to make the rough places of their path | of flame, we conspire-not overtly in smooth. This treatment is, of course, reserved exclusively for the tractable inmates-for such as sin through ignorance. "Quant à ceux qui, par mépris des considérations qui précèdent, se feraient un malin plaisir des contraventions au bon ordre de l'association, il y aura pour eux l'amende d'abord et le congé ensuite, l'association ne devant conserver dans son sein que les personnes désireuses de coopérer au bonheur de tout le monde." deed, but each in his deep mind-how. we shall baffle domestic tyranny and evade, if but for a few brief minutes of recorded time, the cubicular moment and the inevitable hand of the bathmaiden. The critical instant occurs about half-way through my first pipe, and W. V.'s devices for respite or escape are at once innumerable and transparently ingenious. I admit my conInivance without a blush, though I may perchance weakly observe: "One sees This little book of rules and regula- so little of her, mother;" for how detions is, it must be confessed, some- lightful it is when she sings or recites what depressing reading. As one pon--and no one would be so rude as to ders on its contents the conviction interrupt singing or recitation-to creeps into one's mind that life in the veriest little hovel would be better worth living than in the best organized of Familistères. In these winter evenings, thanks to the Great Northern, and to Hesperus who brings all things home, I reach my doorstep about half an hour before W. V.'s bedtime. A sturdy, rosy, flaxen-haired little body opens to my well-known knock, takes a kiss on the tip of her nose, seizes my umbrella, and makes a great show of assisting me with my heavy overcoat. She leads me into the dining-room, gets my slippers, runs my bootlaces into Gordian knots in her precipitate zeal, and announces that she has "set" the tea. At table she slips furtively on to my knee, and we are both happy till a severe voice, "Now, father!" reminds us of the reign of law in general, and of that law in particular which enacts that it is shocking in little girls to want everything they see, and most reprehensible in elderly people (I elderly!) to encourage them. We are glad to escape to the armchair, where, after I have lit my pipe and W. V. has blown out the little elf watch the little hands waving in "the air so blue," the little fingers flickering above her head in imitation of the sparks at the forge, the little arms nursing an imaginary weeping dolly, the blue eyes lit up with excitement as they gaze abroad from the cherry-tree into the "foreign lands" beyond the garden wall. She has much to tell me about the day's doings. Yes, she has been claymodelling. I have seen some of her marvellous baskets of fruit and birds' nests and ivy leaves; but to-day she has been doing what dear old Mother Nature did in one of her happy moods some millenniums ago-making a sea with an island in it; and mountains, one a volcano with a red crayon-colored top, around the sea; and a river with a bridge across it; quite a boldly conceived but human-hearted fragment of a new planet. Of course Miss Jessie helped her, but she would soon be able, all by herself, to create a new world in which there should be ever-blossoming spring and a golden age and fairies to make the impossible commonplace. W. V. does not put it in that way, but those, I fancy, would be the characteristics of a universe of her happy and innocent contriving. At a Kindergarten one learns, of course, many things besides clay-modelling: poetry, for instance, and singing, and natural history; drill and ball-playing and dancing; coloring and drawing and paper-cutting. And am I not curious-this with a glance at the clock which is on the stroke of seven -to hear the new verse of her last French song? Shall she recite "Purr, purr!" or "The Swing"? Or would it not be an agreeable change to have her sing "Up into the Cherry Tree," or "The Busy Blacksmith"? Any or all of these would be indeed delectable, but parting is the same sweet sorrow at the last as at the first. When she has recited and sung I draw her between my knees and begin: "There was once a very naughty little girl, and her name was W. V." "No, father, a good little girl." "Well, there was a good little girl, and her name was Gladys." "No, father, a good little girl called W. V." "Well, a good little girl called W. V.; and she was 'quickly obedient;' and when her father said she was to go to bed, she said: 'Yes, father,' and she just flew, and gave no trouble." "And did her father come up and kiss her?" "Why, of course, he did." A few minutes later she is kneeling on the bed with her head nestled Men of Stone.-Among the natural wonders of the south-western states of America, says the Pendleton East Oregonian, are the Superstitious Mountains, which loom up from the arid desert to the east of the Salt River Valley. These mountains are so curious that, as long as Arizona has been settled, the Indians would have nothing to do with them. In consequence they are full of deer, ibex, bear, and other big game. The Superstitious Mountains rise out of the level surface of the desert like the pyramids of Egypt. On the crest of this unique range, and in full view of the rarefied atmosphere for an immense distance from the plain, are hundreds of queer figures, representing men in all attitudes. When you look first you are sure they are men, and when you turn your gaze again to them you are as absolutely certain of it as you can be of anything. They repre sent ball throwers, outlooks, mere viewers of the country roundabout, men recumbent and contemplate, others starting on a foot race, and in every conceivable posture and position. They are not real flesh and blood men, however-nothing but stone sienite-yet, nothing can convince the Indians, and some white men, that they are not genuine. They say they are real mortals turned to stone, petrified by the peculiar condition of the air on the mountains. This belief has grown out of an Apache legend handed down for hundreds of years. They have it that an ancient chief, who had learned of the curious character of the Superstitious Mountains, forbade any of his people to go there. A large band, however, one day discovered a way to get in by a precipitous route, and finally reached the top. It resulted as the chief had said— they never got down alive. Sixth Series, } No. 2703.