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men are rash, lack self-control, are incapable of combined action, illogical, half-educated. Grant it all. The freedmen called out of yet profounder depths and were heard. It is said that men will oppose the movement; but where women faint and falter men will take the matter up, because the presence of a class in our midst under a pressure of hardship, that is constantly sinking them lower in the scale, is detrimental to the national life; and because it will at last be clearly understood that under the existing order of things no man's wife, sister, or daughter is secure; and so dear drop, though you are but one, do you see how drops rising from the mountain tarn, the meadow brook, the shallow pond, the rushing river, the ocean itself, and adding themselves to other drops, will descend again in a rainy impetus from heaven that will swell the stream to full flood, sweeping the old trunk before it, to strand it on some bank, where, rotting quietly, it shall enrich the earth it once cumbered?

WORKING THE BEADS.

true, WITH

a touch as delicate as the Spring's Are wakened the beaded blooms,

The fern that waves, and the moss that clings
Grow on the silken glooms,

pity, we may say that no one is forced into as the princess in the Arabian story heard from crime that there are always resources-that the stones in the hill. We are told that woGod deserts no one. But let us also recollect that the devil is old and wise. He might slip into our hands the first stone to throw in behalf of outraged virtue, but he does not come to us, safe at home among our children, with suggestions revolting to womanhood, because that would be sheer waste of temptation. We are in condition to elaborate a dozen different ways out of the dilemma, and can always fall back on the river, which some one declares can always serve woman as a last resource. But the river shows blue and glancing through our windows as we sit and talk of it at our ease-no more like the cold, sullen water washing against the foul wharf than our present physical and mental condition is like that of a woman starved through successive days, benumbed, heart and body, made timid by continual failures and rebuffs, shivering, dying, faint, friendless-urged by instant dread of death, perhaps; frantic, perhaps, for her poor little hungry children, or brothers and sisters, at the end of all her little resources, shifts, and expedients-that is the pass at which hundreds are come, even now, as you read; and at this pass the tempter, repulsed a hundred times before, steps in again. There are charitable institutions, it is and doors that are never closed against the miserable, and ears that are never deaf to a cry for help; and so there are houses, and inns, and fires, and lights, on the very roads on which travelers, bewildered between storm and darkness, walk off precipices, or wander blindly about till overtaken by despair and death; and there are women-you and I, madam, are, of course among them-who are born conquerors; there are women with faith and firmness, clear perceptions, and readiness of resource that nothing can shake; but this is the superior, not the ordinary woman. The only one who has met Satan face to face and conquered enjoined on us all to pray "that we might"-what? always conquer temptation? No; that we may be "delivered from temptation." Our place, then, is not on the judgment-seat, but by the world's highway, where, like the Samaritan, we may find and save those nigh unto death. There are those beyond our help. There are others, urged on behind them by want of all things, whose perilous condition is a direct claim on the interest of any and every woman. If you have not a surplus hour or dollar, you have influence; for if you think rightly you will find that good is just as infectious as evil. You are only a single drop to the stream; true, and the stream is dwindled, and trickles feebly around the old tree trunk imbedded in its midst. The appeal in behalf of working women is not unfamiliar. From time to time the subject has been spasmodically agitated. Protective Unions have been formed and failed; those of the present day might receive more encouragement. We hear as many discouraging voices

And a dew of steel is woven in

By the noiseless finger-looms.
Airy festoons of swinging vines,

And butterflies dipped in gold,
And the meeting curves of Gothic lines
Drawn in the days of old,
Glitter in bright and pearly beads
By the quick, white fingers told.
The laugh is gay as the sparkling dyes,
And the wit flies steely-bright,
As pointless needles with broken eyes
Are passed in the failing light,
Till the beaded flowers are gathered up
In their silken folds at night.

I think while the beautiful work is done
Of the arabesques of thought,

I never forget to wind and run
Round the hard lines overwrought,
In life's mixed pattern of good and ill
Daily before me brought.

