national Dictionary or two or three High School Dictionaries, and at least $50 worth of good library books before buying any special chart. Practically every country school ought to pay better wages and have longer terms of school. Let it be understood that the teachers are really the ones who pay for these charts and miscellaneous supplies, as ultimately the money will come from their wages. This is just as true in city schools as in others, and there are hundreds of cities where the schools are loaded up with all kinds of expensive machinery with teachers working for low wages and discounting their warrants. Continuous Year for Normal Schools. SOME reforms come late. Inertia is characteristic of the educational profession. The fact that teachers were employed for only about half the year has been accepted as an evil to be endured. The summer school had to fight its way into decent recognition. It remained for Dr. Irwin Shepard, of Minnesota, to make more popular the idea that Alfred Holbrook, of Lebanon, Ohio, had advocated for over forty years-the idea that training schools for teachers should remain open the entire year and also admit students into regular classes at least four times a year. The idea is so simple, so sensible, and so just that we believe every normal school in the United States will adopt it at once. The Nebraska Normal School will hold a continuous session next year, or rather have four terms of twelve weeks each, with but one week between terms. For this action the faculty and trustees will receive the grateful thanks of hundreds of Nebraska teachers. Many teachers will now be able to take six months' schools and enter the normal school in April for six months. The Normal School will now have an oppor tunity to make itself a much more potent factor in state education. Among New Books This department has received two recent specimens of Heath's Modern Language Series, Moni der Geissbub, edited, with a vocabulary, by H. A. Guerber, and German Selections for Sight Translation, compiled by Georgianna F. Mondau. The Modern Language texts published by this house are probably the most numerous and best issued by any establishment. The editorial work is almost always good. The print and press-work are in this case neat, and attractive to the (D. C. Heath and Co.; 15 and 25 cents.) eye. * ** A student's edition of Bryant's Translation of the Iliad, and, of the Odyssey, as well as of Cranch's Translation of the Eneid of Virgil, has been lately issued. The standard nature of these volumes has long been known. They are the most approved among late renderings of these classics in the form of verse. It has been the purpose to bring them, since published in rather expensive form before, within the reach of pedagogue and school-boy purses. Everybody may now possess these versions. (Houghton, Mifflin and Co.; each, $1.00.) ** The two-volume biography, Alfred Lord Tennyson: A Memoir by His Son, is a noble and satisfying work. It is as good as settled, one may safely say, that the day of adulatory and paraphrase biographies is over. The best collection of memoirs ever prepared by an American is the Life, Letters, and Journals, of George Ticknor. The present work has been compiled on the same plan. The editor simply arrays the letters, diary, excerpts, unpublished poems, and other memorials, without comment, or with no more interposition of his own offices or personality than necessary to co-ordinate the whole. There is all respect to the domestic rights of the Tennysons, which could hardly as well have been conserved in alien hands. There is no need of excuse or eulogy; the grand poet stands out unmistakable and uncompromised to every mind. Nothing is grander than Tennyson's unwillingness to write pot-boiler verse; though it cost him ten years of separation from Emily Sellwood. He felt his powers too noble to use merely as a means of swelling his bank account. The letters include many received by Tennyson, or Lady Tennyson, along with those written by themselves. This is a characteristic one from the poet, written on the birth of his first son, to John Forster: I have only time for one word of bulletin. Everything, I believe, is going on well, tho' the mother suffers from an almost total want of sleep, and the little monster does everything but what Hamlet said Osric did in his nursery-days. I found him lying alone on the third day of his life, and, while I was looking at him, I saw him looking at me with such apparently earnest, wide-open eyes, I felt as awe-struck as if I had seen a spirit. God bless you, A. TENNYSON. There is likely to be some complaint that the commoner readers and admirers of Tennyson are prevented from purchasing his biography, which will continue, presumably, the only authorized one so long as any representative of the family