warded by a seat in the Parliament which was elected after the passage of the Reform Bill in 1832. He wrote one hundred books, chiefly upon the topics of the day. They are seldom read now, but they did good work at the time they were written. William Cobbett deserves to be remembered as the founder of the Reform Movement in England, as the true friend of political freedom, and as the unflinching defender of the plain people.

If asked to name the President of the United States who most truly represented the American spirit, Andrew Jackson should, undoubtedly, be mentioned. This remarkable man was the child of poor Irish immigrants. He was educated in a log hut in the pine woods of North Carolina, from which he went at the age of fourteen to fight in the Revolution. His education was such as any schoolboy in these days would be ashamed of, but he possessed a brave and unconquerable spirit. Left alone in the world before he was fifteen, by the death of his father, mother and brothers, he worked out his own destiny with indomitable pluck, and splendid success. Having only a limited knowledge of law, he boldly crossed the mountains into Tennessee, settled in Nashville, and fought his way to success at the bar; became a judge; a member of Congress; United States Senator; general in the War of 1812; the victorious commander in the battle of New Orleans; closing his public career as President of the United States during two eventful terms, in which he proved himself as great a statesman as he had already proved himself a born soldier.

General Jackson's life-long political antagonist, Henry Clay, was the son of a poor Baptist preacher in Virginia, who died when the future statesman was only five years old, leaving a widow and seven small children to shift for themselves. Under these circumstances, young Clay's education was of the scantiest kind, picked up in a log-cabin schoolhouse, under teachers who knew little, and could impart only the rudiments of English to their pupils. At the age of fifteen, he began the battle of life as a clerk in a small retail store in Richmond. He soon left the uncongenial employment to accept a clerkship in the office of the clerk of the high court of chancery. Here he remained four years, when he commenced the study of law in the office

Dur

of Robert Brooke, attorney-general, and afterwards Governor, of Virginia. ing these years he was fortunate enough to attract the favorable notice of the celebrated Chancellor Wythe, who, becoming interested in the bright young man, directed his studies, and recommended to him the best books for acquiring a knowledge of the grammatical structure of the English language. After studying law a year, he was admitted to practice, although not yet twenty-one years old. soon afterwards removed to Lexington, Ky., where his eloquence, his frank and cordial manners, and winning address, in a few years gained him a large practice and distinguished political honors, in his State and in the United States. Henry Clay's public career is familiar to most American readers. Let it suffice here to say that he became a popular idol, and for fifty years was regarded as the Cicero of America.

He

Turning from these self-cultured men in public life who have contributed so much to the world's history, the reader is reminded that all the world-workers are not politicians, or soldiers, or men of affairs. Some of the greatest benefactors of the human race have been poets, artists and men of letters. It can be said without fear of contradiction that Shakespeare is one of the greatest benefactors of mankind that ever lived. An eminent Englishman of this century once asked the English nation-"Which will you give up, your Indian Empire, or your Shakespeare"-and, answering for the English nation, he said: "Indian Empire, or no Indian Empire, we cannot do without our Shakespeare." Yet this priceless treasure of English-speaking people — this Prince of Poets and poet of princes was peasant born. He was the eldest of ten children, and his father, who was a poor dealer in wool, could not afford to give him either a university, a collegiate, or even a commonschool, education. He was sent to a free-school, where he acquired only the rudiments of an education, for he was withdrawn from school at an early age in order to assist his father in supporting the family. His want of a classical education (if we may presume this), was an advantage to his great natural genius. The deeper study of the ancient writers might have made him a more correct poet, but it would, have restrained the

fire, the passion, the noble rage, so admirable in his works. His supreme genius would have been cramped by the classical models, and this myriad-minded man would have fulfilled only one half of his immortal destiny. Had Shakespeare's natural genius been subjected to the severe rules of the classical drama, the world might have lost Romeo and Juliet, Antonio the royal Merchant, Shylock the Jew, the gentle Desdemona, the erring yet noble Moor, the stately Portia, Falstaff, Lear, Miranda, Ophelia, Hamlet, and that infinite variety of characters, representing all ranks of life, many nationalities, and scenes the most diverse. All the nations of the world have gradually come to the opinion that Shakespeare is the greatest poet that ever lived. Kings may be dethroned, empires fall, palaces crumble into dust, but Shakespeare will survive them all.

