Our limited space will not allow even a glance at the particulars of his doings while in office from 1850 till he resigned, at the close of the year 1854, to give himself exclusively to labors of a more general and national character. He had already accomplished as much perhaps as any other individual for the promotion of education in every part of the country. By repeated visits to the chief points of influence, by extensive correspondence and numerous personal conferences with the leading persons connected with the management of systems and institutions of education, by addresses before popular assemblies, literary associations, teachers, and legislative bodies throughout the country, he had done more than any other man to shape the educational policy of the nation. His publications had been numerous, important, and widely disseminated. Besides the "Common School Journal" and reports above alluded to, his work on "School Architecture" had been circulated by tens of thousands, not only throughout America but in Europe, creating a general revolution in public opinion on the subject. His work on "Normal Schools" had been published several years, from which the substance of nearly all documents on the subject since published have been drawn. The volume entitled "National Education in Europe," begun in 1840, and containing about nine hundred closely printed pages, had been published in 1854, a work well described as an "Encyclopaedia of Educational Systems and Methods," and of which the "Westminster Review" speaks as "containing more valuable information and statistics than can be found in any one volume in the English language." But his contributions to educational literature did not stop here.

Scarcely did he find himself relieved from the routine of official life when he projected and immediately entered upon the publication of a still more valuable and important work, viz., the "American Journal of Education." Four large octavo volumes of this Journal are now before the public, and we may safely affirm of it that it is the most valuable and comprehensive educational publication ever printed in the English language, and it will be a lasting disgrace to the teachers and educators of America if it has to be prematurely suspended for want of sufficient patronage. Besides conducting this Journal, he has found time for other labors of a general nature. As president of the American Association for the Advancement of Education, his influence has been widely and beneficially exerted. That his services to the cause of good letters and education have been appreciated in high places may be inferred from the fact that in 1851 he received the honorary degree of Doctor of Law, from the corporation of Yale College, and in the same year from Union College, and in the year following from Harvard University.

* * * * *

[Mr. Barnard's subsequent labors and successes, including his services in connection with the United States Bureau of Education, will be the subject of another article, which will be accompanied by a portrait from a photograph recently taken.—ED.]



A DAUGHTER OF THE PURITANS.

BY ANNA B. BENSEL.

"Have you known sorrow?" "No." "Then this sketch is not for you."

In one of the loveliest towns in New England there stood, many years ago, a large, old-fashioned, rambling house, known to all the villagers as the old Vincent Manor. It was such an old place, full of strange, dark corners and winding halls; a place that would have been famous for a game of hide-and-seek; but there were no children to roam at will over the house, to laugh out of its dusky corners, or to set the high rafters a-ring with noise. It had stood there—the house—before and after the Revolution. It had been turned into a small garrison more than once. Its walls had heard anxious councils, as men of strong nerve and resolute will made their vows of independence. Stately dames and grand gentlemen, in powder and ball dress, in ruffles and periwigs, had paced its weird corridors, or danced the slow minuet in its great salon.

But now all was changed, and Mistress Marjory—as the neighbors called her—lived alone in the old manor, the last of all her kin. She was a tall, pale woman, bearing in her stately, gracious ways all the trace of her proud ancestry, living alone, yet living for others, helping the poor and the suffering, answering the call of sorrow everywhere it reached her, loving and beloved. And her story—The story I learned one day in the great drawing-room at Vincent Manor! Ah, well, after all, perhaps it will not interest you as much as it did me. All lives have their sorrows; does the telling of one matter, after all?

But perhaps the charm and the pathos lay in the way Mistress Marjory told it, sitting in the shadows before the open wood fire, with her hands, so seldom idle, folded listlessly in her lap, and her beautiful gray eyes looking far into the past. What a pretty picture she was in her black silk dress, with its lace kerchief crossed on her bosom, with her hair, white as snow, drawn back high from her brow! I like to think of her as she looked that night so long ago.

And so it is that I think you may like the story best if I tell it to you in her own words, just as she told it to me. So here it is:—

"My child-life was one full of excitement, yet little pleasure. What with our struggles between hostile Indians and the soldiers of King George, we had small time for play or serenity of living. Yet perhaps we children enjoyed our play hours more than do those of the present time, for they were so few and far between,—those peaceful, happy days,—they were treasured all the more. Of the many strange events that happened in those far-off years I have no time to tell you now. My parents had seven children—there were six boys. I was the only daughter, and next to the youngest, who was my favorite brother, one year my junior, sunny, brave-hearted, and loyal in all things.

"While the men were at work in the fields, and women busy in the house, the children on different homesteads kept watch for Indians. My brothers, of course, took turns on our place; and sometimes in the harvest days, when many hands were needed out doors, and I was not helping my mother in spinning the flax, I was set on the lookout. Those were days when the stoutest heart among us would quail at times, for danger and horror were on every side; and I—well, I was none of the bravest. But on the days when Harold knew I would be most likely put on guard he would contrive so as to have his work near the house, and so watch over me. In order to do so he would rise before the rest, and going alone in his far corner of the field,—his only defence a faithful dog, and a trusty rifle over which the dog kept watch while his master worked,—he would finish his field labor for the day by the time I was ready for my task. It was a mutual understanding between himself and my father that this should be; and I think that while my parents feared for the boy's safety they were proud of his courage that dared so much for love.

"Well, we grew as children grow, through war and peace, through storm and calm. And when the first gun of independence was fired on Bunker Hill my father and brothers armed themselves and joined the numbers there. Two of my brothers were killed outright in their first encounter with Gage's men. In the third battle another was taken prisoner, and with four others tried for 'treason against the king,' and shot. My mother was a type of the bravest women of that period, but I thought she would have died then, for he was her eldest born, upon whom she had always looked with pride.

"I was eighteen then, and my heart and hands were full; but so were those of many another woman. In that time girls were women and boys were men; it was needed so, you may be sure. Well, after a while the struggle was over, you know, and they came home,—father, Robert, George, and Hal. We were expecting them, and stood at the door watching,—mother and I. And then—and then—we saw them coming, not in triumph, as we expected, but slowly, a mournful little procession. We saw father, Robert, and George, and a few neighbors, and they were bearing a burden we could not see.

"They came nearer, and then I heard mother's awful shriek, that rings in my dreams even now; but I stood there still; all my heart seemed turned to stone. 'Seven wounds,' I heard them say, 'and the last was mortal.' O Harry, my boy—my boy! He looked up and smiled faintly, as they bore him past me into this very room, and laid him on that couch yonder. My boy! I had never seen him so white and weak,—he who had been so strong always. All my strength seemed gone, and I sank beside him as he held out his hand for me to come to him. He was but a lad in years, but he had a power of earnest courage many men of riper years do not possess. Shot six times, he had insisted upon returning, after the dressing of each wound, to the struggle going on so fiercely, heeding nothing, fearing nothing, until, in that last battle, he had received the seventh wound,—the seventh and the last. He lived two days after they brought him home; and his sufferings! I shudder now when I think of them. He died as he had lived,—strong and brave to the last. He was a handsome lad, and he was beautiful in death. Oh, how I missed him! how I have missed him all these years! Yet as I stood alone, bending over the coffin, before they bore him out of the dear home forever, I knew all his terrible pain was over, and through blinding tears I thanked God as I have never thanked him since. I felt as if I should like to die too; but soon the numb feeling passed away. Mother was failing, and she, father, and the other boys leaned upon me as woman can be leaned on, and I was beginning to be happier. In the train of the French general, Lafayette, was a young soldier, Chevalier de Rosseau, and he had known Harold, and loved him. He would come often to the house, and one day he brought his sister Manon, who had followed him from France. She was the loveliest little creature I ever saw. I call her little,—although she was three years my senior,—she was so small and delicate. We became great friends, and she told me, in her pretty, affectionate way, how she had been afraid to cross the great ocean, but that she could not bear to be separated from her brother, who was all she had, and so she had, after trying in vain to live without seeing him for many months, conquered her fear and crossed to America. But after a time La Fayette prepared to return to France. Then it was that my life-trouble came to me. Chevalier de Rosseau loved me, and I loved him; but when he asked my father's consent to wed me he was sternly refused. My father had always seemed to like the young count, and we had no fear of his opposition; you can imagine, therefore, our dismay and grief. We sought in vain for a reason for his refusal; he gave none. In vain my lover pleaded. I could say nothing. In those times a daughter's obedience was in strict command. Countess Manon wept in vain. They went back to France. I stayed on. My brothers married and went away. My mother died, and then my father, he commanding me on his death-bed not to marry Chevalier de Rosseau. The latter, hearing of my father's death, came once more to America, and sought again to woo me. What was the need of obeying the dead? Why should we not be happy? He urged in vain. Dead, as living, my father's word was law. I was very young still; and I was lonely in the old house, from whence all joy had fled. The chevalier went back to France. I never heard of him again but once, and then of his death. Countess Manon was married, and came with her husband to America; here she stayed four years, and we often saw each other. We might have been sisters, and we loved each other as such. Ah, what narrow ways we have to walk! Is it well in the end? God knows. Manon and her husband returned to their own land in time, and once more I was left alone. I had many suitors, but I cared for none; my love had not died, nor will it ever. Perhaps, somewhere, some time, the life I could not have on earth will be given in another world. I wait in patience. It will not be long. The other day I heard of the death of Countess Manon. My brothers are gone. I alone am left. Why is it so?—I ask myself over and over, I have not cried for years; but the tears will come to-night as I think of the past, and of beautiful Countess Manon lying cold and still in death under the sunny skies of far-off Southern France. She may not have been beautiful these later years. I forgot she was older even than I, and I am very old; but to me she always was, and always will be, beautiful. She was the last link of the old bygone years. What is the use of remembering them? If Harold had only lived I could have been happy; but I have not long to wait now. They will come for me. O Harry, Harry!—across the long space of years the newer love has never dimmed the older. Eternity waits. I shall see and know you again."