Here and there are some fadeless leaves
In the stony pattern cold,

And a few green blades give sign of sheaves
If the threaded roots but hold;
And a life perhaps I have beaded o'er
With a beauty not of gold.

UST as we were commenting last month upon | len could hardly be more accurately represented.

ognized as such. Miss M'Donald's drawing is painfully elaborate and true. It is a pity that the skill had not been devoted to a more interesting subject; but much may be anticipated of so patient a talent and so faithful an eye.

In the "Interior of St. Marks" Mr. David D.

emy of Design the doors were opening to another evening for the private view of the Forty-first Exhibition. The peculiarity of private views is well known. It is that there is no privacy and no view. There is a gay company moving in a crowd through brilliant rooms, chatting, and glancing sometimes at the walls. But the evening walls of the Acad-Neal attracts the eye by a most careful study of emy are dim. The pictures do not show well, and nobody asks that they should. The evening is merely a procession through the rooms, like a march around the table before dinner. You look at the tempting dishes and snuff the savory odors, but you do not propose to taste until you are quietly seated; and it is not on the evening of a private view that you are quietly seated.

The next day, perhaps, or some bewitching April morning-so perfect a swallow that you must needs believe in summer- -you ascend those sparkling steps, pass the handsome portal, and taking out your critical pencil, you buy a catalogue. If somebody nudges a friend, and whispers to him as he points furtively at you, "There's a critic," you can hardly resist the temptation of stopping at the head of the grand staircase, and saying audibly to the spectators: "Heaven forbid, gentle Sirs and Mesdames! It is only an observer who likes to look at pictures, and who loves several painters. He has come to look at the exhibition and say what he thinks of it. His opinion is as valuable as that of the next man or woman; and if he expresses it aloud in print, do the types make it any the truer ? The types merely lift his voice so that his friends in California, in Maine, in Iowa, and in Texas can hear what he has to say, and learn at least the names of the painters who have maintained or who have begun to make their fame."

Having closed your few remarks you proceed to express your impressions of the pictures in the following manner-the grave, sententious, methodical manner of those admirable but terrible persons who are really critics.

The Forty-first Exhibition of the National Academy of Design is now open. It is not superior to some late previous exhibitions, but there seem to us to be fewer very poor pictures. The full-length portrait is absent this year, which is a pleasant variety; and the old distribution of the pictures into portraits and landscapes is fairly abolished by the increasing number of interesting genre subjects and of special scenes.

the old church, skillfully executed. Near by Mr.
Elliott's bold and broad touch assures us that he
means still to dispute the palm of the master of por-
traits, while Mr. Eastman Johnson hangs a tender
little song upon the walls in "Comfort in Weari-
ness." It is a young mother in a poor room bent
across the cradle of her infant. Every detail is af-
fectionately painted, and with that exquisite free-
dom from exaggeration which shows calm and con-
scious power. The exact contrast of this impression
is produced by Mr. E. Benson's "Cloud Towers,"
which must be called a strictly sensational picture.
Mr. Johnson's two other works in the exhibition,
"Sunday Morning" and "Fiddling his Way," are
equally delightful. The latter, of course, from the
similarity of the subject, recalls Wilkie's Blind Fid-
dler, but Mr. Johnson's is as purely American as
Wilkie's is Scotch. The eye and heart would never
tire of either. The exquisite skill with which the
various aspects of childish pleasure are appreciated
and represented in "Fiddling his Way" is sustained
in "Sunday Morning" by a kindred insight.
youth leaning back in his chair and twirling the
ring upon his finger, the sweet, sober maiden at his
side, the utter jollity of the two frolicsome but quiet
children behind their mother, the old people and
the younger, and the very Sunday in the air, which
broods over the picture, are all charming and sim-
ple and obvious, but to show them as they are, that
is to paint pictures.