Robert Burns has been pronounced the "most gifted British soul of the eighteenth century." Burns was only a ploughboy with a ploughboy's schooling, but his work will live long after the castles of contemporary nobles have fallen into dust. So witty was this peasant-born poet that he "lifted duchesses from their feet;" so human in his speech that the waiters and ostlers at the inns would get out of bed and come crowding to hear him talk. What a tribute to the genuine sincerity of this man's humanity! One month he is a ruined ploughman, meditating a flight to the West Indies to escape imprisonment for debt; the next, by an amazing transition, he is in Edinburgh, "in a blaze of rank, beauty and fashion, handing down duchesses to dinner, the cynosure of all eyes." He was not dazzled by this extraordinary change in his surroundings, but received the honors of society with the tranquillity of a born prince, entirely unabashed, and neither awkward, nor astonished, nor affected a true man, one of nature's gentlemen. Coming down to our own day and generation, we find that one of the most practical intellects of the age is that of Thomas A. Edison. He learned to read at his mother's knee, and like most of the world's workers, he early became fond of reading. He never went to school more than two months in his life. At twelve, he was earning his own living as a train boy on the Grand Trunk Rail

road, running between Port Huron and Detroit. He sold papers, magazines, toys, fruit, etc. He made $2,000 during the four years he was engaged in this occupation, all of which he gave to his parents. At twenty-two, he was tramping the streets of New York, without a cent in his pockets. Ten years later his wonderful inventive genius had made him rich and famous-his income was as large as that of the President of the United States, his name known over the whole civilized world; recognized as one of the most remarkable men of his age.

Let us glance, for a moment, at some of his inventions: by his automatic system of telegraphing, one thousand words a minute can be sent over a single wire; by his quadruplex method, four distinct and different messages pass over the wire at the same time; by the phonograph, all kinds of sounds are preserved and may be reproduced ages hence; by the telephone sounds are conveyed over any distance; by the electric light night is changed into day. Within the memory of living men, the editor of the English Quarterly Review once gravely declared that he would rather trust himself to the mercy of a Congreve rocket than ride on a railroad train moving at the rapid rate of eighteen miles an hour;" and when we know that we now ride in perfect safety sixty miles an hour, we can hardly venture to predict any limit to the marvellous inventive genius of Thomas A. Edison. Such wonders has he accomplished with electricity, that we naturally ask, "What next?" The genius of man is limitless. "Hundreds of discoveries are still to be made by men of trained and observant minds. The lightning of which we stand in awe is nothing more than what a lady might brush from her cat's back, or from her own hair with a brush. Science reveals to us two infinities. It begins in wonder, and ends in wonder, and is the great angel of mercy devoting itself to the welfare of the race."

When we remember the great work that has been done in the world by Columbus the discoverer, by Fulton the inventor, by Peabody the philanthropist, by Dickens the novelist, and by many others, we should be encouraged to go on bravely with our destined work, knowing that the world's workers have been and are men of self-culture. EUGENE L. DIDIER.

CONTEMPORARY OPINION:

A ROMAN FUNERAL*

T is a week since Cneius Cornelius Scipio died. He lies in state in the hall of his house on the Palatine, one of the last family mansions left on the hill, which the Emperor wants to make entirely his own. He lies in the great hall, where the statues of his ancestors look down on him who has at last become one of them-gone over to the majority. His son Lucius knelt at his bedside when he breathed his last; kissed him a moment before death, to catch the last faint breath. From the finger he drew his ring, which has now been replaced in view of the approaching funeral.

The herald has gone forth, to invite who will to attend. For this is no ordinary man who is dead. Rome knew him well; and his family, we may be sure, will give him a funeral befitting his rank. Not at night will his funeral be, like that of some poor plebeian who has gone the long journey; every solemnity that the servants of Libitinat know will belavished on his obsequies. From early morn the folks have been streaming to the door, clad in suits of customary black; the undertakers have been bustling about and are now marshalling the splendid procession. Police officers are in attendance, to assist in maintaining order. The nearest relatives have gathered around the deceased. They lay him on his bier, no extravagant couch of ivory, as some who should have known better have lately begun to affect, but carved of dark wood, and stately with dark rich hangings, as befits a Roman citizen. And now at a given word these relatives lift the bier on to their shoulders, and the long procession files down the hill, and out to the place where the pyre is built, not far from the family buryingplace.

