a fact I might as well state it. I have great faith in the power and influence of facts. It is seldom that anything is permanently gained by holding back a fact. There was a large clock in a little office in the furnace. This clock, of course, all the hundred or more workmen depended upon to regulate their hours of beginning and ending the day's work. I got the idea that the way for me to reach school on time was to move the clock hands from half-past eight up to the nine o'clock mark. This I found myself doing morning after morning, till the furnace "boss" discovered that something was wrong, and locked the clock in a case. I did not mean to inconvenience anybody. I simply meant to reach that school-house in time.

When, however, I found myself at the school for the first time, I also found myself confronted with two other difficulties. In the first place, I found that all of the other children wore hats or caps on their heads, and I had neither hat nor cap. In fact, I do not remember that up to the time of going to school I had ever worn any kind of covering upon my head, nor do I recall that either I or anybody else had even thought anything about the need of covering for my head. But, of course, when I saw how all the other boys were dressed, I began to feel quite uncomfortable. As usual, I put the case before my mother, and she explained to me that she had no money with which to buy a "store hat," which was a rather new institution at that time among the members of my race and was considered quite the thing for young and old to own, but that she would find a way to help me out of the difficulty. She accordingly got two pieces of "homespun" (jeans) and sewed them together, and I was soon the proud possessor of my first cap.

The lesson that my mother taught me in this has always remained with me, and I have tried as best I could to teach it to others. I have always felt proud, whenever I think of the incident, that my mother had strength of character enough not to be led into the temptation of seeming to be that which she was not of trying to impress my schoolmates and others with the fact that she was able to buy me a "store hat" when she was not. I have always felt proud that she refused to go

into debt for that which she did not hav the money to pay for. Since that time have owned many kinds of caps and hats but never one of which I have felt so proud as of the cap made of the two pieces of cloth sewed together by my mother. I have noted the fact, but without satisfaction, I need not add, that several of the boys who began their careers with "store hats' and who were my schoolmates and used to join in the sport that was made of me because I had only a "homespun " cap have ended their careers in the penitentiary, while others are not able now to buy any kind of hat.

My second difficulty was with regard to my name, or rather a name. From the time when I could remember anything. I had been called simply "Booker." Before going to school it had never occurred to me that it was needful or appropriate to have an additional name. When I heard the school-roll called, I noticed that all of the children had at least two names, and some of them indulged in what seemed to me the extravagance of having three. I was in deep perplexity, because I knew that the teacher would demand of me at least two names, and I had only one. By the time the occasion came for the enrolling of my name, an idea occurred to me which I thought would make me equal to the situation; and so, when the teacher asked me what my full name was, I calmly told him "Booker Washington," as if I had been called by that name all my life; and by that name I have since been known. Later in my life I found that my mother had given me the name of "Booker Taliaferro" soon after I was born, but in some way that part of my name seemed to disappear and for a long while was forgotten, but as soon as I found out about it I revived it, and made my full name "Booker Taliaferro Washington." I think there are not many men in our country who have had the privilege of naming themselves in the way that I have.

More than once I have tried to picture myself in the position of a boy or man with an honored and distinguished ances try which I could trace back through a period of hundreds of years, and who had not only inherited a name, but fortune and a proud family homestead; and yet I have sometimes had the feeling that if I had inherited these, and had been a mem

ber of a more popular race, I should have been inclined to yield to the temptation of depending upon my ancestry and my color to do that for me which I should do for myself. Years ago I resolved that because I had no ancestry myself I would leave a record of which my children would be proud, and which might encourage them to still higher effort.

The world should not pass judgment upon the negro, and especially the negro youth, too quickly or too harshly. The negro boy has obstacles, discouragements, and temptations to battle with that are little known to those not situated as he is. When a white boy undertakes a task, it is taken for granted that he will succeed. On the other hand, people are usually surprised if the negro boy does not fail. In a word, the negro youth starts out with the presumption against him.