* * * * *

Is it much, after all is told? I have repeated it just as Marjory Vincent said it, half to me, yet more to herself, for she scarcely heeded my presence; it was better so. Poor Mistress Marjory! There is nothing left now; even the old manor is gone. And Mistress Marjory is at rest.



JUDICIAL FALSIFICATIONS OF HISTORY.[7]

BY CHARLES COWLEY, LL.D.

Historical societies, magazines, and students are, in a real sense, the guardians of historic truth. If a book is published which falsifies history, it is our right, and, if the falsification is important, it may be our duty, to expose the error. So, if those having the administration of a government falsify history, as the Guizot ministry of France did, when, vainly hoping to stem the tide of opposition to Louis Phillipe, it covered Paris with handbills declaring "He is not a Bourbon, he is a Valois," it is our privilege to "put the foot down firmly," as President Lincoln said, upon any such falsification. So, too, if a court of justice commits the indiscretion of falsifying history, as the Supreme Court of the United States did in the legal-tender case, Guilliard v. Greenman, 111 U.S., 421, it well becomes the historic student to step into the arena, as Mr. Bancroft has done, and, logically speaking, put that court to the sword. To permit such falsifications to pass unnoticed and unchallenged is a species of connivance at error; for, to quote a maxim which is recognized alike in morals and in law, Qui tacet consentire videtur: "Silence gives consent."

[7] Substance of an address before the New England Historic-Genealogical Society, April 7 1886.

An able lawyer of the Granite State bar, commenting on the decision of the Supreme Court of New Hampshire in the case of Eastman v. Moulton, 3 N.H., 156, remarked that "the Court, without knowing it, repealed nearly two hundred years of history."[8] In like manner, it may be said that the Supreme Judicial Court of Massachusetts, in a decision recently made, has falsified the juridical history of this Colony, Province, and Commonwealth for more than two hundred years. We refer to its opinion in the divorce suit of Robbins v. Robbins, printed, with the briefs of counsel, in 1 New England Reporter, 434, and, without the briefs of counsel, in 140 Mass., 528.

[8] The Early Jurisprudence of New Hampshire. An address delivered before the New Hampshire Historical Society, June 3, 1883. By John M. Shirley, Esq.

The only question presented to the court in that case was whether certain conduct on the part of the husband amounted in law to connivance at the infidelity imputed by him to his wife. For one hundred years a statute has been in force in Massachusetts (which, however, is only a reenactment of what had long previously been recognized here as unwritten law) providing that, in all matters of divorce, the Supreme Judicial Court shall follow "the course of proceedings in the Ecclesiastical Courts." Various decisions of the Ecclesiastical Courts were cited to this court by counsel, showing that, according to the law which prevailed in those courts, the conduct of the husband amounted to connivance, and ought to preclude him from obtaining a divorce. In order to obviate the conclusion to which these decisions clearly tended, the Supreme Judicial Court proceeded to minimize the authority of the Ecclesiastical Courts, by suggesting that "the decisions of those Courts upon questions of substantive law are not of the same weight here as are the decisions of the English Courts of Law and Chancery;" because "the Ecclesiastical Courts proceeded according to the Canon Law as allowed and adopted in England; but the Canon Law was never adopted by the Colonists of Massachusetts: it was not suited to their opinions or condition."

Now it is true that the Ecclesiastical Courts of England were Canon-Law Courts, as distinguished from Courts of Common Law and Courts of Chancery; but this court here has erroneously assumed that the rules and principles which governed the Ecclesiastical Courts in determining questions of connivance were different from and inconsistent with the rules and principles which governed the Courts of Common Law and Chancery in determining similar questions. Nothing could be further from the truth. In dealing with questions of this sort, the Canon-Law Courts, the Common-Law Courts, and the Courts of Chancery sought and found rules and principles in every system of morals and in every system of law which had prevailed in any past time in any part of the civilized world, and especially in the Civil Law of Ancient Rome. They all drank at the same fountain. In the Roman Law they found the maxim already quoted, and also the following, viz., Qui alios cum potest ab errore non revocat, se ipsum errore demonstrat: "He who, when he can, does not divert another from wrong-doing, shows himself a wrong-doer." Qui non prohibit cum prohibere posset jubet: "He who does not forbid when he can forbid seems to command." Qui potest et debet vetare, tacens jubet: "He who can and ought to forbid, and does not, assents." Qui non obstat quod obstare potest facere videtur: "He who does not prevent what he can prevent seems, to commit the thing." Many others might be cited. In short, the maxims of the Roman Law covered all questions of connivance so completely that there was no need of devising any new rules in relation thereto; and no new rules were devised.

With respect to the Canon Law we are enabled to speak positively; for the whole of the Canon Law is found in the Corpus Juris Canonici; and the Corpus Juris Canonici nowhere attempts to define connivance, and nowhere lays down any rule by which to determine whether any particular act, or series of acts, amounts to connivance. When a Canonist had to grapple with any question of connivance of new impression, he sought, and never sought but found, ample guidance in the Old and New Testaments and in the Roman Civil Law. Perhaps the learned judges who promulgated this disparagement of the Canon Law have given as little attention to it as John Adams gave to it before he disparaged it in his treatise on the Feudal Law. There is a remark in one of Fielding's novels which perhaps applies here, that, "generally speaking, a man will write better for having some knowledge of what he is writing about;" or words to that effect. The notes penned by Mr. Adams, in his private copy of his treatise, warrant the inference that, after that treatise was printed, he acquired a better understanding of the Canon Law than he had when he wrote it. Verbum sapienti.

In the Corpus Juris Canonici we find at the end of the decretals a collection of ancient maxims, of general application, culled chiefly from the Roman Law, and promulgated by Pope Boniface VIII. One of these maxims touches this case, and is the one first quoted in this article; and, singular to say, it has been twice quoted with approval by the very court which has put forth this disparagement of the Canon Law.—2 Pickering, 72; 119 Mass., 515.

In the same opinion, the court says, "Marriage and divorce here have always been regulated wholly by statute." So far as it relates to divorce, this statement betrays a lack of information touching the divorce legislation of Massachusetts, as a Colony, as a Province and as a Commonwealth, which is simply amazing. It would be much nearer the truth to say that divorce here has always been regulated wholly by the common or unwritten law. Prior to 1658 not a word of Statute Law was enacted touching divorce in the Old Bay Colony, and not a word of Statute Law touching divorce was ever at any time enacted in Plymouth Colony. It is understood, however, that the Court of Assistants, which was established in Massachusetts in 1639, exercised the divorce power before the same was conferred upon it by any express grant; though the records of that court during the period from 1640 to 1673 have been lost, having been burned, as is supposed, with the Town House, in 1747.

In 1658 the Court of Assistants was expressly authorized to hear and determine "all causes of divorce;" and nothing can be more certain than that that court granted divorces in many cases.[9]

[9] See Cowley's pamphlet, "Our Divorce Courts," &c., pp. 11, 13, 28-30. In the last revision of his History of the United States, Mr. Bancroft has corrected the errors which disfigured all the earlier editions of that work, and which are exposed on p. 10.

The leading members of the General Court (which then included the Assistants), had been born and bred in England, and were familiar with the general principles which governed the Ecclesiastical Courts, and the High Court of Parliament, in granting divorces. They knew nothing of any rules or principles applicable to divorce proceedings except those which were recognized in the land of their birth, and of course they intended that those rules and principles should be followed, as, in fact, they were followed, by the Court of Assistants.

