may go forth to bless many an hour of wandering, of sorrow, of reunion, of remembrance, in the later years. There was something pathetic in the return of the famous Yale College class of 1853 to their alma mater two summers ago. As they wandered about the scenes of their youth, under the old elms, through recitation rooms and chapel, singing the old songs, reviving the old friendships, recalling faces to be seen no more, no wonder that tears fell down furrowed cheeks from eyes unused to weep. Is there any stronger or sweeter friendship than that born under the ivied towers and spreading elms of college hall and campus?

In college mind meets mind in the severe competition of recitation and annual examination. The bright boy—one of a small class at home, who had it all his own way there—now finds a score or more of leaders whose unvoiced challenge he is compelled to accept, and how he does knit his brow, close his eyes, summon his strength, school his will, force his flagging energies, and grapple problems that he may hold his own, outstrip his rivals, and win prize and place for the sake of his family’s fame and for his personal satisfaction!

There is nothing that so discovers to a youth the weak points of his character as the association of college life. There are no wasted courtesies among students. Folly is soon detected, and by blunt speech, bold caricature, and merciless satire exposed. Sensitiveness is cured by ridicule, cowardice never condoned, and meanness branded beyond the possibility of concealment or pardon. College associations stimulate the best elements in a man, expose weak and wicked ones, and tend to the pruning and strengthening of character.

4. Then there is in college life association with professors and tutors, and this is, I confess, sometimes of little value, as when teachers are mere machines, but in it, at its best, are distinguishing benefits. When teachers are full men, apt men, and enthusiastic men—as college professors, and for that matter all teachers ought to be—the place of recitation soon becomes a center of power. Tact tests attainment, exposes ignorance, foils deceit, develops strength, indicates lines of discovery, and inspires courage. A living teacher supplies at once model and motive. He has gone on among the labyrinths, and up the steeps of knowledge; has tried and toiled and triumphed. He sought and he _is_. And now by wise questioning, by judicious revelation, by skillful concealment, by ingenious supposition, by generous raillery, by banter, by jest, by argument and by magnetic energies, the teacher stirs the student into supreme conditions of receptivity and activity. Such teachers make the college. As President Garfield said: “Give me an old school house, and a log for a bench. Put Mark Hopkins on one end, and let me, as student, sit on the other, and I have all the college I need.” When an institution is able to employ men of superior knowledge, power, and tact, students must be trained, and all their after lives affected by the influence. For memory magnifies the worth of a true teacher, and the hero of the college quadrennium becomes a demigod through the post-graduate years. A dozen men of this mold, if once they could be gotten together, would make a college the like of which has not yet been seen on the planet. Shall Chautauqua one of these days find them?

5. The college life promotes mental discipline. It drills, and drills, and draws out. It compels effort, and effort strengthens. It provides a system of mental gymnastics. What was difficult at first, soon becomes easy, until severer tests are sought from the very delight the student finds in concentration and persistency. Thus development takes place in the varied faculties of the soul. The student acquires power to observe with scientific exactness, to generalize wisely from accumulated data, to project hypotheses, to watch psychical processes, to reason with accuracy, to distinguish between the false and the true, both in the inner and the outer world; to grasp protracted and complicated processes of mathematical thought; to trace linguistic evolutions—remembering, analyzing, philosophizing; to study the students of the ages, and the products of their genius in art, poetry, jurisprudence, and discovery, in the facts of history and the great principles of sociology. All the powers employed in this manifold work during the college term are trained and thus prepared for work after the college term is ended. It is not so much the amount of knowledge acquired during the four years, as it is the power at will ever after to acquire knowledge, that marks the benefits of the college course.

6. With discipline comes the comprehensive survey of the universe. The college outlook takes the student backward along the line of historical development. It shows him the heights and the depths, the manifold varieties and inter-relations of knowledge. It gives him tools and the training to use them, and a glance at the material on which he is to use them. The student through college is a traveler, sometimes examining in detail, sometimes superficially. He gives a glance and remembers; he takes notes and thinks closely. He sees the all-surrounding regions of knowledge, and although he may make but slight researches in particular lines, he knows where to return in the after years for deeper research and ampler knowledge.

7. College life leads to self-discovery. It tests a man’s powers, and reveals to him his weakness. It shows him what he is best fitted to do, and the showing may not be in harmony either with his ambitions or his preconceived notions. A boy born for mercantile pursuits, who comes out of college a lawyer or preacher, proves that the college failed to do its legitimate and most important work for him. Professors who merely glorify intellectual attainment, and who neglect to show students their true place in the world, are little better than cranks or hobbyists. College life is the whole of life packed into a brief period, with the elements that make life magnified and intensified, so that tests of character may easily be made. It is a laboratory of experiment, where natural laws and conditions are pressed into rapid though normal operation, and processes otherwise extending over long periods of time are crowded to speedy consummation. Twenty years of ordinary life, so far as they constitute a testing period of character are, by college life, crowded into four years. A boy who is a failure then, would, for the same reasons, be a failure through the longer probation, unless the early discovery of peculiar weakness may be a protection against the perils which this weakness involves. Therefore it is a good thing for a youth to subject himself thus early to a testing, for from it may come self-discovery, when latent powers may be developed, and impending evils avoided.

