help. And you will find, Andrew, if tears have not come before, they will be sure to come here; and one can feel such a hearty yearning to be away and can be so sad and cast down in one's self, as if there were really no help at all. But then one must pluck up courage again, lay the hand upon the mouth and continue, as it were, in triumph:

"For thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory forever.

Amen."

From "A Letter to My Friend Andrew.»

HUGH ARTHUR CLOUGH

(1819-1861)

UGH ARTHUR CLOUGH was a man of genius who failed to achieve greatness only because he had not the strength of character to free himself intellectually from the clog imposed on his faculties of expression by the moral weaknesses of his generation. He lived at a time when the spirit of rapacity had begun to dominate the acquisitive classes in England to such an extent that their influence impaired the general sense of order and justice. The result in the nonacquisitive and literary classes was a loss of direction, a feeling of uncertainty, a disposition to stop on the road to high achievement, and re-examine the guidebook in a spirit of criticism and skepticism. Clough, born at Liverpool, January 1st, 1819, was a favorite pupil of Dr. Arnold, a man of "the most brilliant promise," a poet of high possibilities, and a scholar of varied accomplishments. Longfellow and Matthew Arnold were his friends, and he wrote much both in prose and verse to justify their good opinion. His longest poem, the "Bothie of Tober-na-Vuolich," is written in the German hexameter measure, which, unfortunately, is not adapted to the time and inflections of the English language: but in his prose he shows at its best the strength of what was really a fine and strong intellect. He goes to the very heart of his generation as with a knife thrust when he writes: "It is very fine-- perhaps not very difficult to do, every now and then, some noble or generous act. But what is wanted of us is to do no wrong ones! It may be, for instance, in many eyes, a laudable thing to amass a colossal fortune by acts not in all cases of quite unimpeachable integrity, and then to expend it in magnificent benevolence. But the really good thing is not to make the fortune. Thorough honesty and plain, undeviating integrity - these are our real needs; on these substructions only can the fabric of individual or national well-being safely be reared." Clough died in 1861.

YOU

A CONCLUSION BY PAREPIDEMUS

are feeding, O you students of Greek and lovers of Latin, you that add to your German, French, and to your French, Italian and Spanish, you inquirers afar off into Persian and Sanskrit, you devotees of Chaucer and votaries of Shakespeare and Milton,-you are feeding upon that, precisely, which was tried by the wise men of old and found wanting. You stand picking up the dross where those before you have carried away the gold; you are swallowing as truth what they put away from them expressed, because it was false or insufficient.

Or is this, peradventure, confined to our own weaker selves, our more impatient, irretentive, unthoughtful age? For, certainly, my dear sir, what you and I and the young people read in any modern page is, in the manner aforestated, "the thing that is not." Each striking new novel does but reveal a theory of life and action which its writer is anxious to be rid of; each enthusiastic address or oration is but that which its speaker is just beginning to feel disgusted with. Oh! happy and happy again, and thrice happy relief to the writer; but to the reader-?

Said the Tree to the Children, "How can you go and pick up those dirty dead leaves I have thrown away?" Said the Children to the Tree, "Will you grow us any better next year?" Said the Tree to the Children, "What! are you positively going to put into your mouths those horrid things (fruit, do you call it?) that have fallen from my branches?" Said the Children to the Tree, "Why, they are very nice." Said the Tree then to itself, "Suppose I were to restrain myself next spring, and not grow any leaves, and to suppress, ascetically, all tendencies to blossom? Should I not then produce something better? By all that is wise and moral I will try." Said the Springtime six months after to the Tree, "My dear Tree, that is out of the question." The Children came again next fall, and the Tree made no remark.

An illustration, however, is not the same thing as an argument; though sometimes, indeed, it may be better. It is a game, in any case, for two to play at. For it is also told of the Phoenix, that, having reached its term of years it proceeded to Arabia, and built up carefully its pyre of odoriferous combustibles, and sat down to expect the new birth. But when the fire began to

kindle, and the odoriferous sticks crackled, the odors indeed were beautiful (ornithologists, however, are uncertain whether the Phonix has any sense of smell), the flame meantime was most undoubtedly painful in the extreme when it got within the feathers (the Phoenix, there is no question, has the sense of touch). The Phoenix started up and exclaimed to itself, "Oh! surely, surely, I am young again now!" "Sit still, sit still, poor Phoenix; not till pain has deprived thee of the very sense of pain, not until thought and self-consciousness are burnt out and out of theenot, by many pangs, yet-is the new creature born in thee!" with which exhortation the story concludes.

And with which illustration, upon which side, my dear sir, is the truth, or the most of the truth? "As the leaves are, so are the lives of men"; and so also their writings. Shall we yield to the promptings of nature, and let the eager sap aspire forth in the germination, and the leaflets open out, and display themselves, to fall from us dead and uncomely in November? Or shall we burn slowly, in silence, that hereafter something better may be born of us? Quien sabe?

Was it the silence or the speech of previous ages that formed the more perfect writers? Was Perugino necessary to Raphael, or had Raphael been more himself without him? Some function, indeed, higher than that of mere self-relief, we must conceive of for the writer. To sum up the large experience of ages, to lay the finger on yet unobserved, or undiscovered, phenomena of the inner universe, something we can detect of these in the spheric architecture of St. Peter's in the creative touches of the "Tempest."

Imperfect, no doubt, both this and that is; short of the better thing to come-the real thing that is. Yet not impotent, not wholly unavailing.

In conclusion, will you let me offer you the last "modern invocation" to the poet-shall we say in modern phrase of the future? "Come, poet, come "no, I will trouble you only with a few verses at the end:—

"In vain I seem to call, and yet
Think not the living years forget:
Ages of heroes fought and fell,
That Homer, in the end, might tell;
O'er groveling generations past
The Doric column rose at last.

A thousand hearts on thousand years
Had wasted labor, hopes, and fears,
Knells, laughters, and unmeaning tears,
Ere England Shakespeare saw, or Rome,
The pure perfection of her dome.
Others, I doubt not, if not we,

The issue of our toils shall see;

Young children gather as their own

The harvest that the dead have sown—

The dead, forgotten and unknown."

From "A Letter of Parepidemus.»

THE

SOME RECENT SOCIAL THEORIES

HE crying evil, as it appears to us, of the present system of unrestricted competition is not so much the distress of the workmen as the extreme slovenliness and badness of their work. The joy and satisfaction of making really good things is destroyed by the criminal eagerness to make them to suit the market. The love of art, which, quite as much as virtue, is its own reward, used in the old times to penetrate down as far as to the meanest manufacture, of kettles, for example, and pots. With us, on the contrary, the miserable truckling to the bad taste of the multitude has gradually stolen up to the very regions of the highest art,-into architecture, sculpture, painting, music, literature. Nay, has it not infected even morality and religion? And do we never hear spiritual advice, which in fact bids us do as little good, and get as much applause for it, as we can; and above all things, know the state of the market?

So far as co-operative societies or guilds would remove this evil, they would be of great use. But let it not be forgotten that the object of human society is not the mere "culinary" one of securing equal apportionments of meat and drink to all its members. Men combine for some higher object; and to that higher object it is, in their social capacity, the privilege and real happiness of individuals to sacrifice themselves. The highest political watchword is not Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, nor yet Solidarity, but Service.

The true comfort to the soldiers, serving in the great industrial army of arts, commerce, and manufactures, is neither to