Although the Plymouth Colony had no statute touching divorce, the General Court of that colony granted divorces in at least six cases, as follows, viz.: in 1661, to Elizabeth Burge, of Sandwich, from Thomas Burge; in 1668, to William Tubbs, of Scituate, from Mary Tubbs; in 1670, to James Skiff from Elizabeth Skiff; in 1673, to Ensign John Williams, of Barnstable, from Sarah Williams; in 1675, to Mary Atkinson, of Taunton, from Marmaduke Atkinson; in 1680, to Elizabeth Stevens from Thomas Stevens; in 1686, to John Glover from Mary Glover.[10]

[10] See the supplementary chapter in the late John A. Goodwin's "Pilgrim Republic," soon to be published. Perhaps the case of Wade was rather a decree of nullity than a divorce.

In all these cases except one, the ground on which the divorce was granted was infidelity to the marriage-vow. In the case of Mr. Atkinson, the husband was presumed to have died, having been absent, and not heard of, for seven years.

Prior to 1785 there was no statute in Massachusetts which defined the causes for which divorces should be granted, or which prescribed the forms, the rules, or the principles which the court of divorce should follow, or which specified whether the divorces granted should be from bed and board only, or from the bond of matrimony; though, as a fact, most, if not all, of the divorces granted under the first charter were from the bond of matrimony.

Thus the general principles which governed the Ecclesiastical Courts and the High Court of Parliament, in relation to divorce proceedings, became and formed a part of the common or unwritten law of Massachusetts at the commencement of her history; and they have never ceased to form a part of her common law. They have been reaffirmed again and again. Thus in 1692-3, after the abrogation of the colonial charter, and the establishment of a provincial government, under the second charter, it was enacted "that all controversies concerning marriage and divorce should be heard and determined by the governor and council," which had taken the place of the Court of Assistants. Again, in 1784-5, when the province had become a commonwealth, when the divorce jurisdiction was transferred to the Supreme Judicial Court, when the causes were defined for which that court might grant divorces from bed and board, and divorces from the bond of matrimony, respectively, it was enacted that the court should hear and determine all causes of divorce and alimony, "according to the course of proceeding in Ecclesiastical Courts and in Courts of Equity;" and this provision has been reenacted at every revision of our statutes, in 1836, 1860, and 1882. By force of this statute the general principles which governed the Ecclesiastical Courts are a part of the law of Massachusetts to-day. One short chapter of the Public Statutes contains all her statutory law touching not only divorce but several other incidental subjects. It is a chapter of fragments. Connivance, collusion, condonation, recrimination, and other defences are not even mentioned therein.

In the case of Commonwealth v. Munson, 127 Mass., 459, Chief-Justice Gray, referring to the requisites of a valid marriage ceremony, said "the Canon Law was never adopted" in Massachusetts; and this is true in respect to the particular subject which that learned judge had under consideration. He never meant it as an unqualified statement, for as such it would not be true. In 1691 the marriage between Hannah Owen and Josiah Owen was declared null and void by the Court of Assistants, because Hannah was the widow of Josiah's brother, and because by "the Canon Law, as allowed and adopted in England," ever since Archbishop Cranmer annulled the marriage between Henry VIII. and Catherine of Aragon, no man could lawfully marry his brother's widow. We do not stop to consider whether the Canon Law in this respect was right or wrong; we merely cite this case to show that, as to some things, the Canon Law was adopted here. In one marked instance the people of Massachusetts deviated from "the Canon Law as allowed and adopted in England," to follow the Canon Law as allowed and adopted by the Popes of Rome; they enacted that, upon the marriage of the parents of any illegitimate child, such child should thereby become legitimate.

The colonists of Massachusetts had no such blind prejudice against the Canon Law, or the Church of England, or the Church of Rome, as prevented them from adopting whatever they found therein which their consciences and their reason approved. So far from cherishing an unreasoning prejudice against the Ecclesiastical Courts, the people of Massachusetts have preserved, in their Probate Courts, substantially the same system of law and substantially the same method of procedure which were followed in the Consistory Court of London, and in the Consistory Court of Rome; notwithstanding that system came to them associated with the name of one of the most unpopular and yet one of the ablest of their governors—Sir Edmund Andros.

There were, indeed, two complaints which the Puritans of Old England and of New England often made against the English Ecclesiastical Courts: first, that they punished with merciless severity violations of certain ecclesiastical regulations which involved no moral turpitude; second, that they were too lax in the punishment of social sins, Sabbath desecrations, etc., etc. But nowhere among the literary remains of the Puritans do we find any suggestion that the system of morals which was recognized by the Canon Law and administered by the Ecclesiastical Courts was "not suited to their opinions or condition." We shall not be understood as saying that the Canon Law in its entirety was ever adopted in New England, or even in Old England; it was not. When Henry VIII. assumed the prerogatives of supreme head of the Church of England, so much of the Canon Law as relates to the jurisdiction of the Pope was abrogated in that kingdom. So when the colonists of Massachusetts established "a Church without a bishop and a State without a king," so much of the Canon Law as relates to diocesan episcopacy also fell into what President Cleveland would call "innocuous desuetude." But they adopted the decalogue of Moses with as much reverence as did their fathers before them. They knew as well as the poet Lowell that "The Ten Commandments will not budge," but that, vitalized by the life of Christ, those commandments stand "the same yesterday, to-day, and forever."



DORRIS'S HERO.

A ROMANCE OF THE OLDEN TIME.

BY MARJORIE DAW.

"Spin, spin, Clotho, spin," hummed a gay, masculine voice. "Methinks, fair Mistress Dorris, even the Fates themselves could not be more devoted to their task than are you to that busy little wheel."

Pretty Dorris Gordon glanced up from her seat by the long window opening into the cool, grassy orchard, where the sun played hide-and-seek with the shadows and then came back to rest caressingly on her bent head crowned with its own sunshine of chestnut hair, but she stayed neither busy hand nor foot as she answered,—

"Since your mighty mind is bent on mythological comparisons, Capt. L'Estrange, 'tis but a poor compliment to a fair lady when a gallant officer compares her to three old Fates,—unless he qualifies the remark somewhat. Could you not add something about my fairy fingers weaving the destiny of man? I fear your quick French wits have been dulled by that cold British bullet in your arm."

"Nay, 'tis not the British bullet, but yourself, ma belle cousine, that bewilders my French wits and inspires me instead with American patriotism," is the quick retort.

"Far better than your last speech," laughs Dorris, taking from her belt a deep-red rose fastened by a true-love knot of blue ribbon to a snowy white bud. "So much better that I will bestow on you my colors. See! the red, white, and blue! Wilt wear them like a brave and gallant knight?"

"They shall be like Henri of Navarre's plume: ever foremost in the struggle for right," the young officer answered, bending to kiss the little hand which held the proffered treasure. "I well know no empty compliment will please you as that promise, and indeed its sincerity will soon be tested, for my arm is so much better that I am ready for action, and next week I am off."

"So soon?" cried Dorris. "Oh, that I were a man, to fight for the stars and stripes!"

"I am always sure to find the words here set to the tune of Yankee Doodle," breaks in a new voice with a light laugh. "Still, you deserve a laurel wreath for that enthusiastic wish. Will a humble offering of roses be unworthy of notice, fair Goddess of Liberty?" and a shower of sweet-scented blossoms fell over Dorris' head and shoulders.

"O Mr. Endicott! goddesses are not crowned so unceremoniously. Imagine Paris pelting Venus with that apple that made so much trouble," says Dorris, glancing up half angrily, half mirthfully, at the tall intruder leaning so easily against the window. "I am almost minded to make you hold this skein of yarn, as a penance, while I wind it."

"Alas! she descends from a goddess to the most prosaic of mortals," sighs Endicott; then springing through the low window, "I am ready to obey; but that skein is imposing. What is its destiny?"

"And why, oh, why this inseparable devotion to that unfeeling wheel?" adds L'Estrange. "I came for a stroll, and, voila! she cannot leave her spinning. Is it a trousseau, that must be ready when some lover comes home from the war?"

Dorris's bright face saddens suddenly, the perfect mouth loses its arch curves, and a shadow creeps into the brown eyes as the long lashes droop over them.

"The skein is to be knit into socks for the soldiers," she says simply; "and as for my wheel, I love it because it is connected with one who has been more to me than any lover. 'Tis but a homely story, but I will tell it to such old friends as you. I need not tell you that I have a brother in the army, but you do not—you cannot—know how dear he is to me, how he has taken the place of both father and mother. It seems as if brother and sister had never been bound by ties so close, and when this war came upon us I watched him day by day, knowing well the thought in his heart, and trembling for what I knew must come; and yet when Rex came to me and said, 'Little sister, my country needs me: can you be brave, and bear it, if I go?' oh, then it seemed to me that I could not bear it! But I thought of the brave Lafayette leaving his home and loved ones to fight for us, a foreign nation, and my heart smote me that I could not be willing to offer my mite for my own dear country, and I bade my brother, 'Go, and God-speed.' It was only a few weeks before that he had given me this wheel, and almost his last words were, as he stood smiling in the door-way, 'Remember, Dorris, I shall expect to find on my return one dozen handkerchiefs spun and woven by yourself and that wonderful wheel.' I have remembered that careless injunction, and have obeyed it. There lies awaiting his return the pile of snowy linen, but we have not heard from him for long, long weeks, and sometimes my heart seems breaking, with the constant dread that haunts it. Do you wonder now that I love my dear little wheel?"