-April 25, 1896. From Beginning, CONTENTS. For SIX DOLLARS remitted directly to the Publishers, the LIVING AGE will be punctually for warded for a year, free of postage. Remittances should be made by bank draft or check, or by post-office money-order, if possible. If neither of these can be procured, the money should be sent in a registered letter. All postmasters are obliged to register letters when requested to do so. Drafts, checks, and money-orders should be made payable to the order of LITTELL & Co. Single copies of the LIVING AGE, 15 cents. TO TERENCE A LITTLE CHILD. Here in this quiet woodland place, Hid in the folds of Surrey hills, I found you first; a flower-like face, A bird's voice babbling like a rill's The lore of that mysterious land I once, like you, could understand. A fragile thing of fairy mould, You meditate with grave brown eyes, Do memories of a land divine Or like a young bird, from the nest And hears the awakened forest-choir And nothing sees that is not fair Alas! child, we were once like you, Unending seemed the years to be, Our hold on them would ne'er grow less, Was it a mirage all we saw Then in the infinite future bright, Ideals fair, faith without flaw, And must you feel, as we have felt We know not: for your life we see While haply now the treacherous hours For of the future who may say The course, who scan man's years at birth, And see, like clouds, passing away, Boyhood and all its light-heart mirth, And manhood's strength, and see draw nigh Old age, and the last hour's agony? So we must watch with dimming gaze Yet once from the utter darkness where Of nothingness, a light there flowed Immeasurable and infinite That Hope's low sunrise on our way The perfect day we all shall meet, past, When Love shall in His kingdom sweet From The Contemporary Review. 1 Mr. Purcell's "Life of Cardinal Manning" is a book which awakens the most opposite feelings, and the most Its author contradictory judgments. has been a sort of inverted Balaam, called in to bless the cardinal he has yet, in the view of his admirers and friends, cursed him altogether. Then, his literary offences are too many and too flagrant to allow the mere critic to speak well of his book. He is certainly no master in the craft of letters, style he knows not; order, chronology, easy and correct reference, continuity of narrative, consecutiveness of thought, economy in the use of material, coherence and vividness of portraiture are things to which he has not attained. He is a laborious biographer, but an inaccurate writer, manifestly quainted with the religious history of our times, unable on this account to interpret many of his own documents or deal intelligently with the characters, careers, and opinions of many of the persons who crowd his pages. The book is thus difficult to read, a sore tax on one's patience, a continual trial unac to one's temper, mocking during perusal all attempts at a fair and balanced judgment. But when one has finished the book, and retreated from it far enough to see it in perspective, and as a whole, some very remarkable qualities begin to show themselves. It is, perhaps, rather a frank than an honest book, written by a man whose lack of insight is redeemed by a sort of blunt courage, guided by a rather robust common sense. He is anxious to be just, yet does not quite foresee the effects of his justice. His judgments are at once candid and naïve, the judgments of a man who has lived in a very narrow circle, has mistaken its whispers for the murmur of the 1 Life of Cardinal Manning, Archbishop of Westminster. By Edmund Sheridan Purcell, Member of the Roman Academy of Letters, London: Macmillan & Co. 1895. world, and has published, to the dismay of multitudes, the gossip it likes to talk but does not love to print. In its light, he has studied his documents, and inquired at his living sources, and then ne has laboriously poured out the results in this book, which, though a marvel of cumulative and skilled awkwardnesses, yet leaves us with a distinct and breathing image of its hero, who is certainly no pallid shadow, but an actual person, all too concrete and articulate. This is no small merit, and rare enough in modern biography to deserve cordial praise. But the value of the book does not lie in the text of its author, but in the original documents it contains. The question as to the right or wrong of their publication is not one for me to discuss; what is obvious is that access. to first-hand authorities is always a gain to historical knowledge. Cardinal Manning was neither a recluse nor a private citizen, but a man who lived for more than half a century in the full blaze of the public eye. From the first he was a conspicuous figure, the leader of an army; a man of strong loves and intense hates, who handled too many men, fought too many battles both in the dark and in the day; in a word, was too much a force working for change and conflict to be commemorated in a biography which should be at once innocuous and veracious. If his life had caused no alarm or given no offence, it might have been edifying, but would not have been informing, for it would have told us nothing of the secrets of his character, or the springs of his conduct, or the reasons of his policy. But he was too much the sum of certain great moments and events to be dealt with as a delicate plant, or hidden within the muddy atmosphere of circumspect commonplace. More harm is done by the diplomatic suppression of the truth than by its frank publication; the one is the way of wisdom, the other of discretion; and the promise is that wisdom, not discretion, shall be justified of her children. Of course, I feel that the character |