Of other advantages of educational institutions I shall not now speak. They are manifold. Our youth of both sexes, whatever their callings in life, would do well to seek these advantages. Therefore parents, primary teachers, and older persons who influence youth, should constantly place before them the benefits of college education, and inspire them to reach after and attain it. Arguments should be used, appeals made, assistance proffered, that a larger percentage of American youth may aspire after college privileges, or at least remain for a longer term in the best schools of a higher grade. Haste to be rich, restiveness under restraint during the age of unwisdom, inability to regulate by authority at home the eager and ambitious life of our youth, together with false, mercenary notions of parents, who “can not afford to have so much time spent by the young folks in studying, because they must be doing something for themselves”—these are some of the causes of the depreciation and neglect of the American college—a neglect lamentable enough, and fraught with harm to the nation.

Chautauqua lifts up her voice in favor of liberal education for a larger number of people. She would pack existing institutions until wings must be added to old buildings, and new buildings be put up to accommodate young men and maidens who are determined to be educated.

Chautauqua would exalt the profession of the teacher until the highest genius, the richest scholarship, and the broadest manhood and womanhood of the nation would be consecrated to this service.

Chautauqua would give munificent salaries and put a premium on merit, sense, tact, and culture in the teacher’s office. She would turn the eyes of all the people—poor and rich, mechanics and men of other, if not higher degree, toward the high school and the college, urging house builders, house owners, house keepers, farmers, blacksmiths, bankers, millionaires, to prepare themselves by a true culture, whatever niche they fill in life, to be men and women, citizens, parents, members of society, members of the church, candidates for immortal progress.

To promote these ends the Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Circle was organized. By its courses of popular reading it gives a college outlook to the uncultivated, and exalts the higher learning. It is, as I have elsewhere said, a John the Baptist preparing the way for seminary and university.

The managers of the Chautauqua movement, however, recognize the fact that there are thousands of full-grown men and women who are at their best intellectually, and who, with some leisure and much longing, believe they could do more than read. They want to study; to study in downright earnest; to develop mental power; to cultivate taste; to increase knowledge, to make use of it by tongue and pen and life. There are tens of thousands of young people out of school by necessities commercial and filial, who are awakened to the power within and the possibilities beyond. They believe they could learn a language, and enjoy the literature of it. They believe they could think and grow, speak and write. They are willing, and eager to try. Out of minutes they could construct college terms. They have will enough, heart enough, brain enough to begin, to go on, to go through, and all this, while the everyday life continues with its duty for this hour and for that. They believe that into the closely woven texture of everyday, home and business life, there may be drawn threads of scarlet, crimson, blue and gold, until their homespun walls become radiant with form and color worthy to decorate the royal chamber—the chamber of their king, God the Father of earnest souls.

Chautauqua denounces the talk of certain rich men about the “poor having their place,” and that it would be “better for working people to confine themselves to work, or at best to understand subjects bearing entirely on their everyday duties in field or shop, and let science and literature alone.” Chautauqua would make working men cultivated, and give them recreation from manual toil in realms of wonder, taste, science, literature and art. Chautauqua would spread out over the lot of the toiler a dome, vast, radiant, rich and inspiring.

Therefore the Chautauqua School of Liberal Arts has been organized, and chartered with full university powers, for non-resident pupils, who, by correspondence with competent instructors, may study what they please, when they please, and as they please, eliciting suggestion, and giving answer and thesis, taking all the time they need, passing final examination in writing in the presence of witnesses, and having their examination papers subjected to the scrutiny of competent and impartial critics. When, after the required standard in the several departments which constitute the college course has been attained, whether in four, or ten, or fourteen years, the successful candidate shall have his diploma and his degree; and through this window he has constructed out of all these fragments of time—fragments picked up from dusty floor and pavement, from mine, and field, and shop—through this window the light shall shine in its beauty, and people shall see what genius, industry and persistent will can do with the cast away fragments of spare moments and random opportunities.

I have thus described the “Upper Chautauqua.” By reason of the action of the Board of Managers, elsewhere reported, the plan of gradation is slightly changed from that laid down in the previous article on the “Upper Chautauqua,” and the following successive steps are found in the scheme of the Chautauqua University:

1. The ASSEMBLY, including the summer meetings, the “Platform,” “the American Church Sunday-school Normal Course,” the “School of Languages,” and the “Teachers’ Retreat.”