Impulsive, warm-hearted, patriotic Dorris ends with a little sob in her voice, and L'Estrange welcomes the entrance of the host and hostess of the old-time mansion, as it covers the awkward emotion of the moment. As he advances to pay his devoirs to them Keith Endicott seizes his opportunity to say softly, as he bends over the head buried in the now idle hands:—

"Sweet friend, you said you wished you were a man, to fight for the flag; remember, even though 'tis hard, 'They also serve who only stand and wait.'"

Then, while Dorris tries to change the sob into words, he follows the others into the wide, long hall, where the breezes, sweeping in through the open doors at either end, fill the summer air with delicious coolness, and the scent of roses mingles with that of newly-mown clover. The breezes, too, bring to Dorris bits of conversation from the hall; but they fall on unheeding ears until an abrupt speech from her uncle claims her attention.

"Endicott," says his voice, "why don't you join the army? Such men are being called for,—young, strong, and able. Why don't you go?"

Dorris almost holds her breath as she awaits the answer. She scarcely knows how many times she has asked herself that very question. The answer comes quietly, almost indolently, though she knows that Endicott's reticent nature must be annoyed beyond measure.

"Why don't I? Really, I do not know, sir. Young, strong, and able, an idle fellow enough. I think it must be because it hurts, and I'm a dreadfully selfish fellow."

What reply could be made to his careless, easy tones? And the talk drifted smoothly on—the more smoothly, perhaps, since no one believed a word that he said, for Keith Endicott ere this had earned the name of the soul of bravery and honor; but Dorris dropped to the ground the roses that had lain all this time in her lap, as if an unseen thorn had wounded her, and, rising, went away to her own cosey room, where she flung herself into an arm-chair and fell into a deep study, looking from her window through the trees to where the blue waters of the Charles gleamed and rippled in the sunlight. It was a lovely spot, this home of her aunt in the suburbs of Boston,—a home which Dorris had called her own since her parents' death, years before, when she and her brother had been confided to her aunt's tender care. And Dorris loved every spot of this rambling, old, colonial mansion, from its spacious ballroom, and its wide porches, to her own room, with its faded tapestry hangings, its great fireplace and bright brass andirons, its hanging book-shelves with their store of well-chosen volumes, the English titles varied here and there by a Latin or French classic (for Dorris had studied with her brother, and was quite proficient in both languages; indeed, L'Estrange delighted in calling her a bas-bleu in a vain attempt to tease her), its tall, brass-handled secretary with its secret drawer, which Dorris called so tantalizing, because she had no secret to hide in its depths, and the eight-day clock ticking away in the corner, which now struck the hour, waking Dorris from her revery into words:—

"I wonder why he does not go: he is no coward; it is not that. I verily believe it is as he said: he is selfish, and does not want the trouble. How he laughs, and disbelieves in everybody, even himself! and what a narrow life he must lead! And yet, sometimes I think better, as I needs must, of my old playmate. Just now he spoke to me with real feeling, and truly, it was a sweet and comforting thought he offered me. And yet the other day, after church, when Gen. Brewster spoke so cordially to Henri L'Estrange and Lieut. Allen, and then bestowed rather a contemptuous glance on Keith,—I mean Mr. Endicott,—I caught him quoting, under his breath, 'The world is a farce, and its favors are follies; but farces and follies are very dear to human hearts.' I could not help saying, 'When its favors are well-earned I think they cease to be follies.' It was, at the best, bad taste to cavil in that way at Henri, who is so brave and enthusiastic, and has come all the way from his own and his father's native France because his mother's land needed brave, true men. And he is going away next week; if he could only send us news of Roy!"

"Dorris!" called her aunt's voice. "It is quite time you were ready for dinner, dear. And do you not think you were failing in courtesy to your guests to leave them so abruptly?"

"Cousin Henri has had enough of my society, to-day, Aunt Dorothy, and I've no patience with Keith Endicott; you heard how he answered uncle. But I'll come in a moment, auntie," answers Dorris; and the arm-chair loses its fair occupant.

Quaint, dainty little Dorris! What would not I—I, your great-granddaughter, in this degenerate year of 1885—give to see you just as you looked then, thinking over this and that in a manner not so very unlike the maidens of this generation! Ah, well! I must perforce content myself with that miniature of you as "Madam," in your lavender brocade, with the feathers in your powdered hair, and the row on row of pearls about your throat. Very stately and dignified you look there; and yet, Great-grandmother Dorris, I can see the spice of "innate depravity," as I doubt not your grave pastor would have called it, and catch a glimpse of the quick temper and warm heart in those bright eyes and that saucy little nose.

The evening before Capt. L'Estrange's departure has come, and a few of the many friends he has made during his short furlough spent with the Gordons are gathered there to make the last hours of his stay such as shall afford him pleasant recollections in the future. Dorris makes a charming little hostess as she flits from room to room, and at last pauses on the porch before a group of three, L'Estrange, Endicott, and Lieut. Allen, an old friend who is home on sick-leave, who welcome warmly and admiringly the slight, graceful figure in its white dress, with a bag of red, white, and blue hanging from her dimpled elbow, a fancy of Dorris, enhanced by the red and white roses and blue forget-me-nots in her hair,—flowers which she found on her spinning-wheel, with no clew to the giver.

"Mon Capitaine Henri, Aunt Dorothy wants you for a moment," she says now. "They are all enjoying themselves, so I came out here to rest. Lieut. Allen," she adds graciously, as her cousin disappears, "I am glad that we are to have one representative of the army left after my cousin leaves us."

"I thank you, Miss Gordon," answers the young soldier, "but my stay is limited; you see I hobble around now with the aid of a crutch. I only wish I could go with your cousin."

"L'Estrange is in your regiment, is he?" asks Endicott.

"Yes, we fought side by side at Saratoga. You know what a close conflict that was. Such a din of shot and shell that an order could be scarcely heard in the tumult. It was hot work I can assure you."

Dorris is leaning forward in breathless interest, and as he pauses asks a characteristic question: "How did you feel then? What were your thoughts?"

"Well, it was a most absurd thing, but I found myself, though I could scarcely hear my own voice, repeating a verse from one of the old cavalier ballads:—

"'We were standing foot to foot, and giving shoot for shoot; Hot and strong went our volleys at the blue; We knelt, but not for grace, and the fuse lit up the face Of the gunner, as the round shot by us flew.'"

Endicott smiles. "But it was a good battle-cry, Allen. I remember your reciting verses at Cambridge in your college-days, but it was generally 'A sonnet to your mistress' eyebrows,'—some fair one who had conquered your heart for a week perhaps."

Dorris is not to be diverted from the absorbing topic of ball and bayonet, and returns to the charge.

"But how did you feel when you were wounded?" she asks again.

"Oh, I did not know where I was hit. In the midst of the fight I wondered why I couldn't move my left foot; it was like lead in the stirrup, and looking down I saw the mark where the ball had struck, and the blood following it. It was a little quieter then, so I got the sergeant near me to clip, and ease my foot a little. But you should have seen L'Estrange: he was wounded then; and when the order came to charge he rushed on, waving his sword, with the blood dripping from his arm. How the men rushed after him! And when he came back supporting another poor fellow, and insisting on his being cared for first, you should have heard the men cheer him."

"And you, Allen," suggests Endicott,—"how did you get on with that wound of yours?"

"Well, I was rather faint by the time we were ready to go back to camp; but somebody set me straight in the saddle when I reeled, and I managed to get back all right."

"But where was the surgeon all the while?"

"To tell the truth, I was so much better off than most of the poor fellows, Keith, I made him help the rest. That was all."

"So you took the chance of enjoying a British surgeon's tender mercies, for the sake of men, who, perhaps, could not live anyway. Allen, you always were a good-natured Don Quixote."

Allen laughed as if he saw something beneath the words which excused their lightness, but Dorris frowned, as she looked admiringly at the manly fellow so ready to see his comrade's unselfish bravery, so unconscious of his own. She often saw the wounded soldier leaning on Endicott's arm, and their words seemed grave and earnest, while Endicott's face seemed for a time to lose its cynical sneers. And then Dorris had relented, only to harden again at some irreverent words of this incorrigible Keith. A sharp retort was on her lip now, but she restrained it as L'Estrange once more joined the group, and the talk drifted into quieter channels, the young soldiers a little graver than usual. At last L'Estrange spoke with tender regret of the peaceful scenes he was to leave so soon behind him, and Endicott answered:—

"Yes; think of all the drives and walks and talks, and all the charms of civilized life you forego, and then of the camp-life and forced marches, and chances of broken arms and legs, which you endure, and all for that one sweet virtue,—patriotism."