is living. The price is in effect prohibitive, but few will grudge the income it will bring to the heirs of this rare genius. All considerable libraries will put the work upon their shelves, so that the delay in getting it in hand, to whatsoever lover of the poet, will not be great. We cannot but wish that a like service might be rendered to the English-speaking world in the shape of full memoirs of the Brownings. (The Macmillan Company; $10.00.) * * * We have in hand some rather large books this month. After several years of preparation The Topical Bible: A Digest of the Holy Scriptures, by Chaplain Orville J. Nave, is ready for the public. The purpose of the book, when explained in prospectuses, did not quite commend itself in all cases to Bible students. It was difficult to see why a rearrangement of the contents of books so dissimilar could be of much real profit. An examination of the plan, as illustrated by the book itself, fully justifies the idea of its compiler. When we wish to find a number of related passages, we must under ordinary circumstances look them up severally in the Concordance, and follow by referring to each in the book where it occurs. By opening at the general topic in this volume, all these references will be found together. All principal words are entered, also, on the Concordance plan. For instance, Covetousness is treated by inserting, in the order of occurrence, all verses containing the word, as well as the related "covet" and "covetous." Along with these, also in strict order of occurrence, will be found allusions to the same idea, though no word from that root is used. Thus while the first entry under the word (Exodus 18, 21) is, "Moreover, thou shalt provide out of all the people able men, such as fear God, men of truth, hating covetousness," the third (Nehemiah 5, 7),-"Then I consulted with myself, and I rebuked the nobles, and the rulers, and said unto them, Ye exact usury, every one of his brother," has to do with the idea solely and not the word. After two pages and a half of this treatment follows a new topical entry supplemental to the whole under the heading "Instances of." There are twenty thousand divisions and over of this sort in the work. The whole has been skilfully brought within the compass of a single crown-octavo volume of 1615 pages, in clear long-primer type. There is an elaborate index of all verses and passages cited. The book costs $5 in cloth, $6.50 in half-morocco, $7.50 in full sheep, and $8 in. divinity circuit. (Rev. L. P. Ludden, Lincoln, Western Agent.) * * * The Pride of Jennico, by Agnes and Egerton Castle, is a story told by Captain Basil Jennico in the first person, of his troubles and adventures in the last years of the last century. It is not so lively at the beginning as most stories are, it is all so odd and antiquated,except the language. The chief reason for the title is shown in an important incident, which can be told in the words of the memoir: "Here my reflections were broken in upon by tha. very patter of naked soles that had been in my thoughts, and a little ragged boy, in a dilapidated surplice, ran through the sanctuary from some back door, and fell to lighting a pair of candles on the altar, a proceeding which only seemed once more to heighten the darkness. Presently, in a surplice and cassock as tattered as his acolytes, with long white hair lying unkempt on his shoulders, an old priest-in sooth, the oldest man I have ever seen alive, I believe-came forth with tottering steps; before him the tattered urchin, behind him a sacristan well-nigh as antique as himself, and as utterly pauperized. "These were to be the ministers of my grand marriage! "But almost immediately, a fresh clamor of opening doors, and a light, sedate footfall, struck my ear, and all doubt and dismay disappeared like magic. Closely enveloped in the folds of a voluminous dark velvet cloak, with its hood drawn forward over her head, and beneath this shade her face muffled in the gathers of a white lace veil, I knew the stately height of my bride, as she advanced towards me-and the sight of her, the sound of her brave step, set my heart dancing with the old triumph. . "I pressed into the old priest's cold fingers, as he peered at us from the book, right and left, with dull, bewildered eyes, in which I thought to see the dawn of a vague misgiving, a purse bulging with notes to the value of double the sum promised; and then, with her hand upon my arm, I led her to my carriage. "I looked at the veiled figure beside me and wondered at its stillness. The light of the little lantern inside the carriage flickered upon the crimson of the velvet cloak and the white folds of the veil that hid her face from me. Then I awoke to the consciousness of the sorry figure I must present in her eyes, and, drawing from my pocket