The influence of ancestry, however, is important in helping forward any individual or race, if too much reliance is not placed upon it. Those who constantly direct attention to the negro youth's moral weaknesses, and compare his advancement with that of white youths, do not consider the influence of the memories which cling about the old family homesteads. I have no idea, as I have stated elsewhere, who my grandmother was. I have or have had uncles and aunts and cousins, but I have no knowledge as to where most of them are. My case will illustrate that of hundreds of thousands of black people in every part of our country. The very fact that the white boy is conscious that, if he fails in life, he will disgrace the whole family record, extending back through many generations, is of tremendous value in helping him to resist temptations. fact that the individual has behind and surrounding him proud family history and connection serves as a stimulus to help him to overcome obstacles when striving for success.

The

The time that I was permitted to attend school during the day was short, and my attendance was irregular. It was not long before I had to stop attending day-school altogether, and devote all of my time again to work. I resorted to the night-school again. In fact, the greater part of the education I secured in my boyhood was gathered through the night-school after my day's work was done. I had difficulty

often in securing a satisfactory teacher. Sometimes, after I had secured some one to teach me at night, I would find, much to my disappointment, that the teacher knew but little more than I did. Often I would have to walk several miles at night in order to recite my night-school lessons. There was never a time in my youth, no matter how dark and discouraging the days might be, when one resolve did not continually remain with me, and that was a determination to secure an education at any cost.

Soon after we moved to West Virginia, my mother adopted into our family, notwithstanding our poverty, an orphan boy to whom afterwards we gave the name of James B. Washington. He has ever since remained a member of the family.

After I had worked in the salt-furnace for some time, work was secured for me in a coal-mine which was operated mainly for the purpose of securing fuel for the salt-furnace. Work in the coal-mine I always dreaded. One reason for this was that any one who worked in a coal-mine was always unclean, at least while at work, and it was a very hard job to get one's skin clean after the day's work was over. Then it was fully a mile from the opening of the coal-mine to the face of the coal, and all, of course, was in the blackest darkness. I do not believe that one ever experiences anywhere else such darkness as he does in a coal-mine. The mine was divided into a large number of different "rooms" or departments, and, as I never was able to learn the location of all these "rooms," I many times found myself lost in the mine. To add to the horror of being lost, sometimes my light would go out, and then, if I did not happen to have a match, I would wander about in the darkness until by chance I found some one to give me a light. The work was not only hard, but it was dangerous. There was always the danger of being blown to pieces by a premature explosion of powder, or of being crushed by falling slate. Accidents from one or the other of these causes were frequently occurring, and this kept me in constant fear. Many children of the tenderest years were compelled then, as is now true, I fear, in most coal-mining districts, to spend a large part of their lives in these coal-mines, with little opportunity

to get an education; and, what is worse, I have often noted that, as a rule, young boys who begin life in a coal-mine are often physically and mentally dwarfed. They soon lose ambition to do anything else than to continue as a coal-miner.

In those days, and later as a young man, I used to try to picture in my imagination the feelings and ambitions of a white boy with absolutely no limit placed upon his aspirations and activities. I used to envy the white boy who had no obstacles placed in the way of his becoming a Congressman, Governor, Bishop, or President by reason of the accident of his birth or race. I used to picture the way that I would act under such circumstances; how I would begin at the bottom and keep rising until I reached the highest round of success.

In later years, I confess that I do not envy the white boy as I once did. I have learned that success is to be measured not so much by the position that one has reached in life as by the obstacles which he has overcome while trying to succeed. Looked at from this standpoint, I almost reach the conclusion that often the negro boy's birth and connection with an unpopular race is an advantage, so far as real life is concerned. With few exceptions, the negro youth must work harder and must perform his tasks even better than a white youth in order to secure recognition.

But out of the hard and unusual struggle through which he is compelled to pass, he gets a strength, a confidence, that one misses whose pathway is comparatively smooth by reason of birth and race.