The

In "The Gun Foundry," by J. F. Weir, we have a striking picture by a son whose promise illuminates his father's fame. In the exhibitions of twenty years ago the father's pictures were always notable, and it is now clear that in future exhibitions the son's are to be so. Mr. Weir has chosen for his subject the interior of the Cold Spring Foundry at the moment of casting a huge Parrott gun. In the fore-ground the stalwart workmen are superintending the pouring of the molten metal into the mould. The glare is fierce, the sparks fly upward into the vast dusky heights of the building, while far away in the distance other workmen at other furnaces are Mr. Heade's "Brazilian Humming- Birds" are revealed like Cyclops at their toil. As in witnessvery interesting from the novelty of the subject and ing the scene itself, so in looking at the picture the the delicate fidelity of the treatment; and "Rural music of Schiller's Song of the Bell begins to roll Felicity," by Howard Hill, is a careful and con- through your mind. The subject is treated with scientious picture of a familiar scene. In the same the closest fidelity. It is a transcript of the actual outer gallery hangs a bold charcoal drawing, evi-grim and glowing event, and not adorned, as in dently a portrait, by Wm. M. Hunt, who in the large room has another portrait. They are both free and vigorous, and show Mr. Hunt's admiration of the French school in which he was trained. An absolute contrast to this school in the spirit and philosophy of art is found in the pencil drawing of a Cat by Miss M. J. M'Donald, and "Strawberry Leaves" by R. J. Pattison, who also exhibits an **Oriole" and a "Tortoise." These last are strictly of the Pre-Raphaelite style; but better than either is "Young Mullen" by the same artist. Mul

Turner's daring picture of the casting of Wellington's statue, by any purely fanciful accessories.

Near by hangs Mr. Winslow Homer's "Brush Harrow." The tone of this picture is very lowtoo low, it seems to us-but the healthful reality of all Mr. Homer's works is delightful. Indeed his other contribution, "Prisoners from the Front," is to many the most thoroughly pleasing picture in the Exhibition. It is not large, but it is full of character and interest. A group of rebel prisoners confront a young Union General, who questions

So is Mr. Griswold's "The Last of the Ice." A gray fog muffles the headlands of the river, upon which float a few fragments of ice. Mr. Griswold already stands among the first of the landscapists.

But what shall we do? We are only at the entrance of the large room, where hang portraits by Huntington and Hicks and Stone and Elliott and Hunt, and Mayer's "Love's Melancholy," and Gignoux's large picture of Mont Blanc, and Cropsey's "Gettysburg," and M'Entee's autumnal landscapes, full of the very soul of October; and beyond is the West Room, with some of Colman's Spanish architecture and young Parton's "Adirondack," and a cloud more of works that can not even be named. Of what we mention we can not speak further, except to say that the painters still hold their own.

them. The central figure of the group is a young | rising. It is in his best vein. South Carolinian of gentle breeding and graceful aspect, whose fair hair flows backward in a heavy sweep, and who stands, in his rusty gray uniform, erect and defiant, without insolence, a truly chivalric and manly figure. Next him, on the right, is an old man, and beyond him the very antipodal figure of the youth in front-a "corn-cracker"rough, uncouth, shambling, the type of those who have been true victims of the war and of the slavery that led to it. At the left of the young Carolinian is a Union soldier-one of the Yankees, whose face shows why the Yankees won, it is so cool and clear and steady. Opposite this group stands the officer with sheathed sword. His composed, lithe, and alert figure, and a certain grave and cheerful confidence of face, with an air of reserved and tranquil power, are contrasted with the subdued eagerness You see, Sirs and Mesdames, that it is not a critic of the foremost prisoner. The men are both young; who has been strolling through the rooms. It is they both understand each other. They may be only a visitor like yourselves, who looks thankeasily taken as types, and, without effort, final vic-fully at the feast of color and form so plenteously tory is read in the aspect of the blue-coated soldier. It will not diminish the interest of the picture if the spectator should see in the young Union officer General Barlow.

spread, and departs grateful for the enjoyment. He sees, not without regret, that the Pre-Raphaelite brethren are very imperfectly represented-that Leutze is altogether absent, and that Gray has but

of the greater general richness of development which the Exhibition of 1866 indicates. Academies may not make great artists; but this Academy certainly gives them a chance to show what they have done.