This was too much for quick-tempered Dorris. Out flashed her words:—

"Mr. Endicott cares so little for that sweet virtue that he will enjoy your pleasures while you fight his battles. If you will excuse me now I will return to the parlors;" and with little head proudly erect, Dorris started to enter the house, entertaining the fond hope that she had at last paid Keith for all his trials of her patience and patriotism. Alas!

"The best laid plans o'mice and men gang aft a-gley;"

and some one had carelessly left a footstool on the porch, and as Dorris's foot struck it Endicott was the one to spring forward and save her from falling. Lifting her eyes to acknowledge the courtesy, she met such a look of quiet reproach that her "Thank you" came very humbly from so proud a young lady; and when she reflected on the subject at that trying moment which we have all experienced when we have regained our temper, and are taking a mental retrospect of the occasion when we very foolishly lost it, it was in vain that she tried to justify herself by repeating his sneering words. Remembering the look that followed them, she said, in self-abasement, "I had no right to judge him," and in her humiliation avoided meeting him so successfully that for several days after her cousin's departure she neither saw nor heard of him, until at last she heard with relief that he had gone away for a short time, on receiving news of the death of a cousin,—his nearest relative. But when week after week passed, and Aunt Dorothy had several times wondered aloud what had become of Mr. Endicott, Dorris began to wonder as well, and to miss the magnetic presence that made him so charming to all; indeed, she discovered, to her own uncontrollable disgust, that she missed him even more than her cousin, whose warm and generous nature had endeared him to all his new friends.

In the meantime Lieut. Allen called to say farewell to his former playmate, and the friend of his later years. What if Dame Rumor said he cherished a latent desire for a nearer title than either of these. Dorris said they were only firm and true friends; and the tenor of their talk seemed to prove that she was right, for as she turned from the old-time spinnet, where she had been singing the lovely little serenade of Thomas Heywood:—

"Pack clouds away, and welcome day; With night we banish sorrow; Sweet airs, blow soft; mount, larks, aloft, To give my love good-morrow. Wings from the wind to please her mind, Notes from the lark I'll borrow; Bird, plume thy wing, nightingale, sing, To give my love good-morrow!"

Allen said abruptly, "Dorris, for what are you waiting?"

"Waiting?" repeated Dorris, wonderingly.

"Yes; don't you remember

"While year by year the suitors come To find her locked in silence dumb?"

"If it was any one but my old friend Max I should make you a very low courtesy, and say, 'By your leave, fair sir, it is a matter of not the slightest consequence to you;' but I'll tell you the truth and nothing but the truth: I'm waiting for my hero, Max."

"For your hero? Yes; I thought you were. And what is he like? A fairy prince like the Sleeping Beauty's?"

"Don't be satirical: it doesn't suit you, Max," retorts Dorris.

"Satirical? I'm in the deepest earnest. Won't you describe him? I really wish to know."

"Well," began Dorris, "it is not exactly an easy thing to describe an imaginary person. He is no fairy prince, Max, but a strong and earnest man, a true and noble soul; a man who, for a good cause, would peril anything, a knight like Bayard of old: sans peur et sans reproche."

"Do you think you will ever find this ideal?" questions Max.

"No," is the prompt reply. "If there are such men, I have never met them. But I would far rather wait for the dim ideal than try the commonplace reality."

"But is all the reality commonplace? Let me tell you a story, Dorris; I shall not bore you, for it is not long: When I joined the army, in the first of the war, I went to tell an old friend, and to take leave of him. He was a peculiar fellow, seemingly cold, light and satirical, half-sneering at the ardent blaze of patriotism that was burning all around him, seeming to have no intention of serving his country in her need. And yet I knew him to be the truest, noblest, tenderest, and most loyal fellow among all my friends. He looked at me with real envy, and then exclaimed: 'I wish to Heaven I could go with you, Allen!' and I answered: 'Why don't you? I have never asked before because I knew you had some worthy reason.' After some hesitation, he began: 'Because you have never doubted or questioned me I will tell you why I am here, when every feeling is against my inactivity. You will keep my secret?' Of course I promised, and he went on: 'You know I am very wealthy, Max, that my income is, for these times, extremely large; but you do not know that, by my grandfather's will, the next heir, in case of my death, is my cousin, a man who aids and abets the Tories in every possible way, a man unscrupulous and unprincipled to the last degree. I have but one life; I might lay it down in my first battle, and that property, over which I have no control, would be worse than useless to my country. It would aid her foes, and, much as she needs men, she needs money even more. So I stay here, and put my income, as fast as I get it, to the national use. You know what my income is. I'll show you my expenses'; and he showed me the merest fraction—less than I spend myself, I began to expostulate on his endurance of suspicion and blame for what might be so nobly explained, but he would only say, 'Oh, it would sound quixotic and sentimental; and, after all, what does it matter? I know myself that I am serving my country to the best of my poor ability.' But at last, Dorris, he is rewarded, for he was born to be a soldier; and when, three weeks ago, he received news of the sudden death of that cousin, he immediately enlisted, and is now serving his country in the way he has so long desired. What do you think of such a man as he?"

"He is a hero," answered Dorris, steadily, though a suspicion, quick as a ray of light, had flashed through her mind as to who this hero was. "A hero as true as any my fancy could paint. Who is he—this noble friend of yours?"

"Keith Endicott," is the quiet answer, adding, quickly, as he rose to take his leave. "Forgive me, sweet friend, that I could no longer bear that you should do injustice to him, for those quick words of yours the last evening we were all together have rankled in my heart, as I know they have in his, ever since."

Dorris was not too proud to acknowledge when she was in the wrong, and with winning grace she said, as she gave him her hand:—

"I thank you for the lesson you have taught me, Max. I was wrong to judge him so hardly, but be assured I will make full amends when we meet again."

Then the good-bys were said, the good wishes given, and the last of Dorris's three cavaliers had left her.

* * * * *

Summer has gone, and snow lies white upon the ground, and we find Dorris seated before the old desk, whose secret drawer is no longer empty, but holds a faded cluster of roses and forget-me-nots, writing busily in her diary a record not only of the day's doings but of the varying emotions which each day brought to life. The words the busy hand is tracing are these:—

"Jan. 2, 1779. Yesterday was the beginning of the New Year, and as I wondered what it would bring me,—joy or grief, pleasure or pain,—I saw a carriage come up the drive-way and then stop, while the driver assisted to the door a figure in a soldier's uniform. In a moment I was in the hall, and my arms around my brother—for it was my own bravest Roy. He had often written us, but we received none of his letters: they were either intercepted or lost. But, oh, how can I forgive myself when I think to whom I owe my brother's life! that, when Roy was surrounded by enemies, and desperately wounded, it was Keith Endicott who rushed to his aid, and, fighting against fearful odds, bore him alive from the field, at the cost of a sabre cut on his own hand. It was he who saw Roy daily in his long struggle with death, and when that dreadful presence was banished it was he who cared for his safe transportation home, to enjoy the rest which is the only means of giving him back his old strength and vigor. And Roy almost worships Keith, as well he may, saying he is the idol of the soldiers, who have dubbed him the hero of the regiment.

"The New Year has truly brought me happiness, for my brother is with me safe once more; our armies are fast gaining ground, our victories are more numerous, and hope dawns that the flag of liberty will yet wave triumphantly over a free and happy nation; and I can once more mingle a song and not a sob with the busy hum of my wheel."

* * * * *

Two years have passed; Yorktown has been fought and won, and Dorris's hopeful words are verified. The flag of liberty is unfurled over a free and happy nation,—a nation with its history yet before it, with only its darkest and yet most glorious record traced indelibly on the annals of the world. The New Year has come again, and Dorris, with her spinning-wheel, is wondering what it will bring her. The door opens suddenly, and some one announces, "Col. Endicott, Miss Gordon."

For a moment Dorris loses sight of everything but a tall figure in the quaint Continental uniform, and only hears the old, light tones say, "Will the fair Goddess of Liberty welcome the soldier as he comes back from fighting his own battles, as she bade him?"

And Dorris, with a blush for the memory he recalls, bravely confesses her fault and her gratitude, and ends very humbly, "Can you forgive me, Col. Endicott?" stealing a look up at the grave face.

"Forgive you, dear child! Do you not know that I have loved you all the time? Now that you know I am a little better than you thought me can you trust me for the rest? Can you love me a little, sweet Dorris?"

There was no lightness now, only deep, loving tenderness; and Dorris answered trustingly:—

"I have been waiting for my hero, and I have found him, Keith."

And there we will leave them, while the dancing fire-light shows us the pretty scene beside Dorris's dear little spinning-wheel, and the silvery beams of the rising moon bring to Dorris the beginning of a new and happy life with the advent of a new year.

