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draws in his mind between Ludlow street and life on the farm he does not say as he ducks his head under the low branches that overhang the wagontrack, and joyously fires a half-eaten apple at his chum. Consciously, perhaps, none. Youth is the thoughtless age. But, with or without his knowledge, the comparison is drawn, and fixed upon his mind, between the dark slum and the hills in their autumnal glory; between the filthy gutter and the brook that meanders through the green meadow with murmured speech. He understands without being taught, for all he was born in a tenement.

Will, another of the boys, only a few weeks from the city, runs anxiously, at sight of the camera, for his bull-calf, to get it "took." The two have formed a compact which some day the butcher's knife will sever at the risk of grievously wounding Will's heart. It is based on mutual affection and respect. Unhappily his 'other half" is too far afield, and

misses the chance of his life.

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Up on the hill the new building in which the boys are to be housed is nearing completion. In a few weeks it will be ready to receive as many as forty boarders, for whom the farm will furnish enough work, summer and winter, during their stay of two or three months. The old house has room hardly for a dozen. The great house is more striking of architecture, perhaps, than handsome. It has something in its square outlines and pillared porch to suggest the manor of a day that is past. When the grounds are laid out about it in something else than weeds, and trees are planted, it may even attain to some pretensions to beauty. Within it is commodious, and answers its purpose well. There are great, light dormitories, broad halls, and cheery school-rooms. The view from its windows west is toward the distant Hudson, sometimes discerned in brief glimpses of shining silver against the horizon, with a suggestion of the Highlands in the bold outlines of the blue hills. At the south end of the building the windows of a sunlit room look out upon an orchard lot, yellow with ripening pumpkins, and a litter of fat pigs rooting in the fence-corner. It is the trustees' room, full of savory suggestions in the landscape of coming Thanksgiving dinners.

"The building is steam-heated throughout, and well supplied with water for the wash-room, that is the moral as well as the sanitary pivot of the establishment. The first introduction of the new inmate is to the bath-room, the second to a pair of overalls and rubber boots, the third to the farm, and the fourth to the school. The last plays always an important part, usually one that has been sadly neglected in the past. Most of the boys that drift in from the lodging-houses are without father, mother, or home, or say they are, which often means more than proof of their assertion would. They have rarely had any bringing up. Hans was the exception. The farm is to begin the neglected task-rather late, to be sure, but late in this case is distinctly

better than never. in the field they are studying in the class-room. Most of them have much to learn. All of them must begin by learning to obey promptly and cheerfully.

When the boys are not working


"The routine of the house leaves no time or chance for idleness. The boys are rung up at 5 a.m. After breakfast there is a brief season of prayer, in which the superintendent leads; then work, dinner, more work, until the time comes, toward evening, for doing the chores. There are the cattle to feed, the horses to look after, and the oxen to be stalled. Then come supper and another prayer-meeting, in which the help take a hand. The stormy days and the evening hours are spent in the reading-room or in amusements. Saturday afternoon is a holiday. The only complaint made by any of the boys to me was of the school, although the older boys do not attend, and the younger ones only half a day.”


HOW TO COUNTERACT THE "YELLOW BACK." N the Fortnightly Review Mr. Hugh Chisholm writes on the "Penny Dreadful," or that class of cheap literature known in the United States as the "yellow back." He thinks that something might be done in England by means of suppression, and he advocates that the efficacy of the criminal law should be tested by instituting a prosecution against some of the serious offenders. He suggests that something should be done in improving the Board Schools, especially in their moral and religious training. Board schools, he thinks, should be made more like public schools; teachers ought to have more control over the children, who should be organized into houses, so that the teachers might arrange for the pupils to have plenty to occupy their leisure. He admits this is rather hard on the teachers, but thinks it might be arranged somehow.

There is more sense in his suggestion as to what might be done to promote a supply of good reading. He says: "The best way to counteract the 'penny dreadful' is to provide an equally attractive substitute, and the teachers might do a great deal by seeing that the young folk should have access to a good supply of healthy fiction.