Mr. S. R. Gifford's rich yellow "October After-three cabinet portraits. But there can be no doubt noon" is mellow and broad. The warm, gorgeous light hangs over the boundless woods pierced by the gleaming stream; but there is an air of "composition" in the picture which harms it, although it has all the characteristic excellences of the artist's manipulation. The collection of Mr. Suydam's pictures tenderly recalls that modest man, that sincere and devoted artist, whose spotless memory will be always faithfully cherished by his companions of the Academy. The pictures are among his best in that special line of tranquil coast scenery of which he was so fond.

FIFTY-SIX years ago Thomas Carlyle, a boy of fourteen, came to Edinburgh University. George III. was completing the fiftieth year of his reign. Wellington was drawing the lines of Torres Vedras. Napoleon was at the height of his power, and England at the depth of her weakness. The Tory Quarterly had been established the year before. Scott's "Lady of the Lake" was just published, and Byron was writing "Childe Harold." Between that time and this, more than half a century, the young student has placed his name among the first of Scotland, and will be always recognized as one of the masters of literature in his century.

But those who remember with what a fresh and stirring voice, like the note of a bugle at morning, Carlyle awakened their hope and faith and enthu

In a certain tenderness and tranquillity of feeling Mr. Suydam's pictures always suggest those of his friend Kensett, of whom he was so fond, and who exhibits a "Lake George," full of his peculiar merits. There is an exquisiteness of sentiment in the forms of this picture which is the truest mark of Kensett's hand, and which none of his friends surpass; and with it is that sincerity which is the chief charm in every work of art. Mr. Elihu Vedder's "Monk in Tuscany" is, like his "Fiesole Land-siasm-who recall how gladly and confidently they scape near Florence," full of a broad clear daylight. leaned upon the vigorous, manly arm of the MenBoth are bold and of a masterly firmness, and the tor who was to guide them safely through the bemonk is a work thoroughly characteristic of Italy, wildering charms of Calypso's isle, and whose steady like a scrap of Browning. So, too, in Mr. Cranch's reproving eye would surely reduce every fair and "In the Harbor of Venice," which is the best work false Lamia to the snake, can not but read with inexhibited by him for some time; there is a local expressible sadness the words in which he spoke to feeling as well as specific fidelity which are truly the youth of to-day at his late inauguration as Reccharming. Mr. Cranch has so thoroughly "felt" tor of the University of Edinburgh. But before we Venice that his Venetian pictures are very satisfac-speak of them let us see him as he was described tory. Mr. Church exhibits only one small picture by a shrewd observer when his moment came to -"A Glimpse of the Caribbean Sea from the Ja- speak: maica Mountains;" but from some peculiarity of treatment the curve of the distant shore seen from laced rectorial gown, left it on his chair, and stepped quiet"Mr. Carlyle rose at once, shook himself out of his goldabove looks like a precipice in profile, and singu-ly to the table, and drawing his tall, bony frame into a polarly confuses the eye. But the tropical character of the Gulf scenery is unerringly represented by the obedient hand of the master who has so carefully studied it. Mr. Hennessy's "In Memoriam" is a delicate, ghostly work, but the fancy is not agreeable, while his "Drifting" is one of his mostly delightful works. A youth stretched in the bow of a boat gazes at two maidens seated in the stern, and all of them drift upon a sluggish stream by a twilight pasture, over which the watery moon is

sition of straight perpendicularity not possible to one man in five hundred at seventy years of age, he began to speak quietly and distinctly, but nervously. There was a slight flush on his face, but he bore himself with composure and dignity, and in the course of half an hour he was obviousbeginning to feel at his ease, so far, at least, as to have adequate command over the current of his thought. He spoke on quite freely and easily, hardly ever repeated a word, never looked at a note, and only once returned to finish up a topic from which he had deviated. He apologized for not having come with a written discourse. It

was usual, and 'it would have been more comfortable for me just at present;' but he had tried it and could not satisfy himself, and as the spoken word comes from the heart,' he had resolved to try that method. What he said in words will be learned otherwise than from me.

