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great teacher was accused of being a wine-bibber because he drank wine at weddings, feasts, and other similar occasions. He paid no attention whatever to the charge, continued to drink wine with his disciples, and left it for them to use as a memorial of his presence and his life. The names of the men who preferred the charge against him have perished in oblivion, and the charge itself would no longer be known had he not preserved it in history by his reference to it.

Temperance reformers will not accomplish a permanent temperance reform until they learn the nature of the virtue which they advocate and the vice which they condemn. Temperance is not synonymous with total abstinence from intoxicating liquors; it is self-control. Intemperance is the mastery of the reason and the conscience by the animal nature; temperance is the mastery of the animal nature by reason and conscience. The man who has good reason to think that drinking coffee is injuring him, and still continues to drink coffee, is intemperate; the man who has good reason to think that drinking wine or beer benefits him, and therefore drinks the wine or the beer, is not intemperate; he may be mistaken, but he is not intemperate. Drunkenness is a sin; whether drinking is a sin depends upon circumstances. To coddle the drunkard as a poor victim, and condemn the occasional or temperate wine-drinker as a wine-bibber, is to confuse moral distinctions and set moral laws at defiance.

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The text is often quoted, "If meat make my brother to offend, I will eat no meat while the world standeth," but those who quote this text should not forget the preceding declaration of the same Apostle, "Neither, if we eat, are we the better; neither, if we eat not, are we the worse.' We ought to remember his urgent counsel, "Destroy not him with thy meat for whom Christ died;" but we ought not to forget his other equally urgent counsel," Who art thou that judgest another man's servant?" It is always right, and it is often duty, for a Christian to surrender his liberty for the sake of his brother, but he cannot surrender what he does not possess. The Outlook insists, with Paul, that he who drinks not shall not condemn him who drinks; it insists that each individual has a duty of defending his liberty whenever

it is assailed; it insists that asceticism is not Christianity; it insists that the law, "Touch not, taste not, handle not," is a pagan law which the New Testament repudiates, and is a poor substitute for the Christian life; but it also insists that when that liberty is secured, he who possesses it must use it, not for the satisfying of the flesh, not in mere self-gratification, and not so as to become a stumbling-block to those who are weak. Each individual must determine for himself how he will use this liberty: if this question is to be decided for him by another, it is not liberty at all. Where there is no liberty there can be no temperance. The inmates of a State prison are all total abstainers, but this does not make them all temperate men. The object of teaching, preaching, and example should be to make men temperate; that is, self-controlled. The social excommunications, the rule-making, the legislation, which tend to substitute the control of one man over another man, work against temperance because they work against self-control.

A Word for the Reader

A great deal of sympathy has been expressed of late years for the writers of books: their burdens, perplexities, and woes have been described with the utmost elaboration and in the most kindly mood. It has been shown many times that, if they have the poetic imagination, or the gift of clear intelligence, or the love of sound form, they have fallen upon evil days. It has been said that those who have musical voices sing in the ears of a generation which is indifferent to melody; that those who have a deep philosophic insight into life have happened upon a time which is concerned only with the externals of diving; and that those who are committed by the structure of their own natures to the pursuit of the ideal have been born two or three centuries too late. The difficulty of securing intelligent attention at the start, the competition of the magazine and the newspaper, the indifference of editors and publishers, the desire of the great untrained public to waste its time on stories of adventure, sentimental verse, and semireligious commonplace, the fascination of

science, the distractions of modern industrial life-all these aspects of modern life have been set in order by way of explaining why the great poet does not arrive and why the great novelist delays his coming. Every one who is convinced that all things are awry, and that modern life has reversed all sound conditions of living, thinking, and acting, laments the evil conditions upon which the man of genius has fallen in our time, and grieves over the situation in which literature finds itself.

But no one seems to think of the reader of books. His trials are never enumerated, his griefs are not set down, his perplexities are forgotten. He is either treated as a person who does not exist; or as an undeveloped individuality with out definite tastes, convictions, or ideas; or as a vulgar person who loves what is meretricious, cheap, and unwholesome. Every writing gentleman of pessimistic proclivities falls foul of the reader at frequent and regular intervals, puts him in the pillory, and expends his scorn at leisure upon the unhappy victim. He is denounced because he reads too many newspapers, subscribes to too many magazines, is a member of too many clubs, draws too many books from the libraries, reads too much ephemeral literature, and wastes too much of his strength on fiction. He is reproached because he reads "The Sorrows of Satan" instead of the Essays of Bacon; because he buys the latest popular exposition of science instead of going to the authorities.

