Genre Biography & Autobiography. Page - 2

she said, and withdrew her hands from his shoulders. The faces of both were now gazing straight on over the gold-flecked slope before them. "Go on, you are a man. I know you will not turn back from what you undertake. You will not change, you will not turn--because you cannot. You were born to earn and not to own; to find, but not to possess. But as you have lived, so you will die."

"You give me no long shrift, mother?" said the youth, with a twinkle in his eye.

"How can I? I can only tell you what is in the book of life. Do I not know? A mother always loves her son; so it takes all her courage to face what she knows will be his lot. Any mother can read her son's future--if she dares to read it. She knows--she knows!"

There was a long silence; then the widow continued.

"Listen, Merne," she said. "You call me a prophetess of evil. I am not that. Do you think I speak only in despair, my boy? No, there is something larger than mere happiness. Listen, and believe me, for now I could n

ling depth of thesefeelings be written--with these I prayed, as if they were the keys of aninstrument, of an organ, with which I swelled forth the note of my soul,redoubling my own voice by their power. The great sun burning with light;the strong earth, dear earth; the warm sky; the pure air; the thought ofocean; the inexpressible beauty of all filledme with a rapture, an ecstasy, and inflatus. With this inflatus, too, Iprayed. Next to myself I came and recalled myself, my bodily existence. Iheld out my hand, the sunlightgleamed on the skin and the iridescent nails; I recalled the mystery andbeauty of the flesh. I thought of the mind with which I could see the oceansixty miles distant, and gather to myself its glory. I thought of my innerexistence, that consciousness which is called the soul. These, that is,myself-- I threw into the balance to weight the prayer the heavier. Mystrength of body, mind and soul, I flung into it; I but forth my strength; Iwrestled and laboured, and toiled in might o

nts; they were trusted to hired attendants; they were allowed a deal of air and exercise, were kept on plain food, forced to give way to the comfort of others, accustomed to be overlooked, slightly regarded, considered of trifling importance. No well-stocked libraries of varied lore to cheat them into learning awaited them; no scientific toys, no philosophie amusements enlarged their minds and wearied their attention." One wonders what would have been the verdict of this writer of fifty years ago on education in 1905. She goes on to tell us of the particular system pursued with the boys in order to harden them for their future work in life. It was not considered either necessary or agreeable for a woman to be very strong. "Little Francis was at the age of ten months removed from the parsonage to a cottage in the village, and placed under the care of a worthy couple, whose simple style of living, homely dwelling, and out-of-door habits (for in the country the poor seldom close the door by day, except in bad we

used himself in the many long days during which he was confined to the house by ill health.

It is at this stage the steam and kettle story takes its rise. Mrs. Campbell, Watt's cousin and constant companion, recounts, in her memoranda, written in 1798:

Sitting one evening with his aunt, Mrs. Muirhead, at the tea-table, she said: "James Watt, I never saw such an idle boy; take a book or employ yourself usefully; for the last hour you have not spoken one word, but taken off the lid of that kettle and put it on again, holding now a cup and now a silver spoon over the steam, watching how it rises from the spout, and catching and connecting the drops of hot water it falls into. Are you not ashamed of spending your time in this way?"

To what extent the precocious boy ruminated upon the phenomenon must be left to conjecture. Enough that the story has a solid foundation upon which we can build. This more than justifies us in classing it with "Newton and the Apple," "Bruce and the Spider," "Tell a

west? He often asked himself that question in some amusement as they approached the coast of China. They entered a long winding channel and steamed this way and that until one day they sailed into a fine broad harbor with a magnificent city rising far up the steep sides of a hill. It was an Oriental city, and therefore strange to the young traveller. But for all that there seemed something familiar in the fine European buildings that lined the streets, and something still more homelike in that which floated high above them--something that brought a thrill to the heart of the young Canadian--the red-crossed banner of Britain!

It was Hongkong, the great British port of the East, and here he decided to land. No sooner had the travelers touched the dock, than they were surrounded by a yelling, jostling crowd of Chinese coolies, all shouting in an outlandish gibberish for the privilege of carrying the Barbarians' baggage. A group gathered round Mackay, and in their eagerness began hammering each other with

Indian tribes were in a difficult position. Both the French and the English were trying to get their lands and each seeking to win their alliance against the other. Washington reminded the chiefs that he had their word of honor and so kept them with him.

After receiving the French reply, the party started back home, going as far as possible in canoes. The rivers were swollen and full of ice, making the water-trip extremely dangerous. On Christmas Day, Washington began his long journey home--nearly a thousand miles through almost trackless forests. The horses became so tired that he and Christopher Gist decided to hurry on foot, in advance of the others, to the fork of the Ohio, leaving their horses to be brought later. They tramped several days, camping in the forests at night. An Indian met them and offered to show them a short cut. But he was treacherous and guided them out of their way and tried to shoot them. They escaped, traveling as fast as they could all night and all the next day.

At n

. Sometime during our residence in Baltimore, Spec disappeared, and we never knew his fate.

From that early time I began to be impressed with my father's character, as compared with other men. Every member of the household respected, revered and loved him as a matter of course, but it began to dawn on me that every one else with whom I was thrown held him high in their regard. At forty-five years of age he was active, strong, and as handsome as he had ever been. I never remember his being ill. I presume he was indisposed at times; but no impressions of that kind remain. He was always bright and gay with us little folk, romping, playing, and joking with us. With the older children, he was just as companionable, and the have seen him join my elder brothers and their friends when they would try their powers at a high jump put up in our yard. The two younger children he petted a great deal, and our greatest treat was to get into his bed in the morning and lie close to him, listening while he talked to us i

They had been set in family connection,intimate by kin, intimate in earliest life by every outward tie, andespecially intimate by the subtile affinities of their spiritualnatures. Yet he who can, under any circumstances, entreat the love ofwoman, and then take advantage of her weakness or her confidence, is ananomaly in nature, and should have a special, judiciary here and inheaven.

Since so much of the romance here following is truth, veritable truth,it is to be regretted that any error of historical character wassuffered to assume importance in the narrative. Yet this is so often thecase in works of this kind, that it is not remarkable here. Moresurprising is it that truth was so carefully and conscientiously guardedand preserved.

In conflicting statements, it is difficult to determine the precise yearof the marriage of Mr. Edwards, whether before or after the death of"Eliza Wharton," although it may have been long before, even as one ofhis biographers has it, and that recklessness and e

ng his name on the fête day of his patron Saint Miguel, which some biographers have confounded with that of his birthday.

We may be forgiven for a few words about Alcala de Henares, since, had it only produced so rare a man as was Cervantes, it would have had sufficient distinction; but it was a town of an eventful historical record. It was destroyed about the year 1000, and rebuilt and possessed by the Moors, was afterwards conquered by Bernardo, Archbishop of Toledo. Three hundred years later it was the favorite retreat of Ximenes, then Cardinal Archbishop of Toledo, who returned to it, after his splendid conquests, laden with gold and silver spoil taken from the mosques of Oran, and with a far richer treasure of precious Arabian manuscripts, intended for such a university as had long been his ambition to create, and the corner-stone of which he laid with his own hands in 1500. There was a very solemn ceremonial at the founding of this famous university, and a hiding away of coins and inscripti