But ah, Great-grandmother Dorris, stately and demure in your lavender brocade, and your feathered and powdered hair, do you know you were not so very unlike the Dorrises of to-day, after all? And they have spinning-wheels, too, with their flax tied with blue ribbons. And think you that these wheels see no romances? Ah, but they can't tell them, you know, pretty Grandmother Dorris.



EDITOR'S TABLE.

It often happens that the worst effects of wrong-doing are visited upon neither the criminal nor upon those who have suffered in person or property by his crime. This fact is emphasized by the recent suicide of a convict's wife, in one of our New England States, after having killed her two children. This incident furnishes a dreadful commentary on the condition of those dependent upon convicted criminals who are paying the penalty of their crimes. For the convict there is abundant sympathy. As the St. Louis Globe Democrat well puts it, societies are organized for the purpose of improving his mind, and cooking-clubs toil and perspire at Christmas and Thanksgiving to the end that his body may not suffer; tract-distributors provide him with reading matter, and sewing-circles warm him with flannel under-wear; doctors look after his health, and legislators vie with each other in seeing that he is not overworked; but, if there is any society organized for the purpose of helping the wife whom he has disgraced, and most likely left penniless at home, its name has not yet been made public; if any sewing-circle has undertaken to clothe his children, the fact has not been heralded to the world. Yet the heaviest part of the punishment falls not on the convict but on his family, the members of which, by one of those unjust society decisions from which there is no appeal, are stigmatized with disgrace on account of an offence in which they had no part. This is grossly unjust, and those who are benevolently inclined should take the matter in hand and see what can be done for the wives and children of convicts.

* * * * *

New England has no representative in the national legislature upon whose career she can look with more of pride and satisfaction than that of Gen. Joseph R. Hawley, of Connecticut. A man of sound learning, and many of the highest qualities of statesmanship; he is unpretentious in manner, lives simply, is free from egotism, and full of the generous and manly qualities which inspire confidence and compel friendliness. Few men, of this generation at least,—as will be universally recognized a little later if not now,—have approached nearer to the popular ideal of a representative American in public life. There could be no better evidence of the manly independence which he brings to the discussion of measures of importance than his attitude with reference to the bill intended to provide for the maintenance of an army of such size and efficiency as to provide for all possible contingencies arising from foreign aggression or internal troubles. In recognition of the fact that we have lawless elements in all of our large cities always ready to avail themselves of any pretext for riot and incendiarism, he urged the wisdom of providing such safeguards against these uprisings as would be afforded by disciplined and efficient troops ready for instant service at any point. Some of the demagogues in the Senate, hypocritically posing as friends of the working-men, endeavored to distort this common-sense and patriotic view into an intention to use the army for the crushing of the working-men. There have been few better speeches in the Senate in recent times than Senator Hawley's temperate but cutting reply to these pseudo-friends of labor. It affords sufficient evidence, if any were wanting, that the true friends of the working-men are those who have the courage of their convictions, even when to utter them may afford opportunity for misrepresentation and abuse.

* * * * *

The report of a recent attempt to wreck a train on the Maine Central Railroad is not so startling as it would be were this species of crime of less frequent occurrence; but it is noteworthy as being the sixth attempt of the kind at the same place within a few years. It is very fortunate that so many of these dastardly efforts to bring innocent people to destruction prove futile. In fact it is comparatively seldom that the boldest attempts at train-wrecking result in loss of life. The awful possibilities, however, which lie within the hands of the train-wrecker suggest most forcibly that this crime should be treated with unusual severity. The person who would indiscriminately bring the passengers of a moving train to death must invariably, if sane, be a criminal of the darkest dye. Murder of an individual, even when coming within the first degree, is not often without some particular aggravation on the part of the victim. But train-wrecking must always be the result of the purest malice,—of diabolism unalloyed. No palliating circumstance ever suggests itself. The villain attempts to kill not one who has involved himself in a quarrel with him, but peaceable, unsuspecting men, women, and children, without distinction. And attempts of this kind have become so frequent, and the crime is at once so cowardly, so insidious, and so dastardly, that no pains to apprehend the villain can ever be too great, nor can any penalty that is allowed for any crime be too severe for this. If capital punishment is to be on our statute books for anything, it should certainly be for the train-wrecker. Let there be a law which shall with certainty bring to the hangman's noose every person who makes even an attempt to destroy a moving train, and this fiendish crime may be less frequent than it now is.



HISTORICAL RECORD.

March 19.—Under this date Mayor Chapman, chairman of the Committee on Invitation for the Centennial Celebration at Portland, Maine, which is to occur on the 4th of July next, issued a circular saying: "The Committee on Invitation of the Centennial Committee desire to have a record prepared of the names of Sons and Daughters of Portland who are residents in other places, to whom invitations to attend the Centennial Anniversary can be sent. For that purpose they request information of such absentees, including those who were born here—those whose parents, or husbands, or wives were natives of our city, and also those not natives who were former residents. Such information can be communicated by letter or otherwise to John T. Hull, Clerk of Committee, at Room No. 18, City Hall."

* * * * *

March 21.—Fire at Newburyport destroyed two shoe factories and a three-tenement block; another block was nearly destroyed, and other buildings were damaged. Total loss, $75,000.

* * * * *

April 1.—Celebration at Lowell of the fiftieth anniversary of the incorporation of the city. In the forenoon an historical address was given by C. C. Chase, formerly principal of the High School; in the afternoon Mayor Abbott gave an address, followed by an oration by Hon. F. T. Greenhalge.

* * * * *

April 4.—Fire at Westboro', Mass., destroyed shoe factories and damaged other buildings, with a total loss of $90,000.

* * * * *

April 7.—The State election in Rhode Island resulted in the election for governor of George Peabody Wetmore for a second term. The prohibitory constitutional amendment was adopted.

* * * * *

April 7.—Quarterly meeting of the New England Historic Genealogical Society. Judge Cowley, of Lowell, read a paper on "Judicial Falsification of History."

Rev. Increase N. Tarbox, D.D., the historiographer, reported that since Jan. 1 there had been fifteen deaths among the members. Memorial sketches of seven deceased members were reported, namely: Nicholas Hoppin, D.D., a resident member, born in Providence R.I., Dec. 3, 1812, died in Cambridge, Mass., March 8, 1886. Ex-president William Smith Clark, resident member, born in Ashfield, Mass., July 31, 1826, died in Amherst, Mass., March 9, 1886. George H. Allan, a resident member, born in Boston, Mass., June 16, 1832, died in Boston, March 15, 1886. William Temple, a resident member, born in Reading, Mass., Sept. 15, 1801, died in Woburn, Mass., March 18, 1886. Archbishop Richard Chenevix French, corresponding member, born in Dublin, Ireland, Sept. 7, 1807, died March 27, 1886. John Bostwick Morean, corresponding member, born in New York City, Oct. 12, 1812, died in same city, March 10, 1886. John Gerrish Webster, life member, born in Portsmouth, N.H., April 8, 1811, died in Boston, Feb. 7, 1886. Francis Minot Weld, life member and benefactor, born in Boston, April 27, 1815, died in Jamaica Plain, Feb. 4, 1886.

* * * * *

April 7.—Terrible disaster to a Fitchburg Railroad train near Bardwell's Ferry, on the State road. Ten persons were killed and twenty-two injured.

* * * * *

April 13.—Regular meeting of the Bostonian Society. The following life members were admitted: Charles Francis Adams, Jr., Thomas Mack, William Minot, Jr., Jonathan A. Lane, Clarence J. Blake, M.D., Amos A. Lawrence, Nahum Chapin, William Caleb Loring, J. A. Woolson. The essay was by Alexander S. Porter, on "Real Estate Values in Boston During the Present Century." The highest priced land which the essayist had heard of in Boston is the estate bought by H. D. Parker at the corner of Tremont and School streets, 1,984 square feet, for $200,000, or about $100 per foot. The cheapest he had heard of was that of Harrison Gray Otis, on the west slope of Beacon Hill, he having obtained it by squatter sovereignty. In closing he said that real estate has proved to be a safe investment in Boston, and many wealthy families have gained a large share of their wealth simply by the rise of real-estate values.

* * * * *

April 13.—At an adjourned meeting of the people of Lexington who are interested in the formation of an historical society, an organization was effected by the choice of the following-named officers: president Hon. A. E. Scott; vice-presidents, M. H. Merriam, W. A. Tower, Miss K. Whitman, Miss M. E. Hudson; treasurer, L. A. Saville; recording secretary, A. E. Locke; corresponding secretary, Rev. E. G. Porter; historian, Rev. C. A. Staples; custodian, Dr. R. M. Lawrence.