Now, the reader is not without his faults; as an average man, he shares the average moral defects of the race. He is often-perhaps as a rule-very ima rule-very imperfectly educated; he lacks the advantages of specialized training, and he has had very little leisure; but it is a serious question whether the reader of books does not deserve some of the sympathy which has been extended to the writers of books. His position is a difficult one. He is offered an immense range of material, ancient and modern; he is urged to read the classics; he is told that no harmonious development can be secured without acquaintance with the great poetry; he is reminded that nobody can understand his own time who has not a good knowledge of history. It is

assumed on every hand that he must be acquainted with science; he is appealed to, through the advertisements in his journals, the announcements in the shop windows, the placards at the news-stands, by the charms of the latest novel.

What shall he choose? in which direction shall he go? to whom shall he turn for advice? If he appeals to the authorities in the different fields, he often finds them at swords' points with one another. The scientist tells him that philosophy has had its day, and that it is to be studied only from the historical point of view, as shedding light upon the processes of historic evolution. The philosopher, on the other hand, declares that he still pursues the queen of sciences, and that no kind of knowledge yields its finest fruit until philosophy has rationalized and interpreted it. If he enters the field of literature, the romanticist confronts him as the weddingguest in "The Ancient Mariner" was waylaid, and tells him a melancholy tale of the decay of the spirit of romance, and depicts for him the brutalities of the realistic movement. No sooner does he escape this insistent guide than he falls into the hands of the realist, who tells him that romanticism is an outgrown mood of an immature race; that the interest of a mature race always centers in the fact, and that realism represents the only reality. If his curiosity is whetted by what he hears about Ibsen, Tolstoï, and Maeterlinck, and he endeavors to get some light on their claims to attention, he is at once plunged into a fathomless bog of contradictions. He hears, on the one hand, that Ibsen is the first of modern dramatists and one of the most original men of genius in our time, and, on the other, that he is a charlatan, with a one-sided view of life, a philosophy of society which is hopelessly crude, and an immoral tendency. One group of people assure him that Tolstoï is the most powerful and searching novelist of the century, and another that Tolstoï is a fanatic who has lost the sense of art, who is as lacking in moral reticence as Whitman, and who is the master of all that is unwholesome. If he opens "Quo Vadis," he is assured by the man on his right that it is one of the greatest of semi-historical novels, and by the man on his left that it ought to be suppressed by law. If he happens upon

the "Forest Lovers," he is informed by one friend that he is going to feel again the charm of Spenser, and by another in imminent danger of having

his imagination corrupted.

The problem which confronts the average reader is by no means insoluble, but this bare statement of it suggests that he ought to receive more sympathy than has yet been given him; and that when his evil conditions are fully taken into account he may not be either so ignorant or so gross-minded as he is often represented. He is usually a very decent person, who would like to make the best use of his time if he only knew how to accomplish that important result, and to get the most for his money if he only knew what books to buy. He appears to like a good book when it comes in his way, and he certainly has an instinct for selecting the best out of the work of the past. He still reads Jane Austen, but he does not read "The Castle of Otranto or "The Mysteries of Udolpho." He reads Shelley, but he has forgotten Tupper. Would it not be wiser to approach the reader in a sympathetic vein rather than to waste on him a satire to which he is probably indifferent and a scorn which rarely reaches him?

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The Spectator

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"Every night and morning, when I say my prayers," asserted a sweet lady of many sorrows, from the bottom of my heart I thank my heavenly Father, first, that I can read books, and, secondly, that I have a sense of humor." And, indeed, through the tragic happenings of that little lady's brave life, those who knew her best could never doubt that her trials were lightened, her burdens made bearable, by the possession of those same blessings for which she thus gave thanks. It has always seemed to the Spectator a little strange that among the beatitudes in the Sermon on the Mount humor is not once definitely mentioned as a cardinal blessing for which man should strive and pray. But those who, with the Spectator, reverently believe in humor as a rare and helpful virtue may be able to persuade themselves that some one of the beatitudes must have stood, in its day