I

could not well describe it; but I do not think I ever heard any address that I should be so unwilling to blot from my memory. Not that there was much in it that can not be found in his writings, or inferred from them; but the manner of the man was a key to the writings, and for naturalness and quiet power I have never seen any thing to compare with it. He did not deal in rhetoric. He talked-it was continuous, strong, quiet talk-like a patriarch about to leave the world to the young lads who had chosen him and were just entering the world. His voice is a soft, downy voice-not a tone in it is of the shrill, fierce kind that one would expect it to be in reading the latter-day pamphlets. There was not a trace of effort or of affecta- | tion, or even of extravagance. Shrewd common-sense there was in abundance. There was the involved disrupted style also, but it looked so natural that reflection was needed to recognize in it that very style which purists find to be un-English and unintelligible. Over the angles of this disrupted style rolled not a few cascades of humor -quite as if by accident. He let them go, talking on in his soft, downy accents, without a smile; occasionally for an instant looking very serious, with his dark eyes beating like pulses, but generally looking merely composed and kindly, and, so to speak, father-like. He concluded by reciting his own translation of a poem of Goethe:

The future hides in it good hap and sorrow.

er he applauds. If the stricken fighter rests upon his hand,

"And sees his young barbarians all at play,"

this heart, indignant at the human folly that makes the scene possible, is steeled, and by tragical inversion of feeling, sneers at the deepest, divinest emotion of the spectacle as sentimentality. So at last the genius that vindicated Burns has come to shout hosannas to Frederick the Great. The hand that describes with painful detail the conquest of Saxony and the causeless campaigns in Silesia, protrudes from the dust bins in which it is fumbling to snap its fingers at the civil war in America as the burning of a foul chimney. There is no more pitiful tale in literature than that of Thomas Carlyle; and so deep is the sense of his sincerity that indignation is lost in sadness.

His Edinburgh discourse was spoken without He inculnotes, and occupied an hour and a half. cated diligence, honesty, fidelity, obedience, humility, and, before all and over all, silence. "Silence is the eternal duty of a man." Oratory, in his judgment, is Beelzebub's most efficient organ at the present time. England and America are two great countries, but they are gone mostly away to wind and tongue. Health, too, that is half the game. You must keep your health if you would do any thing. But if you propose to do any thing you must not expect to keep your health. There are a few great books which every man should read, and Carlyle said nobly that the end of study is not knowledge but wisdom.

And this he did in a style of melancholy grandeur not to be described, but still less to be forgotten. It was then alone that the personality of the philosopher and poet were revealed continuously in his manner of utterance. The features of his face are familiar to all from his portraits. But I do not think any portrait, unless, perhaps, Woolner's medallion, gives full expression to the resolution that is visible in his face. Besides, they all make him look sad-Louis Napoleon's Cæsarism. There is something der and older than he appears. Although he be threescore and ten his hair is still abundant and tolerably black, and there is considerable color in his cheek. Not a man of his age on that platform to-day looked so young;

and he had done more work than any ten on it."

As for government, Thomas Carlyle's doctrine is

exquisitely absurd in his sitting at the feet of the hero of Strasbourg and Boulogne. The man who by hook or by crook can succeed in making himself Dictator, he is the man for your homage. His illustration, however, is not Julius Cæsar or NapoWe can not feel with the acute analyst of Car-leon, but Oliver Cromwell. And then, he quotes lyle in the April North American that he has be-Machiavelli against Democracy. He does not ask come mechanical or factitious. It is the same face his hearers to agree with the Italian, but it was we knew, but grown haggard instead of hopeful, gloomy instead of glowing. The inextricable snarl of things at which his youth protested with a fire that foreshowed the power to consume has conquered him, and he lies prostrate, but it is the sinewy form of a true warrior that we see.

nevertheless Machiavelli's opinion that the mass of men can not govern themselves. Undoubtedly; and it was also the opinion of Lord Eldon, and Lord Sidmouth, and Lord Londonderry, and Lord Normanby-of George III. also, and Dr. Johnson-of King Bomba, and Count Bismarck. Cavour, we imagine, was quite as wise as Machiavelli. What did Cavour think of Cæsarism?