a ring,-the richest I had been able to find among my aunt's rich store,-I took the hand that lay half hidden and passive beside me, meaning to slip the jewel over the plain gold circlet I had already placed upon it. Now, as I took the hand in my own, I was struck with its smallness, its slenderness, its lightness; I remembered that even in the dark church, and with but the tips of the fingers resting in my own, a similar impression had vaguely struck I lifted it, spread out the little, long, thin fingers too often had I kissed the dimpled firm hand of her Serene Highness not to know the difference! This was my wife's hand; there was my ring. But who was my wife?" me. Thus Captain Basil Jennico, of Farringdon Dane, in the county of Suffolk, finds he has not married Her Highness the Princess Ottilie, but her waiting maid. He has essayed to wed this Princess for ambition, and not for love, and now he must reckon with his pride. How that is done, and how he finds he has really married Her Serene Highness after all, is the substance of the story. It is a storm and stress novel of no slight cleverness and power. (Macmillan Company; $1.50.) THE NORTH WESTERN MONTHLY A MAGAZINE DEVOTED TO THE CORRELATION OF EDUCATIONAL FORCES Vol. VIII XIX. JUNE, 1898 Studies in Literary Interpretation T was shown, as far back as the first paper of this series, that the Third Form of Pre sentation is the way in which we make known our perceptions and sentiments of the Beautiful to other minds. There is as much meaning of the Beauty kind in the world to be told as there is of the Truth, and perhaps to the average mind it is more nearly within reach. There are but few among us who might become philosophers, while all, I suppose, either are, or at some time have been, poets in their degree. No. 11 to say some of the unsaid things and left a lasting name, not as a revealer, but an artist of the plain and baffling. The man that can overcome the old limitations of an art may be great equally with some discoverer of new power. Browning will never, perhaps, be better famed for all his high revelatory strains than for the one lyric, One Word More, in which he has brought to the surface of conscious speech more from the deeps of a lover's passion than has ever been done in any attempt elsewhere. To illustrate what may be done by a master in the To be a philosopher is to be concerned chiefly interpretative treatment of common things, let with the reasons of things. To be a poet is to be concerned chiefly with such things or aspects of things as produce delight. Most of what is said and written upon matters of this Beauty sort is interpretative merely. Much of poetry, popularly so called, is not even interpretative, and may amount to nothing more than phrasing, as certain examples lately cited show. But poetry of the noblest order, as much of Shakespeare's and Brownings, ranks much higher than interpretative, and belongs to the revelatory class. The musician who discovers a new effect in harmony or instrumentation, and gives it to the world in a symphony, contributes something, though not much, in the revelatory way. The man that invents a new shade of color-like this year's contribution, "cerise"-is similarly, in his degree, a revealer of beauty not enjoyed before. But when a master constructs a character of new nobleness and loveliness, like Imogen in Shakespeare's Cymbeline and Pompilia in The Ring and the Book, he will take rank in literature as a seer of Beauty hardly inferior to Emerson as a seer of Truth. Yet the province of interpretation is no paltry realm. There is very much of sentiment and passion shared in common between the highest and the humblest minds that art has not yet voiced forth to the world. Burns found a way us consider this from Hawthorne parentheses everywhere not his: Rowing our boat against the current, between wide meadows, we turned aside into the Assabeth. (Fact above its junction with the Concord, has never flowed A more lovely stream than this, for a mile sentence.) on earth,-nowhere, indeed, except to lave the interior regions of a poet's imagination. (I of degree of Beauty.) It is sheltered from the breeze by woods and a hillside; so that elsewhere there might be a hurricane, and here scarcely a ripple across the shaded water. (I) The current lingers along so gently that the mere force of the boatman's will seems sufficient to propel his craft against it. (I of degree.) It comes flowing softly through the midmost privacy and deepest heart of a wood which whispers it to be quiet; while the stream whispers back again from its sedgy borders, as if river and wood were hushing one another to sleep. (r) Yes; the river sleeps along its course and dreams of the sky and of the clustering foliage, amid which fall showers of broken sunlight, imparting specks of vivid cheerfulness, in contrast with the quiet depth of the prevailing tint. (R) of all this scene, the slumbering river has a dream-picture in its bosom. (I) Which, after all, was the most real,-the picture or the original?