and generation, as the equivalent of what we would now call humor. Some time.in the future one of our scholars may make the discovery that humor was definitely mentioned in this inspired list, just as it has been decided that it isn't "charity" that vaunteth not itself, but "love." Or it may be that the gentle gift of humor had no actual place or need of existence in the storm and stress of those sterner, more volcanic, less conventional and less subtle days. Be this as it may, it remains true for us in this present period that some degree of humor each of us must have, or labor under a serious disadvantage among our kind. Firmness of temper, force of character patience, endurance-all these can do much toward gaining an end in view. But when all these forces have been applied in turn unsuccessfully, how often, at a sudden touch on that mighty lever called humor, do we see all that accomplished which force could never have gained!

There was a certain very reasonableminded friend of the Spectator's who owned a wharf that led up from the water before his door to his summer home, but, unfortunately, this wharf was also a convenient landing-place for the public road that ran behind his house. The wharfowner was a man sufficiently generous to the traveling public, but when a man has any regard for privacy, as most of us have, or ought to have, it is not conducive to a calm state of temper to find boats constantly tied to our pier-posts, and the boats' owners climbing over our wharf to walk across our lawns, past our porch, and under the very shadow of our own private vine and fig-tree. The wharf's proprietor tried to solve his problem by every method that firmness and dignity dictated. He built him a fence at the pier's end. He posted warning signs, and in his own person, with more or less imperiousness, warned off persistent trespassers. All was of no avail. At last, one morning, this fertile-minded proprietor went to his wharf and carefully removed from it every sign he had posted there. He also removed every vestige of his fence, leaving the way perfectly free. Then on the end of his landing he hung one fairly large sign that threatened noth

ing and nobody. The sign was merely a polite but brief poem, and ran thus:

Please keep off This private wharf.

Which gentle and, above all, humorous request was strictly respected from the hour of its appearance. Boat-loads of people paused on their way, read, laughed, and passed on, but ventured not to intrude on a privacy that laughingly ridiculed them as intruders, though they had not hesitated to trespass when seriously threatened. The Spectator will quote one other such efficacious sign: "We don't lend our tools; you don't return them!" This suggestive and humorous saying, hand-painted, and hanging over at country carpenter's work-bench, must have palsied many a tongue that came a-borrowing. The Spectator can answer for one tongue that hurriedly changed a request for the loan of a foot-rule to a mild request for a drink of water, but doubtless there were others who were similarly affected.

As a weapon of self-defense, humor has its own peculiar place in life's arsenal; that fact is proven; but it is not a weapon of offense, as is satire, the bastard cousin of humor. Humor's gentle answer turneth away wrath, while satire invites anger. A humorous retort has a pleasant and calming influence, yet carries with it at the same time a subtle warning that the speaker is not quite to be trifled with. Satire gives a like warning, to be sure, but, in common with chickens and curses and boomerangs, satire has a fatal trick of coming home to roost. No one wholly enjoys being laughed at, smile the humo:ist ever so gently; and in this laugh lies. humor's restraining power; but when it comes to being sneered at, as satire sneers, human nature will not endure the insult, and sooner or later vengeance is apt to follow. It may be that humor has no place in the original beatitudes, but the Spectator must still declare, Blessed are the Humorous! We love them for the self-restraint which keeps ridicule inside the line of satire, and yet we fear their gentle laugh sufficiently to respect their "private wharves."

Still speaking of humor, it is not always an easy thing to define, even where

we detect its presence. Not long ago the Spectator was visiting a fellow-worker, who was a wife and mother, and as he sat near her desk his eye was suddenly caught by a memorandum written so clearly that at a glance (this is the Spectator's justification) he read it. It ran thus:

Write short essay on humor.
Buy matches.
Stove-lifter.

"What are you laughing at?" asked the Spectator's hostess, and in reply he silently pointed to the memorandum on the desk. The authoress blushed a little as she read the list, but the woman in her rose at once in defense.

"And why not essays and stovelifters?" she asked.

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Why not, indeed ?" replied the Spectator. "Only it struck me that your memorandum was a kind of short humorous essay in itself. What do you think?"

And after a momentary struggle the writer of this short humorous essay admitted the impeachment.