From any point of view, I had rather be what I am, a member of the Negro race, than be able to claim membership with the most favored of any other race. I have always been made sad when I have heard members of any race claiming rights and privileges, or certain badges of distinction, on the ground simply that they were members of this or that race, regardless of their own individual worth or attainments. I have been made to feel sad for such persons because I am conscious of the fact that mere connection with what is known as a superior race will not permanently carry an individual forward unless he has individual worth, and mere connection with what is regarded as an inferior race will not finally hold an individual back if he possesses intrinsic, individual merit. Every persecuted individual and race should get much consolation out of the great human law, which is universal and eternal, that merit, no matter under what skin found, is, in the long run, recognized and rewarded. This I have said here, not to call attention to myself as an individual, but to the race to which I am proud to belong.

[TO BE CONTINUED]

By James The dreamy air, braced into silent bliss By the first frost's invigorating kiss, Is spiced with blue wood-smoke, and redolent

Of harvest-field-a rich and lingering

scent;

And drifting in the gold and purple haze That dims the sunshine of the autumn days, The vagrant cobwebs gleam like silver threads.

From grassy covert rabbits lift their heads And sit erect with wide, distended eye And quivering nostril, but to scurry by And hide within the hedge's thorny wall Where nervous little sparrows chirp and call.

The larks upon the rusty fence-wire trill; "Bob White" from post-top sends his calling shrill,

While, with her half-grown brood, his mate speeds down

The road, or "whir-r-rs" off to the meadow brown;

Across the stubble-field the hawks fly low,

And curious "snake-doctors" come and go.

A restful silence fills the odorous air,
A wealth of peace and plenty everywhere,
While drowsy Nature, brooding over all,
Breathes low her rich, triumphant song of
Fall.

I

N the loss of Professor Friedrich Max Müller, Oxford loses one of its most distinguished scholars, and also one of its most engaging personalities. It is rare that a man attains such eminence in the field of exact scholarship and retains the grace and winsomeness of character which are the distinguishing marks of the man of letters. It was the good fortune, however, of Professor Max Müller to inherit from his father, the popular poet, Wilhelm Müller, many of his graces of mind and expression, to enjoy in his childhood and youth a relationship to the little court of Dessau which stimulated a natural gift for social intercourse, and at the same time to receive at the University of Leipsic a characteristically German training in scholarly methods of industry and research.

Professor Max Müller has given us in his volumes of reminiscences which he calls "Auld Lang Syne" delightful glimpses of his childhood and youth. We do not wonder that such surroundings produced in him those finer literary inclinations which so distinguish his writings from those of many of his German contemporaries. He loved literary form, as he loved everything which was beautiful, and I recall a tinge of bitterness in his tone when he spoke one day of his delightful little idyl "Deutsche Liebe," "Deutsche Liebe," and said: "Some of my German friends speak slightingly of me and say I am no scholar, because I have written a readable book." In every way he was fortunate in his surroundings. For when he left his German Fatherland and sought a new home in England he found that spiritual fellowship which is denied to most exiles. The friendships which he formed with the Arnolds, Kingsley, Froude, Huxley, and others of like place in letters and science made his life as bright within as it was brilliant without. But the greatest blessing which came to him from these friendships was his marriage to Miss Georgina Granville, a niece of Charles Kingsley. Those who have known the quiet charm of the home at 7 Norham

Gardens know how much Mrs. Max Müller contributed to it. In the noblest sense a helpmate, she shared her husband's intellectual interests, made his social life possible by relieving him of every avoidable care, and in dispensing the most generous hospitality created a circle in which he came and went as his time and occupations permitted, enjoying its pleasures but escaping its obligations. Her broad sympathies and cheerful manner would have been a boon and a blessing in any household, but it was singularly fortunate for the young foreigner that he won so fine a type of English womanhood to make his English home delightful to guests of every nation.

It seemed as though the foreigner enjoyed an especial welcome in that home. Perhaps it was because he remembered the time when he, too, was a stranger in a strange land; remembered the loneliness of his own lot; remembered, too, and sought to return, the kindness which had been shown to him. I owed my introduction into the hospitable circle of his home to Samuel Brearley, whose too early death has left the Brearley school in New York as the only memorial of a life of rare promise. Brearley was in those days the arbiter of the fate of every American who came to Oxford, and by the irreverent English was known in secret as "Uncle Sam," but nothing could have been kinder than his generous aid to younger American students in the University.