It is true that he seems to acknowledge no power now but brute force; but it is that force inspired with a sincere and even religious purpose of doing No preacher of the church of Cæsar ever attempts the best that the wretched circumstances allow. to answer the one vital question-how is he to be The enormity that one human will should assert it- found without deranging the whole order of sociself remorselessly by shot and shell, that a worm ety? Select any Cæsar you please, Julius or Nashould ape divinity and prove its Godhead by sting-poleon, or Frederick, or Cromwell, the best of ing, does not appall him. His rage with weakness, them, or the present French representative of that with error, with stupidity, is so overpowering that role; they all come to the purple through crimson. he becomes vindictive; and even innocence, if weak, The state is torn by a sharp civil war, and a certain becomes to him despicable, not because he hates in- executive energy and military genius and indomitanocence, but because weakness is the source of ble purpose enable Cæsar to emerge and constrain such infinite perplexity. On the other hand, it is anarchy as he chooses. But these divine gifts of not the brutishness of the force, it is its energy, its the dictator are individual. They can not be transorganizing and executive quality, its yea for yea, mitted. They can not be known even until occaand nay for nay, its positive determination, with- sion proves them. When the individual dies, thereout which, somewhere, the whole scheme of things fore, since masses of men can not govern themdrifts to destruction, which commands his fierce ap- selves, they must relapse into anarchy until the plause. The world has become to him a gladiatori-heaven-appointed successor rises to the surface. al arena-it is a vast humming Coliseum, and when But is it, after all, the perfection of wisdom to fire the vanquished falls Carlyle turns his terrible thumb your house whenever a fire-engine gives out for and shrieks for the death-blow. Yet he would as the mere purpose of discovering which of the rewillingly see the victor vanquished. It is the pow-mainder has the longest squirt? If the Court may

be supposed to know some law, the world, if not as Carlyle, who has talked so much and so effectivevery wise, may be supposed to have learned some-ly, so vociferously talk against talking? thing. The question is not whether a good governor is a good governor, but whether Cæsarism has any where established permanent and progressive peace and justice. It is no answer to say that popular governments do not escape war and trouble. That the new shoes pinch does not prove that the old shoes did not leak.

Mr. Carlyle in this address is, as usual, the laureate of silence; indeed he talked for an hour and a half mainly to inculcate silence as the cardinal virtue. He was grimly witty about it, and it must have been delightful to hear the scornful thunders of his Scottish brogue against talking. "Oh, it is a dismal chapter all that," he exclaimed, "if one went into it-what has been done by rushing into fine speech.....There is very great necessity, indeed, of getting a little more silent than we are. It seems to me the finest nations in the world, the English and the American, are going all away into wind and tongue. But it will appear sufficiently tragical by-and-by, long after I am away out of it. Silence is the eternal duty of a man....If a good speaker an eloquent speaker-is not speaking the truth, is there a more horrid kind of object in creation?.... An excellent speaker of that kind is, as it were, saying, 'Ho, every one that wants to be persuaded of the thing that is not true, come hither! I would recommend you to be very chary of that kind of excellent speech."

Of the many wise and witty and useful lessons in the discourse we do not speak, for we hope they have been faithfully read and pondered by all those who do not allow any wild phrase of so true a genius to obscure the value of such criticism as Carlyle's.