"There are, surely, ways too of supplying the multitude with good fiction as cheaply as with bad. When the schoolboy can get the 'Prisoner of Zenda' for a penny he will not be obliged to buy the only thing which that modest sum will now procure in the market, some choice morsel like 'Sweeny Todd' or Jem Bludsoe.' Some day, when, as Sir Walter Besant has told us, readers will be counted by tens of millions, the authors and publishers will have no business to sell their wares at the prices still current. Popular authors of ephemeral fiction now make a great deal more money than their labors are really worth, compared with the equal or greater efforts of workers and artists in other lines. But

when the inevitable reaction comes they will be glad to reduce their prices and make their profit by means of an enormous cheap circulation. Besides, as copyrights run out, the dead hand will compete with the living, and the enormous mass of readable fiction published in the last fifty years will of necessity bring the new authors into a proper perspective. With Penny Populars like Dickens, Thackeray, Scott, the two Kingsleys, Marryat, Whyte, Melville, Lytton, G. P. R. James, Wilkie Collins, Grant (how I loved the 'Romance of War' when I was a schoolboy !), and all the rest of them, including Stevenson, Rider Haggard, and Sir Walter Besant himself, the well directed young glutton for fiction in the next century will have the very best chance of neglecting the rubbish heap of badly written and clumsy sensationalism to which the protection of better literature by the Copyright act has resulted in confining the larger number of the poor in our own day."



HERE is, in the Christmas Atlantic Monthly, a readable paper by Lucy C. Bull, which, under the title "Being a Typewriter," gives for once the subject from the point of view of the amanuensis. She objects to the construction of typewriting machines solely with a view to the exigencies of sordid trade.


"Is it not a little curious, when we reflect upon it, that a machine which is beginning to supplement the labors of clergymen, lecturers and contributors to the magazines should continue to be constructed almost entirely in accordance with the demands of business? Does it seem reasonable that the number of characters, the marks of punctuation, the entire typographical capacity of that piece of mechanism to which, directly or indirectly, the man of science confides his conclusions, should be prescribed by the flour merchant and the dealer in all kinds of property except manuscripts? A language-lover, to whom no syllable of his native tongue is without charm and significance, from the most classic to the most colloquial of its utterances, falls to wondering what sort of typewriter would have found favor at Athens, supposing Hermes to have lighted upon the invention, and Athena to have seen fit to bestow it. A machine without accents and with the fewest possible marks of punctuation (for it is only at the request of the purchaser that luxuries like the dash, the diæresis, and the exclamation point are provided), a machine that discarded the breathings, as an additional expense or hindrance to speed, and in which the minimum of attention had been paid to typographical excellence, would hardly have met the requirements of a public which could not endure the mispronunciation of a word on the part of an actor. After a twofold experience, covering a fifth of my

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One does usually conceive of stenography and typewriting as primarily devices for gaining speed; but Miss Bull thinks that this strength has become their weakness.

"To my mind, the setback that the art of typewriting has received from business, and which is perhaps keeping the present machines as far behind the machine of the future as the clavichord and harpsichord fell behind the piano, is mainly owing to the supposition that speed is the chief end of typewriting, and not merely one of its many uses. There could hardly be a more telling illustration of the erroneous nineteenth-century notion that nothing is worth doing unless it can be done quickly. I observe that a high rate of speed in travel, in letter-writing, in reading aloud, in the acquirement of knowledge, is precisely most prevalent and highly prized in that country where the arts are least flourishing, or when they do put forth blossoms, as painting is now doing in America, are least appreciated.


"In a word, the possibilities of stenography are so limited that its use will always be confined to a class of people who, in mental stature, like the slaves that took down the orations of Cicero, can seldom come up to those who dictate to them. But in typewriting this need not be the case. It is now, because typewriting is confined to a limited class; but let the typewriter become as popular as the piano, and the absurdity of entrusting the transcription of important manuscripts to young men and women untrained in their mother tongue will be apparent to every one. Would it be reasonable to engage a man for gardener who knew nothing about plants, trees, pruning, watering, fertilization? Is it not ill done to employ for the manipulation of words and sentences a person who cannot always be trusted to spell correctly, who knows nothing whatever about punctuation, who cannot make out obscure handwriting, and to whom every foreign phrase, every line of poetry, every other proper name, is a stumblingblock? What would be my sensations were I obliged to put even this modest article which I am now preparing into the hands of a copyist? All I know is that, until the agony was over, I should not get a single night's sleep.

"I do not, I trust, underrate the importance of music as a factor in education, yet I look for a time when the piano will be less common than the typewriter, and when the use of the latter will be taught to children as a matter of course, and at an age when it is customary to teach them the alphabet from books."