April 13.—Celebration of the incorporation of the new town of Hopedale. At sunset a salute of eighty-six guns was fired by Battery B, of Worcester, Hopedale being the eighty-sixth town incorporated in Massachusetts during this century. Joy bells were then rung for one hour. Then followed an illumination with fireworks. This town was set off from Milford after a hard struggle in the Legislature.

* * * * *

April 13.—Dedicatory exercises of the new county building in Ellsworth, Me. The Rev. Dr. Tenney opened the exercises by prayer, and Hon. John B. Redman introduced Hon. N. B. Coolidge, chairman of the county commissioners, who presented the buildings to the court and county in appropriate remarks. Mr. Coolidge was followed by C. A. Spofford, president of the Hancock county bar; Chief-Justice Peters, who reviewed the history of the county in an interesting speech; Judge Haskell, of Portland, and Hon. Eugene Hale.



NECROLOGY.

March 21.—Death from apoplexy of Col. B. W. Hoyt, secretary and treasurer of the New Hampshire Club, treasurer of the B. W. Hoyt Shoe Company of Epping, and special commissioner of the Boston & Maine Railroad.

* * * * *

March 23.—Judge Joseph McKean Churchill, of the Central Municipal Court of Boston, died at his home in Milton, aged 64 years. He was graduated from Harvard in 1840, and from the Law School in 1845. He served as captain in the Forty-fifth Massachusetts Regiment during the war. He was appointed to the bench in December, 1870.

* * * * *

April 3.—Death at Philadelphia of Theodore C. Hersey of Portland, Me. He was born in Gorham, Me., in 1812. He early went to Portland, where he formed a partnership with St. John Smith in the West India trade. Mr. Hersey was one of the proprietors of the International line of steamers, and for many years was its president, resigning, on account of ill health, about a year ago. He was one of the founders of the Board of Trade, and its president in 1863-68 and 1873-74, and a charter member of the Merchant's Exchange.

April 4.—Death of George L. Claflin, a prominent wholesale druggist, of Providence, R.I., aged 63 years. He had been a member of the Common Council and the General Assembly, and took an active part in banking and insurance corporations.

* * * * *

April 5.—Death of Dr. George A. Bethune, of Boston. He was born there, in 1812, and was graduated at Harvard College in 1831. He studied medicine in the Harvard Medical School, and also abroad, and having made eye and ear diseases a specialty, practised until about ten or fifteen years ago, when he retired. He was at one time connected with the Massachusetts Eye and Ear Infirmary.

* * * * *

April 6.—Death, at Brunswick, Me., of Hon. William G. Barrows. He was born in Bridgton, Me., January, 1821, and was graduated from Bowdoin College in the class of 1839. He was admitted to the bar in 1842, and settled for practice in his profession at Brunswick, where ever since he had resided. From 1853 to 1855 he edited with marked ability the Brunswick Telegraph. In 1856 he was selected judge of Probate Court for Cumberland County, and reelected in 1860. In 1863 he was appointed associate justice of the Supreme Judicial Court and reappointed in 1870 and 1877, serving three terms of seven years each. At the expiration of the latter term he declined a reappointment, preferring the retirement of private life. He was a member of the Maine Historical Society, and one of its most earnest supporters. He was warmly interested in the establishment of the Brunswick Public Library, and one of its most liberal supporters.

* * * * *

April 7.—Unexpected death of Prof. Thomas Anthony Thatcher, LL.D., professor in Yale College of the Latin Language and Literature. He was born in Hartford, Jan. 11, 1815. He was fitted for Yale at the Hartford Hopkins Grammar School, and entered the college in 1831, graduating four years later. Then he taught in the New Canaan, Conn., Seminary for two years, and then in the Oglethorpe University, Georgia. He became a Latin tutor in Yale in 1838, and four years later was made a professor. In 1843 he went to Germany and studied two years. While there he was offered and accepted a position as tutor to the Crown Prince of Prussia and his royal cousin, Prince Frederick Charles. His "De Officiis" of Cicero and Madvig's Latin Grammar are widely known.

* * * * *

April 8.—Dan Stone Smalley died at his residence, on Green street, Jamaica Plain, at the age of 75 years. He was for many years teacher of the Eliot Commercial School in Jamaica Plain.

April 9.—Death at Bement, Ill., of Hon. Lewis Bodman, formerly of Williamsburg, Mass., and senator from Hampshire county.

* * * * *

April 10.—Sudden death of Hon. Elbridge Gerry of Portland, Me. He was born in Waterford, Oxford county, Me., Dec. 6, 1815. He received an academical education. After its completion he studied law, and was admitted to the bar in his twenty-fourth year. In the following year he was appointed clerk of the House of Representatives of Maine. At twenty-seven he was chosen state attorney for his native county. At thirty-one he was elected to the State Legislature as a Democratic representative. In 1849 his political career culminated in his election to Congress. He retired from public life in 1851, and settled down to the practice of his profession in Portland. His son is vice-consul at Havre, France.

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April 10.—Sudden death at Dallas, Texas, of John T. Ferris, manager of the Union Mutual Life Insurance Co., of Portland, Me. He was a man greatly esteemed in his large circle of acquaintances.

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April 12.—Death of Thaddeus Fairbanks of St. Johnsbury, Vt. He was born at Brimfield, Mass., Jan. 17, 1796, and went with his father to St. Johnsbury when he was twenty years old. His many inventions in the line of weighing-machines are too familiar to need enumeration. He was the only American who was honored at the Vienna Exhibition by being made a Knight of Imperial Order of Francis Joseph. To his munificent gifts the academy at St. Johnsbury owes its worth.

* * * * *

April 12.—Dr. Abram M. Shew, superintendent of the Connecticut Hospital for the Insane at Middletown, died suddenly at the age of 45. He was appointed assistant physician of the New York Asylum for Insane Convicts at Auburn in 1862; in 1866 he went to Middletown, to superintend the building of the Connecticut Hospital for the Insane, and had since remained in charge of that institution. He was a native of Watertown, N.Y.



LITERATURE.

It is with a much more than ordinary degree of expectancy that the literary public has awaited a complete and adequate biography of the poet Longfellow. It comes to us at last as the work[11] of the poet's own brother, Samuel, who has, however, modestly assumed to have only edited the elaborate volumes which have recently come from the publisher's hands. This is true to a large extent, for the Life is for the greater part composed of portions of Longfellow's voluminous diary and correspondence; but these are interspersed throughout with his brother's own narrative, full of reminiscences and charming comments.

[11] Life of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. With extracts from his Journals and Correspondence. Edited by Samuel Longfellow. 2 volumes. Boston: Ticknor & Co.

The work is not to hardly any degree analytical in its character; it is a vivid panorama of a most deeply and widely interesting career. We are made familiar by means of these volumes with the daily life of Henry W. Longfellow. Much of this insight is afforded, as has already been seen, through the published letters and diary. The interest of these is far greater than is usually the case with such compilations. Longfellow's life was to such a degree an intellectual one, that those who would know him best must find his own pen his best biographer. The comments in his journal are delightful, and the letters are highly interesting reading. They are from and to a host of friends, including Sumner, Hawthorne, Samuel Ward, Park Benjamin, Carlyle, and many others of equal note. Of course there is much in both letters and journal of personal matters, even such as regarding an invitation to dine, or some other passing slight event; but there is no apparent reason why anything should have been omitted that has been inserted in this work. Not only the poetry but the every-day life, the experiences, and the associations of Longfellow are worth knowing to those far beyond the pale of his own particular group of friends. Nothing has been inserted here, however, that seems to offend the sense of propriety, and the editor has certainly given evidence of the best of wisdom, care, and delicacy. Where he becomes the biographer he confines himself mostly to simple narrative; indeed, his final "summing up," after the last has been told that could be told of his illustrious brother's earthly career, is given in a single page.

There is very little to criticise regarding this Life. Of its kind it could not be more satisfactory. It is not the work of the theorist, the analyst, critic, or the eulogist. It is the full, plain, unvarnished story of the life of "the good son, devoted husband, affectionate father; the generous, faithful friend; the urbane and cultivated host; the lover of children; the lover of his country; the lover of liberty and of peace."



INDEX TO MAGAZINE LITERATURE.

(APRIL 1886.)

ART, ARCHITECTURE. Slyfield Surrey. Basil Champneys. 22.—A Chapter on Fireplaces. I. H. Pollen. 22.—The Romance of Art. F. Mabel Robinson. 22.—The Annunciation in Art. Julia Cartwright. 22.—American Embroideries. S. R. Koehler. 22.—Art in Phoenicia. Wm. Holmden. 22.—Boydell's Shakespeare. Alfred Beaver. 22.