MR. DICKENS evidently seems so persuaded that Americans are hostile to him, and he has unquestionably for so long a time cherished a feeling toward us which is not exactly friendly, that he is not very likely to cross the sea again to visit us. Yet now that the war has antiquated and made obsolete so much that preceded it, we can surely, on our side, forget any quarrel with Dickens. If he did draw Elijah Pogram, we sat for the portrait; and sharp and scornful as many of his criticisms were, we can hardly deny that the facts justified, and alas! too often justify, them.

If he should, however, come to us and read as he does in London from his own works, his success would be so immense that it would surely tempt him could he understand it. In Lady Geraldine's Courtship Mrs. Browning declares that "Poets never fail in reading their own verses to their worth;"

but Dickens's great dramatic genius enables him to read his own works as no one else can. The most delightful account of a reading by him was published a few years ago in this Magazine, and it has long been one of the good fortunes of travel to happen to be in London when he gives an evening.

The

ing or for twenty evenings it is equally fascinating. Indeed we have been reminded of the pleasure we lose and the profit he loses by observing in a late letter from London that Mr. Dickens had reappeared after a considerable absence from the platform. The writer says:

This must have been extremely entertaining to hear, but who is the orator? He is a man who for nearly forty years has been an incessant talker.charm is apparently inexhaustible. For an evenHe has talked often wisely, powerfully, sometimes scornfully and sadly; and that he might be heard the further he has talked with his pen rather than his tongue. For what is speech? Is it not addressing human beings in words; and is a word less forcible or foolish or persuasive because it is written instead of spoken? What are the splendid volumes with which Carlyle's genius has enriched English literature but his spoken opinions upon the subjects that interest him, and upon which he wishes to affect the minds of his countrymen and mankind? And what else are Mr. Gladstone's speeches, or Mr. Bright's, or Lord Derby's?

"Charles Dickens gave one of his readings on Wednesday last-the first for more than two years at Mydellton Hall, Islington, in aid of the funds of a local charity. The place was fairly mobbed. Dickens will be 54 years old next Wednesday. He was born February 7, 1912. It may hardly be news to speak of his personal appearance,

but here it is: He is on the short side of middle height, his hair and beard almost or quite gray, the latter worn after the French or American fashion, with shaven cheeks, the former brought forward and, I should think, elabo

the lines below and about them deeply defined; the eyebrows appeared thick and arched to semicircularity, though this might be from his mobility of features in reading. His nose is of no particular recognized order, odd and full the corners of the mouth very marked and noticeable. at the nostrils, the humorous line running from them to His complexion is not very clear, and reddish about the rather sunken cheeks. He dresses in good taste, quietly, with dainty linen."

But there is another point to be considered in the midst of this loud declamation in favor of silence. If England and America are indeed the finest coun-rately oiled. His eyes are dark, handsome, and vivacious, tries in the world, they are so because of speech and not of silence. They are so because they invite every man to say his say; to out with it, and not repress and suppress until the forces which can not always be more and more restrained explode the whole system of things into chaos. Asia is your silent country. Africa is the mother of silence. How does civilization like them? Count Bismarck means to make Prussia silent if he can. Count Bismarck is merely sitting on the safety-valve, and if he perseveres he or his successor will suddenly go flying skyward in several pieces. In this country, too, we had a system that imposed silence. Speech was as fatal to it as a spark to gunpowder. But speech touched it, and has blown it to destruction with a report distinctly audible to the Rector and faculty of the University of Edinburgh.

The truth is that speech is the salvation of civilization; and in every country we say better foolish speech than none at all, for the liberty of speech and nothing else secures the peaceful progress of society. Why, then, should so tremendous a talker

THE Easy Chair has often mentioned the Century Club, the Club that especially and fondly preserves the traditions of literature and art, counting among its members most of the conspicuous artists and many of the authors of the city of New York. A Centurian of fifteen or twenty years' membership recalls many an evening, many a feast, which are registered in memory with golden letters. such recently occurred on the birthday of Shakespeare, the three hundred and second anniversary, when a dinner was eaten in memory of the poet.

One

The table was laid in the great room of the Club, a noble banqueting-hall, and forty or fifty guests

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