IN the Christmas Scribner's Captain C. J. Meliss

recounts his observations of the ferocious wild beasts which grow to perfection in the Eastern countries. This new Sir Samuel Baker says:

THE WAY LIONS, TIGERS AND PANTHERS KILL. "Lions, tigers and panthers kill in the same manner, usually by seizing the throat, and so dragging the beast to the ground. Sometimes I have found claw-marks on the withers when the kill has been a big animal such as water buffaloes, showing that the beast has sprung on its back first and then buried its teeth in the throat. Death is caused sometimes by a broken neck, but more often, I am inclined to think, by suffocation. I have been within a few feet of a lion as he killed a donkey. The weight of the lion's body of course dashed the donkey to the ground, but from the gasping sound I heard—it was too dark to see-I think the donkey was choked to death.

Once I saw, in broad daylight, a panther seize a goat. It was the work of an instant. The panther rushed in, made a complete somersault with the goat in his jaws, then sprang up, dropping the goat, which lay still with a broken neck. But then again I heard a panther kill a goat at night, when the poor animal's cries told of prolonged agony, as if it was being eaten alive.

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"I have heard a tiger's charge described as a series of bounds, but as I have never had the distinction of being charged by one I can give no opinion. From lions I have received the attention several times. On such occasions when a yellow body, all muscle and bone, and weighing some five hundred pounds, is rushing into you with tremendous force, the mind is naturally so intensely concentrated on one's aim that it is not likely to take in details, and I should be sorry to assert positively that a lion does not come at one by leaps. But the impression I gathered from those exhilarating moments was that the lion ran in at me with a pounding action of his paws and at a great pace. First impressions are said to be most vivid, and I certainly have a most lively recollection of the following encounter with a lion:


"Giving over my pony to one of the Somalis, I walked slowly toward the lion, bidding Jama to remain in the saddle if he wished, but to keep as near as possible with the second gun. Very cautious and slow was my approach, for I did not want to bring on a charge before I had got in a shot, and it looked as if a too rapid advance would do so, for the lion, without stirring an inch, kept up a series of snarls and growls, giving me an excellent view of his teeth, accompanied all the while by short, sharp flicks of his tail on the ground. I walked up to within fifty yards of him, hoping to shoot him dead at that distance and so avoid a charge. I then sat down and fired at him between the eyes, jumping to my feet

instinctively to be ready if he charged. It was not a bit too soon. At the shot the lion sprang up with a furious roar. I had a lightning glimpse of him rear ing up on his hind legs pawing the air; then he came for me. It was a fierce rush across the ground, no springing that I could see. How close we got before I fired I cannot say, but it was very close. I let him come on, aiming the muzzles of the rifle at his chest. Jama says he was about to spring as I pulled the trigger and ran back a pace or two to one side; but as I did so I saw through the smoke that the lion was stopped within a few paces of me. The second gun and Jama were not as near as they might have been. The lion struggled up on his hind quarters uttering roars.

"I rammed two fresh cartridges into my rifle in an instant and fired my right into him. The grand brute fell over dying. The Somalis set up a wild yell, and I am not sure I did not join in.


"The lion does not appear to possess the wariness of a tiger. He will dash into a tied-up bait in the most headstrong manner, heedless of the hunter seated behind a screen of bushes, whose presence, with his keen powers of smell, he cannot fail to detect. From what I have heard and seen of his habits

I should say he was a bolder animal than the tiger, but by that I do not mean a more dangerous one. In one respect, perhaps, he is less dangerous than either tiger or panther; for I am inclined to think that it is not so much his habit to feed on putrid flesh as either of the two latter, and consequently does not kill by blood-poisoning after mauling his foe so often as the other two do. Of late years, since Africa has become more accessible to sportsmen, one hears frequently of lions getting the best of it and leaving their adversary fairly well mangled; but in nearly all the cases I have heard of the mauled man recovers, whereas in India, as surely as the hot season and its accompaniment, tiger-shooting, come round, tiger and panther score several deaths, usually by blood-poisoning consequent to a mauling received from one of the two.


"An English officer was shooting recently in Somaliland. One night, when he was in bed inside his tent, a lion sprang over the rough thorn fence, which it is usual to throw up around one's encampment at night. Instead of picking up one of the men or animals that must have been lying about asleep inside the fence, he would have none but the sportsman himself, made a dash into his tent, and seized him-fortunately only by the hand. Then, by some wonderful piece of luck, as the lion changed his grip for the shoulder, he grabbed the pillow instead, and so vanished with his prize. The pillow was found next morning several hundred yards distant in the jungle, and outside were also the spoor of a lioness, who had evidently been awaiting the return of her lord with something eatable."