"I can see it's humorous," she answered, "but I don't see why it is. Matches and stove-lifters are just as serious affairs and just as important to have as essays on any subject. Suppose you let me look over your note-book."

The Spectator handed her his note-book, and there on the first leaf that appeared were these memoranda :

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Buy Johnny's rocking-horse. "There!" cried the Spectator's hostess, turning the leaf out triumphantly.

The Spectator read the items over.

"Yes," he said, "there they are, the same kind of items: but your point is not proven. Your memorandum strikes us both as humorous, and mine doesn't at all. It seems perfectly natural. I don't know why that's so, but it is and you know it."

The Spectator's candid friend thought for a moment and then replied: "But why is it so?"

"I don't know," said the Spectator. "I think it has something to do with the woman question, but I'm not sure."

Suppose you write and ask The Outlook about it," said the lady. "I will," said the Spectator.

By Robert Donald

Editor of the London "Municipal Journal"

[This is the first of a series of articles relating to the Paris Exposition. Other subjects and writers will be: The Religious Aspect, by Charles Wagner, author of "Youth" and "Justice;" The Social Economics Exhibition (illustrated), by Dr. W. H. Tolman, Secretary of the League for Social Service; Educational Aspects, by Howard J. Rogers, Director of Education for the Commissioner-General of the United States to the Exposition; The Historical Element, by the Rev. W. E. Griffis, D.D., author of "The Mikado's Empire," etc., etc.; Woman's Part in the Exposition, by Madame Blanc (Th. Bentzon); and The Pictorial Side of the Exposition, by Mr. F. Hopkinson Smith, illustrated by the author.-THE EDITORS.]

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I

NDUSTRY, liberating and sacred industry, it is thou who consoleth industry, it is thou who consoleth! Under thy steps ignorance vanishes, evil flies! By thee mankind, freed from the servitude of night, mounts, mounts without ceasing, towards that luminous and serene region where is one day to be realized the ideal of perfect accord, of honor, justice, and kindliness."

In these words M. Millerand, Minister of Commerce, apostrophized industry in his speech at the opening of the Paris Exposition. He regarded the creation of the Exposition as a triumph for French industry. And so it is. The scheme has been wonderfully well conceived and admirably executed. The site has been used to the best advantage. What strikes one most-viewing the Exposition buildings from an industrial standpoint is the dominating artistic element which leaves its impress everywhere. The French. The French workman is slow; he is always behind; he finishes late, but well. Centuries of training have developed the special characteristics of French architects and engineers; the national artistic sense among the people-attributable partly to temperament, partly to environment has produced the neat craftsman. The uniformity which usually characterizes French design has been relieved by one or two outbursts of originality in the Exposition buildings. The two permanent palaces are thoroughly unconventional, and the Alexander III. bridge is a magnificent piece of original work. One does not know whether to regard it as an engineering masterpiece or a work of art. It is both. Two engineers, two architects, and four sculptors were engaged upon it, and their combined talent has produced what many consider the finest bridge in the world. No bridge ever had such beauti

ful bronze lamps, such architectural and artistic embellishment. The low arch makes a most graceful span, and, by keeping the arch down to the level of the roadway, the vista looking towards the façade and dome of the Invalides Palace is uninterrupted. All the buildings for which the French people have been responsible are well conceived, with the exception of the monumental entrance, which is an eyesore.

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Turning from the buildings to the means of getting about the Exposition, we find that French originality ceases. At the Exposition of 1889 the chief means of transit was a little Decanville railroad. The means now mark an advance. There are an electric railroad and a moving platform. A platform of this style has been seen before in Chicago and afterwards at Berlin, although the French claim priority for this invention. The electric railroad has been equipped by the Société Industrielle d'Électricité, which is the French name for the Westinghouse Company.

The Exposition is the most representative epitome of the world's industry which has ever been brought together. It is the great international shop window where every nation has samples of its wares. Allowing for the natural preponderance of France in every section as regards extent of space occupied and the number of articles exhibited, the Exposition may be taken as representative.

A run through the machinery hall and galleries, where the products of industry are exhibited, leaves the impression that of all foreign countries Germany has the most imposing show, America the most businesslike. Great Britain took the short-sighted policy of boycotting the Exposition. Just at the time when firms should have been preparing their goods, the Fashoda incident occurred, and many

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