BIOGRAPHY, GENEALOGY. Sketch of Christian Huygens. 5.—Tribute to General Hancock. Wm. L. Keese. 6.—Elizabeth, Empress of Austria and Queen of Hungary. Margaret Deane. 7.—Glimpses of Longfellow in Social Life. Annie Fields. 1.—Gouverneur Morris. Henry Cabot Lodge. 11.—Memoir of Ashbel Woodward, M.D. P. H. Woodward, Esq. 12.—Descendants of Josiah Upton. William H. Upton. 12.—Genealogical Gleanings in England. Henry F. Waters. 12.—Notes and Documents concerning Hugh Peters. G. D. Scull. 12.—John Harvard. John. T. Hassam. 12.—Early American Engravers. Richard C. Lichtenstein. 12.—Letters of Governor Greene. 13.—Journal of Lieut. John Trevett. 13.—Fanny Davenport. Lisle Lester. 16.—Franz Defreygar. Helen Zimmem. 22.—James Otis, Jr. Rev. H. Hewitt. 23.

EDUCATION. The Elective System of the University of Virginia. Prof. James M. Garnett. 3.—National Aid to Common Schools. Senator J. J. Ingalls. 4.—The Hand-work of School Children. Rebecca J. Rickoff. 5.—Relation of the Secondary School to the College. H. M. Willard. 8.—The Evolution of a College Republic. Louise Seymour Houghton. 8.—The Philosophical Phase of a System of Education. Charles E. Lowrey. 8.—Physical Education. A. T. Bruce. 8.—The First day in the Georgics. Miss A. A. Knight. 8.—Moral Education in the Public Schools. Kate Gannett Wells. 18.

HISTORY. A Famous Diplomatic Dispatch. Allen Thorndike Rice. 4.—The Newgate of Connecticut. N. H. Egleston. 6.—The Convention of North Carolina 1788. A. W. Clason. 6.—Church Records of Farmington, Ct. Julius Gay. 12.—Papers in Egerton MS. 2395. Henry F. Waters. 12.—Soldiers in King Philip's War. XIV. Rev. Geo. M. Bodge. 12.—Newbury and the Bartlett Family. John C. J. Brown. 12.—Memoirs of Rhode Island. Henry Bull. 13.—The Militia of Rhode Island, 1767. Mrs. E. H. L. Barker. 13.—Records of Trinity Church, Newport, R.I. H. E. Turner, M.D. 13.—Friends Records, Newport, R.I. H. E. Turner, M.D. 13.—Lafayette's Visit to Rhode Island, 1784. 13.—Memoirs of Hampton Court. Henry C. Wilson. 16.—The Virginia Cavaliers. K. M. Rowland. 17.—The Kentucky Resolutions of 1798 and 1799. R. T. Durrett. 17.—The Reign of Terror in Tennessee. J. A. Trousdale. 17.—An Illustrious Town. Andover. Rev. F. B. Makepeace. 23.—Webster Historical Society Papers. I. Hon. Stephen M. Allen. 23.—The New England Library and its Founder. Victoria Reed. 23.

LITERATURE. Our Experience Meetings. Julian Hawthorne, Edgar Fawcett, Joel Chandler Harris. 9.—Shylock vs. Antonio. Charles Henry Phelps. 11.—Problems of the Scarlet Letter. Julian Hawthorne. 11.—Mr. Howell and the Poets. Robert Burns Wilson. 17.—Poe's Last Poem. Henry W. Austin. 17.—Tennyson's Later Poems. P. B. Semple. 17.

MILITARY. Sherman and McPherson. Gen. U. S. Grant. 4.—Plan of the Tennessee Campaign. Anna Ella Carroll. 4.—Chancellorsville. William Howard Sicles. 6.—Shiloh. Gen. W. F. Smith. 6.—Our First Battle. Alfred E. Lee. 6.—The War in Missouri. Richard H. Musser. 17.

NAVAL. Life on the Alabama. P. D. Haywood. 1.—Cruise and Combats of the Alabama. Capt. John McIntosh Kell. 1.—The Duel between the Alabama and the Kearsarge. Dr. John M. Brown. 1.

MISCELLANEOUS. An Arctic Journal. Dr. Octave Pavy. 4.—The Whipping-post. Lewis Hocheimer. 5.—The Overcrowding of Cities. Dr. Prosper Bender. 6.—Smoking from College-girls' Point of View. Elizabeth Porter Gould. 8.—The Query Club. Frances E. Sparhawk. 8.—Leaves from a '49 Ledger. C. F. Degelman. 10.—Creole Slave Songs. Geo. W. Cable. 1.—Toy Dogs. James Watson. 1.—Scores and Tallies. Grant Allen. 9.—Children, Past and Present. Agnes Repplier. 11.—Various articles on Young Women and Marriage. 16.—American Fame Abroad. Edith Langdon. 16.—Generalities of Washington Society. Flora Adams Darling. 16.—The Modern Barber: A Study. Henry M. Gallaher, D.D. 16.—Modern Woman and Dress. Mrs. Henry Ward Beecher. 16.—New England Manners and Customs in Time of Bryant's early Life. Mrs. H. G. Rowe. 23.—New England Characteristics. Lizzie M. Whittlesey. 23.

POLITICS, ECONOMICS, PUBLIC AFFAIRS. Gambetta's Electoral Tour. Madame Adam. 4.—Constitutional Reform in Rhode Island. Abraham Payne, W. P. Sheffield. 4.—More about American Landlordism. Henry George. 4.—An Economic Study of Mexico. David A. Wells. 5.—The Land Question Stated. Alex. G. Eels. 10.—The Taxation of Land. John H. Durst. 10.—The Progress of Kansas. Gov. John A. Martin. 4.—English Rule in India. Annita Lal Roy. 4.—The French Problem in Canada. Geo. H. Clarke. 5.—The Consolidation of Canada. Watson Griffin. 6.—A Shoemaker's Contribution to the Chinese Discussion. Patrick J. Healy. 10.—The Future Influence of China. Irving McDowell. 10.—Certain Phases of the Chinese Question. John F. Miller. 10.—Strikes, Lockouts, and Arbitration. George May Powell. 1.—Responsible Government under the Constitution. Woodrow Wilson. 11.—The Speaker of the National House. J. Lawrence Laughlin. 18.—Present Conditions in Georgia. Henry Wadsworth Reed. 18.—Civics and Economics. Alexander Johnston. 18.

RECREATION, SPORTS. Botany as a Recreation for Invalids. Miss E. F. Andrews. 5.—Ranch Life and Game Shooting in the West. Theodore Roosevelt. 7.—American Steam Yachting. E. S. Jaffray. 7.—What Steam Yachting costs in England. Dixon Kemp. 7.—Sport in Florida. James A. Henschall. A Chat about Driving. S. Sidney. 7.

RELIGION, MORALS. The Spiritual Problem of the Manufacturing Town. William W. Adams, D.D. 3.—The possibilities of Religious Reform in Italy. Wm. Chauncy Langdon, D.D. 3.—Christianity and Popular Education. Washington Gladden. 1.—Reformation of Charity. D. O. Kellogg. 11.

SCIENCE, NATURAL HISTORY, DISCOVERY, INVENTIONS. External Form of the Manlike Apes. R. Hartmann. 5.—The Factors of Organic Evolution. Herbert Spencer. 5.—The Teeth of the Coming Man. Oscar Schmidt. 5.—Earthquakes in Central America. M. De Montessus. 5.—The Gems of the National Museum. George F. Kunz. 5.—The Cotton-Harvester. Hugh N. Starnes. 17.

THEOLOGY, POLEMICS. The Rite of Blood-Covenanting and the Doctrine of Atonement. Rev. J. Max Hark. 3.—Mr. Gladstone and Genesis. Prof. Huxley. 5.—Comments. Prof. Henry Drummond. 5.

TRAVEL, ADVENTURE, DESCRIPTION. Around the World on a Bicycle. Thomas Stevens. 7.—Crossing the Atlantic in a Blockade Runner. Capt. Roland F. Coffin. 7.—After Geronimo. Lieut. John Bigelow, Jr. 7.—Work and Sport on the Congo. Henry M. Stanley. 7.—On the Trail of Geronimo. Fred W. Stowell. 10.—Reminiscences of Calaveras. 10.—Italy from a Tricycle. II. Elizabeth Robins Pennell. 1.—Two Days in Utah. Alice W. Rollins. 9.—The Tiber

1 The Century. 2 Harper's Monthly. 3 Andover Review. 4 North American Review. 5 Popular Science Monthly. 6 Magazine of Am. History. 7 Outing. 8 Education. 9 Lippincott's Magazine. 10 Overland Monthly. 11 Atlantic Monthly. 12 New England Historical and Genealogical Register. 13 Rhode Island Historical Magazine. 14 The Forum. 15 New Princeton Review. 16 The Brooklyn Magazine. 17 The Southern Bivouac. 18 The Citizen. 19 Political Science Quarterly. 20 Unitarian Review. 21 New Englander. 22 Magazine of Art. 23 New England Magazine.

THE END