MISS TARBELL'S "Life of Abraham Lincoln "

becomes, in the December number of McClure's, chiefly a collection of good anecdotes about her hero of the time, in 1830, when the Lincoln family moved from Indiana to Southern Illinois. She describes the manner of their exodus.


"The company which emigrated to Illinois included the families of Thomas Lincoln, Dennis Hanks -married to one of Lincoln's step-sisters-and Levi Hall, thirteen persons in all. They sold land, cattle, and grain, and much of their household goods, and were ready in March of 1830 for their journey. All the possessions which the three families had to take with them were packed into a big wagon-the first one Thomas Lincoln had ever owned, it is said-to which four oxen were attached, and the caravan started. The weather was still cold, the streams were swollen, and the roads were muddy, but the party started out bravely. Inured to hardships, alive to all the new sights on their route, every day brought them amusement and adventures, and especially to young Lincoln the journey must have been of keen interest. He drove the oxen on this trip, he tells us, and, according to a story current in Gentryville, he succeeded in doing a fair peddler's business on the route. Captain William Jones, in whose father's store Lincoln had spent so many hours in discussion and in story-telling, and for whom he had worked the last winter he was in Indiana, says that before leaving the State Abraham invested all his money, some thirty-odd dollars, in notions. Though the country through which they expected to pass was but sparsely settled he believed he could dispose of them. 'A set of knives and forks was the largest item entered on the bill,' says Mr. Jones; 'the other items were needles, pins, thread, buttons, and other little domestic necessities. When the Lincolns reached their new home, near Decatur, Ill., Abraham wrote back to my father, stating that he had doubled his money on his purchases by selling them along the road. Unfortunately we did not keep that letter, not thinking how highly we would have prized it years afterward.'


"The pioneers were a fortnight on their journey. The route they took we do not exactly know, though we may suppose that it would be that by which they would avoid the most watercourses. We know from Mr. H. C. Whitney that the travelers reached Macon County from the south, for once when he was in Decatur with Mr. Lincoln the two strolled out for a walk, and when they came to the court house; ' Lincoln,' says Mr. Whitney,' walked out a few feet in front, and after shifting his position two or three times, said, as he looked up at the building, partly to himself and partly to me: "Here is the exact spot where I stood by our wagon when we moved from Indiana twenty-six years ago; this isn't six feet from

the exact spot." . . . I asked him if he, at that time, had expected to be a lawyer and practice law in that court house; to which he replied: "No; I didn't know I had sense enough to be a lawyer then." He then told me he had frequently thereafter tried to locate the route by which they had come; and that he had decided that it was near to the line of the main line of the Illinois Central Railroad.'


"The party settled some ten miles west of Decatur, in Macon County. Here John Hanks had the logs already cut for their new home, and Lincoln, Dennis Hanks, and Hall soon had a cabin erected. Mr. Lincoln himself (though writing in the third person) says: Here they built a log cabin, into which they removed, and made sufficient of rails to fence ten acres of ground, fenced and broke the ground, and raised a crop of sown corn upon it the same year. These are, or are supposed to be, the rails about which so much is being said just now, though these are far from being the first or only rails ever made by Abraham.'

"If they were far from being his 'first and only rails,' they certainly were the most famous ones he or anybody else ever split. This was the last work he did for his father, for in the summer of that year (1830) he exercised the right of majority and started out to shift for himself. When he left his home to start life for himself, he went empty handed. He was already some months over twenty-one years of age, but he had nothing in the world, not even a suit of respectable clothes; and one of the first pieces of work he did was 'to split four hundred rails for every yard of brown jeans dyed with white walnut bark that would be necessary to make him a pair of trousers.' He had no trade, no profession, no spot of land, no patron, no influence. Two things recommended him to his neighbors-he was strong, and he was a good fellow.



"His strength made him a valuable laborer. Not that he was fond of hard labor. Mrs. Crawford says: 'Abe was no hand to pitch into work like killing snakes;' but when he did work, it was with an ease and effectiveness which compensated his employer for the time he spent in practical jokes and extemporaneous speeches. He would lift as much as three ordinary men, and 'My, how he would chop !' says Dennis Hanks. His ax would flash and bite into a sugar-tree or sycamore, and down it would come. If you heard him fellin' trees in a clearin', you would say there was three men at work by the way the trees fell.' Standing six feet four, he could out-lift, out-work, and out-wrestle any man he came in contact with. Friends and employers were proud of his strength, and boasted of it, never failing to pit him against any hero whose strength they heard vaunted. He himself was proud of it, and throughout his life was fond of comparing him. self with tall and strong men."