-the objects palpable to our grosser senses, or their apotheosis in the stream beneath? (R, by question of appeal.) Surely the disembodied images stand in closer relation to the soul. (I) But both the original and the reflection had here an ideal charm; and, had it been a thought more wild, I could have fancied that this river had strayed forth out of the rich scenery of my companion's inner world; only the vegetation along its banks should then have had an Oriental character. (I, serving also as a "character-effect of degree” concerning Channing, who is with him here.) As a better test of what interpretation may do, let us compare another passage from Hawthorne. We all know the mood, the sentiment which the approach of autumn arouses in our minds, and which probably all of us, at some time or other, have tried to give expression to. That is Hawthorne's effort here: I have forgotten whether the song of the cricket be not as early a token of autumn's approach as any other, -that song which may be called an audible stillness; for though very loud and heard afar, yet the mind does not take note of it as a sound, so completely is its individual existence merged among the accompanycharacteristics of the season. (I) Alas for the pleasant summertime! (I degree of regret.) In August the grass is still verdant on the hills and in the valleys; the foliage of the trees is as dense as ever and as green; the flowers gleam forth in richer abundance along the margin of the river and by the stone walls and deep among the woods; the days, too, are as fervid now as they were a month ago; and yet in every bra h of wind and in every beam of sunshine we hear the whispered farewell and behold the parting smile of a dear friend. (R) There is a coolness amid all the heat, a mildness in the blazing noon. (I) Not a breeze can stir but it thrills us with the breath of autumn. (I) A pensive glory is seen in the far, golden gleams, among the shadows of the trees. (R) The flowers even the brightest of them, and they are the most gorgeous of the year-have this gentle sadress wedded to their pomp, and typify the character of the delicious time each within itself. (R) The brilliant cardinal flower has never seemed gay to me. (I) Still later in the season Nature's tenderness waxes stronger. (R) It is impossible not to be fond of our mother now; for she is so fond of us! (R) At other periods she does not make this impression on me, or only at rare intervals; but in those genial days of autumn, when she has perfected her harvests and accomplished every needful thing that was given her to do, then she overflows with a blessed superfluity of love. (I) She has leisure to caress her children now. (I) . . . A blessing is flung abroad and scattered far and wide over the ear h, to be gathered up by all who choose. (r) I recline upon the still unwithered grass and whisper to mys.lf, "O perfect day! O beautiful world! O beneficent God!” (I) And it is the promise of a blessed eternity; for our Creator would never have made such lovely days and have given us the deep hearts to enjoy them. above and beyond all thought, unless we were meant to be immortal. (R) This sunshine is the golden pledge thereof. (I) It beams through the gates of paradise and shows us glimpses far inward. (R) The sentences in these extracts have been mainly interpretative of respective aspects of beauty, or sentiments inspired in the author in kind. Let us now see how feelings of beauty, or its antitypes of longing or regret, may be indicated in degree. Perhaps there is nothing better to instance first than these verses in Passus LXVII. of In Memoriam. Tennyson measures to us his grief by making us realize, with him, that the vision of Arthur Hallam's tablet in Clevedon church by the Severn comes to him nightly, as the moon shines within his chamber, and keeps him sleepless and musing until the small hours have borne the moɔn away. In the morning again, at the first light, the memory of his lost friend comes back, picturing the same marble slab on the church wall, shining with the dim eastern light. Incidental interpretative touches, in low units, are marked here as before. When, on my bed the moonlight falls, From off my bed the moonlight dies; As for revelatory literature on the "Beauty" side, like Emerson's on the "Truth," there is not much space left to speak. There is no writer who has yet done for beauty what Emerson has done for truth in the same stalwart, compelling vein. No doubt Ruskin is his worthiest counterpart. There is nothing better for the young man or woman of taste than to procure the volumes-one