2. The CIRCLE, embracing the “C. L. S. C.”

3. The “INNER CIRCLE,” to which they belong who, having seven seals on their diploma, are members of the “League of the Round-Table.”

4. The “UNIVERSITY CIRCLE,” with its “School of Liberal Arts,” and the “School of Theology.”

NEW HAVEN, CONN., February 6, 1885.

OUTLINE OF REQUIRED READINGS.

MARCH, 1885.

_First Week_ (ending March 8).—1. “College Greek Course,” from page 187 to 216.

2. “Chemistry,” chapters IX and X.

3. “The Circle of the Sciences,” in THE CHAUTAUQUAN.

4. Sunday Readings for March 1 and 8, in THE CHAUTAUQUAN.

* * * * *

_Second Week_ (ending March 16).—1. “College Greek Course,” from page 216 to 239.

2. “Chemistry,” chapters XI, XII and XIII.

3. “Temperance Teachings of Science,” in THE CHAUTAUQUAN.

4. Sunday Readings for March 15, in THE CHAUTAUQUAN.

* * * * *

_Third Week_ (ending March 24).—1. “College Greek Course,” from page 239 to 260.

2. “Chemistry,” chapters XIV and XV.

3. “Home Studies in Chemistry and Physics,” in THE CHAUTAUQUAN.

4. Sunday Readings for March 22, in THE CHAUTAUQUAN.

* * * * *

_Fourth Week_ (ending March 31).—1. “College Greek Course,” from page 260 to 284.

2. “Chemistry,” chapters XVI and XVII.

3. “Studies in Kitchen Science and Art,” in THE CHAUTAUQUAN.

4. Sunday Readings for March 29, in THE CHAUTAUQUAN.

PROGRAMS FOR LOCAL CIRCLE WORK.

FIRST WEEK IN MARCH.

1. Blackboard illustration and full explanation of the Greek theater, special attention being given to the arrangement of the stage. If preferred, charts or pictures can be substituted for the blackboard. As aids to this work Donaldson’s “Greek Theater,” containing charts and illustrations, and Mahaffy’s “Classical Greek Literature” will be found very helpful.

2. Essay—George W. Cable and his Works.

Music.

3. Selection—“The Gorgon’s Head,” found in Hawthorne’s “Wonder Book.” This story can be read “turn about” by the members. Reference is made to the headless Gorgon, on page 210 of “College Greek Course.”

4. Essay—Shrove Tuesday, or Mardi Gras, as observed in New Orleans.

5. A Paper on Great Salt Mines and Springs.

6. Critic’s Report.

SECOND WEEK IN MARCH.

1. Essay—Sir Humphrey Davy.

2. Selection—“An Account of Sappho.” By Addison.

3. A Paper on Canadian Winter Sports.

Music.

4. A Half-hour’s Quiz on the Readings of the Month.

5. Essay—The Life of Euripides.

6. Question Box.

THIRD WEEK IN MARCH.

1. Fifteen Minutes’ Talk on Balloons and their Uses.

2. Selection—“On Great Natural Geniuses.” By Addison.

3. Character Sketch—Ignatius Loyola.

4. A Paper on the Athenian Orators.

Music.

5. General Conversation on the News of the Day.

6. The Questions and Answers for the Month in THE CHAUTAUQUAN.

MONTHLY PARLOR MEETING.

Music.

1. Roll call—Quotations from Greek Authors.

2. A Map Exercise. Trace Philip’s conquering march, as indicated by Demosthenes in his third Olynthiac oration.

3. Essay—Demosthenes.

Music.

4. An Analysis of Tennyson’s “Princess.”

5. A Paper on the Famous Women of Greece.

Music.

6. Debate—Resolved, that the effects of the modern theater compare unfavorably with those of the ancient.

Music.

* * * * *

It may not be amiss to follow our programs—which are intended to be merely suggestive—with a very short exposition of our program-philosophy. It is not a heavy philosophy; indeed, it is so simple that we half suspect we may be laughed at for calling it a philosophy at all, but its principles, we believe, are true and useful; as such we offer them. According to our ideas there are four subjects which should be represented on each C. L. S. C. program; first in the list and in importance is the week’s or month’s reading, its prominent features, its suggestions, its facts, its practical lessons; second, the world’s work of to-day, not merely its events of public interest, its schemes and disasters, but its science, invention, art, literature, morals, social life, civilization, its men and its manners; to follow both exercises and clinch what has been suggested, “good talk” ought to be an invariable part of each evening’s work. Take care that talk, free, genial, interested talk, follows every performance, or every program, and be sure that always