There was something about the small and well-groomed person of the distinguished professor which rather awed me in my first visit. I recalled the respect which had been paid to his "Chips from a German Workshop" in the home of my childhood; I considered the maturer knowledge I had gained of his worldwide reputation; and I felt like a clumsy giant in the presence of an intellectual David. As quite a company gathered into the afternoon tea, I felt that the genial host rather "talked down" to his auditors, but it was very pleasant and very kindly talk for all that, and you were

won by the patent wish to please, even if you were made to feel that you were an undergraduate.

I think it was on this occasion that I first heard him mention what was a favorite theme with him—the antiquity of the pedigree of the two dachshunds he loved to have about him. He was especially fond of one of these dogs, and delighted to say that three types of dogs were plainly distinguished on the Pyramids, and among them the type to which the highly specialized, but, to my uneducated eye, grossly deformed, dachshund belonged. But the fact that he loved dogs I counted in his favor, for what man who loves dogs has not a vein of warm humanity in him? And if the large-eyed dachshund-which Homer had surely coupled with the mother of the gods as "ox-eyed ”—lacks something of the vigor of the deerhound or the companionableness of the collie, it is at least a dog, and worthy friend of man. In this, as in many another "little thing," the scholarly temper showed itself. He was always interested in "origins:" he liked to trace back everything to its beginnings. He coupled with this a seriousness that was sometimes amusing. For, after all, as there are some "questions which have no replies," there are also things which, like Melchisedec, have neither ancestry nor posterity, and it was occasionally embarrassing to be carefully cross-examined as to the origin of an Americanism or a bit of college slang in which his fine philological sense detected a deeper significance than the facts justified.

Closely akin to this seriousness was a dislike for the processes used at Oxford for "cramming" for examinations. Probably every examination system has its own method of "cram," and to those unfamiliar with them from youth, each stands forth in all its inexcusable badness. I remember the unwonted excitement of the genial Professor one summer afternoon in his pleasant garden which grew out of a reference to this matter. The special object of his indignation was the making of mnemonic lines for the purpose of memorizing irregular verbs. The discussion began with German and French and passed to Sanscrit. Said he: "The coaches who were preparing men for the examinations for the Indian service came

to me, and said, 'Professor Max Mülle you don't make the examinations ha enough; you don't bring out what of men can do.' So I set a paper bristlin with puzzles-a paper I could scarce have answered myself in the time allowe for the examination—and when I came read the papers they were all correc perfect. I sent for the coaches, and d manded, 'How could your men do this and they replied by reciting a string gibberish-rhymes with all the irregula verbs in them. I said, 'Stop! write tha down, and let me read it,' and they said No! that is our stock-in-trade; we mak our living by teaching those verses, an they are kept secret.' "And this," h indignantly exclaimed, " is called teaching Sanscrit !"

It was impossible not to be amused a his impetuous distaste for the procedure no matter how heartily you joined in hi condemnation of the method of teaching.

Nothing was more characteristic than his catholic interest in everything about him. He protested that he had no time for this or that, but if anything came in his way he was very sure to give some study to it, form a very definite opinion in regard to it, and send a letter to the "Times," to some German newspaper, or an article to one of the Reviews about it. He sometimes reached very high convictions in this way, as, for instance, in the position he took in the discussion of the Darwinian theory, which he sums up thus: "When Darwin maintains the transition from some highly developed animal into a human being, I say, Stop! Here the student of language has something to say, and I say that language is something that even in its most rudimentary form puts an impassable barrier between beast and man." Sometimes he suffered keenly from the antagonisms he aroused, as in his defense of Kingsley for the part he took in the Tractarian controversy, and in his defense of England's foreign policy in the German press. Always generous and hearty in his friendships, he was chivalrous in his defense of his friends. His inability to understand a more self-contained and not less scholarly mind was amusingly illustrated in an incident which occurred during a visit at his house in 1890. He inquired what he could do to make my visit pleasant, and I replied that