by one if necessaryof this great interpreter and seer of beauty, and study them out completely. And the philosophic, or "truth," side of the mind will not suffer the while, for Ruskin is often as much the apostle of truth as of the gospel of beauty. Mistakes he undoubtedly has made; he is often dogmatic and intolerant. But it is well not to pay much attention to the critics of Ruskin, or of anybody else for that matter, in these days Nobody has done so much to make hard meanings clear to common minds since literature and art began. Nobody has interpreted the open secrets in the world of beauty so powerfully; nobody has used English prose so grandly. Nobody has a loftier or more helpful spirit. It may be well to close these papers with an example from this author that shall be illustrative, not only in the literary, but the art-critic's way, and shall likewise interpret to us somewhat of Ruskin's sentiments as a man. The passage is from Athena in the Heart ("The Queen of the Air"), and the occasion of the talk is "an early Turner drawing of the lake of Geneva, taken about two miles from Geneva, on the Lausanne road, with Mount Blanc in the distance." The old city is seen lying beyond the waveless waters, veiled with a sweet, misty veil of Athena's weaving: a faint light of morning, peaceful exceedingly, and almost colorless, shed from behind the Voirons, increases into soft amber along the slope of the Saleve, and is just seen, and no more, on the fair warm fields of its summit, between the folds of a white cloud that rests upon the grass, but rises, high and tower-like, into the zenith of dawn above. (I and R.) There is not as much color in that low amber light upon the hill-side as there is in the palest dead leaf. (I) The lake is not blue, but gray in mist, passing into deep shadow beneath the Voirons' pines; a few dark clusters of leaves, a single white flower-scarcely seen-are all the gladness given to the rocks of the shore. (I) . . . What made him take pleasure in the low color that is only like the brown of a dead leaf? in the cold gray of dawn-in the one white flower among the rocks-in these-and no more than these? (I) He took pleasure in them because he had been bred among English fields and hills; because the gentleness of a great race was in his heart, and its powers of thought in his brain; because he knew the stories of the Alps, and cf the cities at their feet; because he had read the Homeric legends of the clouds, and beheld the gods of dawn, and the givers of dew to the fields; because he knew the faces of the crags, and the imagery of the passionate mountains, as a man knows the face of his friend; because he had in him the wonder and sorrow concerning life and death, which are the inheritance of the Gothic soul from the days of its first sea kings; and also the compassion and the joy that are woven into the innermost fabric of every great imaginative spirit, born now in countries that have lived by the Christian faith with any courage or truth. (I, with many elements of R.) And the pic. ure contains also, for us, just this which its maker had in him to give; and can convey it to us, just as far as we are of the temper in which it must be received. (I) It is didactic if we are worthy to be taught, not otherwise. (I) The pure heart, it will make more pure; the thoughtful, more thoughtful. (I) It has in it no words for the reckless or the base. (I) As I myself look at it there is no fault nor folly of my life, and both have been many and great,-that does not rise up against me, and take away my joy, and shorten my power of possession, of sight, of understanding. (I) And every past effort of my life, every gleam of rightness or good in it, is with me now, to help me in my grasp of this art, and its vision. (R) So far as I can rejoice in, or interpret either, my power is owing to what of right there is in me. (R) I dare to say it, that, because through all my life I have desired good, and not evil; because I have been kind to many; have wished to be kind to all; have wilfully injured none; and because I have loved much, and not selfishly; therefore, the morning light is yet visible to me on those hills, and you who read, may trust my thought and word in such work as I have to do for you; and you will be glad afterwards that you have trusted me. (I, of Ruskin's frame of mind in which he interprets this picture.) Yet I remember,-I repeat it again and yet again,that I may for once, if possible, make this thing assuredly clear: the inherited art-gift must be there, as well as the life in some poor measure, or rescued fragment, right. (I) This art-gift of mine could not be won by any work, or by any conduct; it belongs to me by birthright, and came by Athena's will, from the air of English country villages and Scottish hills. (I) L. A. SHERMAN. |