PASTEUR. HE principal article in the Revue des Deux Mondes for October 15 is that upon "The Philosophy of Pasteur," by the Vicomte de Vogüé. Passing entirely over Pasteur's popular discoveries, including in that term those which concern the vegetable kingdom (such as the origin of the disease of the vine) or the remedies indicated by him for some of the worst scourges that afflict humanity, M. de Vogüé confines his attention to those primary discoveries by which, according to him, the French scientist in a great measure revolutionized our conception of the way in which the human body is built up.

A French Estimate of the Great Scientist.

For many years the current of scientific investigation had resulted in what may be roughly called the chemical theory. If animal and vegetable bodies were, as was supposed, the result of chemical


singular discovery which M. de Vogüé notes as the parent of all the rest--namely, that all the molecules of a living organization were dissymetric," while all those pertaining to inorganic matter were regular. Thus the microscope had at length revealed a certain indication of life. Some thinkers have found an analogy between the infinitely small organisms discovered by Pasteur and Claude Bernard, and the human multitudes which form the material of the inodern state. We need not push the idea to an immediate conclusion, but perhaps our children's children will be able to trace a detailed analogy between the building up of the different members of the body politic and that of the different members of the human frame; meanwhile the theory of dead matter traversed by a fleeting soul has passed away: the latest modern science is not materialistic.


affinities, and were to be accepted as varied experi. THE Christmas McClure's contains a sketch of

ments of nature in which the elements of inorganic matter combined to maintain, to transform, and finally to suppress the functions of infused life, then the chemist of the future might look forward to possessing almost illimitable power upon these bodies or organizations, once they were set going. It appeared probable that the day would dawn in which the chemist would become absolute master of the inorganic and invariable constituents of man, and would either know, or be on the brink of knowing, how to reproduce all their combinations; so that those elements which are the immediate agents and servants of vitality might seriously modify the phenomena of life. If he could not actually create its essence, he might at least imitate many of its manifestations, and at any rate control them when they had spontaneously appeared.


Claude Bernard and Pasteur dissipated this 'beautiful dream" by revealing the organic character of the very stuff of which we are made, and over which we may attain only a small measure of control. However humble the organisms of which we are built up may be, we are not able to call the very least into being, although we can prearrange the combinations of gas or evolve the formation of acids or of salts; and even if we could create them, we have no guarantee that they would develop on the lines of what we know as a living being. Claude Bernard said: "I am not able to conceive that a cell spontaneously formed without ancestors could evolve a future, never having had a past." Thus Pasteur appears as the guardian of the ancient mysterious conception of life. As he believed in the immortality of the soul, saying in one notable utterance that we partook of the mystery which envelopes the universe, and which he considered to be eternal in its own nature, so he demonstrated scientifically the unfailing presence of life in what had hitherto been called dead matter.

He was still a young man when he made the

Hall Caine by R. H. Sherard, which is profusely illustrated with pictures of the novelist and of the scenes in which he has done his most famous work. Hall Caine was the son of a blacksmith who had turned his attention to ship work, and had become a skilled mechanic in that line.




He was a precocious lad, and knew no greater delight than to read. The first book that he remembers reading was a bulky tome on the German Ref ormation, about Luther and Melanchton, which he had found. He spent weeks over it, and, staggering under its weight, would carry it out into the hayfield, where, truant to the harvest, he would lie behind the stacks and read and read. One night, indeed, his interest in this book led him to break the rules of his thrifty home--where children went to bed when it was dark, so that candles should not be burned-and light the candles and read on about Luther. He was found thus by one of his aunts, as, pails in hand, she returned home from milking the COWS. Her anger was great. 'Candles lit !' she cried. What's to do? Candles! Wasting candles on reading, on mere reading !' He was beaten and sent to bed, bursting with indignation at such injustice, for he felt that candles were nothing compared to knowledge. He was a bookish boy, wanting in boyishness, and never played games, but spent his time in reading, not boyish books, indeed, but books in which never boy before took interest-histories, theological works, and, in preference, parliamentary speeches of the great orators, which he would afterward rewrite from memory. At a very early age he showed a great passion for poetry and was a great reader of Shakespeare. His talent for reading passages of Shakespeare aloud was such that at the school at Liverpool, where he was educated, his schoolmaster, George Gill, used to make him read aloud before all the boys. This caused

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