The van is led by trumpeters, blowing a loud note of lamentation, and opening the way through the crowded streets near the Forum, to which their steps are

* See the article on Funeral Rites, in the Encyclopædia Britannica, Vol. IX, page 826.

†The Roman Goddess of Death and the departed, and identified with Proserpina.

first directed. Next come singing women, chanting mournful praises of the deceased. Yet a third band of hired attendants succeed, actors, reciting appropriate sentiments from familiar poets, their chief also exhibiting in dumb show the action which made the dead man famous. But who are these who follow now? Have the dead arisen to do him honor? There, large as life, walks the long line of noble ancestors whose blood flowed in the dead man's veins. Waxen masks, modelled on the busts which stand in the great hall, cover the faces of those selected to personate the heroes; each wears the robe he would have worn this day if the grave had given him up. It seems in truth as if all the mighty ones of his race, generals, and statesmen, heroic names of Rome, have arisen to lead their descendant with welcome to his resting-place among them. Old stories of wars in Apulia and Samnium, with Gaul and Carthaginian, crowd on the beholder's mind. There goes he who was proudly styled "African," the conqueror of Hannibal, "great Scipio's self, that thunderbolt of war." There, he who acquired a corresponding title from his victories in Asia against Antiochus. There, he who blent the elegance of Greek learning with the manly valor of Rome, the stern patriot who approved the slaying of his own usurping kinsmen, to whom a master-pen has lately given fresh immortality as the friend of Lælius. And many more, famous of old, and living still in the memories of men, mingle in this strange procession where the immortal dead do honor to their latest son.

Hitherto the procession had been wholly professional, not to say theatrical, in character. But these who come next recall the gazer to every-day life. For these are they who late were slaves, whom the liberality of the deceased has made free. Vulgar minds may ostentatiously manumit by will large numbers of slaves, swelling their funeral pomp at their heir's expense; but where no such sordid motive has directed enfranchisement, who so fit to be there as they? Who have better right to walk, as they now walk, immediately before the bier?

In front of the bier they bear tables, inscribed with the deeds of the deceased, the laws he carried, the battles he fought. Captive banners and trophies of war are displayed; there is a map of some unknown land he conquered. All Rome may see to-day, if there be one here who needs the telling, how great a man is now being borne through the city he loved so well. Behind the bier come kinsmen and friends, women as well as men. The latter are dressed in black, as are all the professional assistants; the women wear white, a custom which, being somewhat novel in Rome, elicits a good deal of criticism. Bareheaded walk the women, with dishevelled hair and hands that beat their breasts; the male relatives, with an equal inversion of ordinary habits, have their heads closely veiled. Innumerable the crowd that follows. All Rome's best are there. The Senate have

turned out to a man. Many join the procession out of mere curiosity, but most from a desire to pay this tribute of respect to one whom they have so long honored from afar.

And now they have reached the Forum. In the midst of this great space, the Westminster of Rome, the procession halts. The ancestors of the deceased seat themselves, in solemn semi-circle, on the ivory chairs of the magistrates. In their midst his nephew, Publius, well known for his oratorical powers, ascends the rostrum, and pronounces a long and labored panegyric over him who lies deaf and unheeding before him. He tells how his youth was devoted to study and martial exercise, not wasted on luxury and riotous living; how his manhood was spent in fighting Rome's battles abroad, and upholding order at home — an easy task now the might of the Emperor has crushed all factious sedition. He speaks of his piety towards the Gods, his love for his wife and children, his zeal on behalf of his clients, his kindness to all with whom he was brought into contact. In everything, he says, he lived worthy of his high lineage, worthy of those ancestors whose effigies are present beside him. And so the speaker is led to trace back the grand line of ancestors, and in kindling words remind his hearers of all the Scipios had done for Rome. What

an Athenian audience felt when their orators recalled the names of those who

fought at Marathon, that surely must a Roman audience have felt when they were reminded of the glories of the Scipios.

The bier is taken up, the procession is marshalled again. Through the bustling streets, out through the city gates, the famous Porta Capena, out on to the Appian Way, streams the long line of mourners. At the gate many generally leave the procession, but to-day they have but a short way farther to go, for the tomb of the Scipios is not far beyond the gate, on the side of the Appian Way. The crowds, therefore, pour out almost without diminution, till they reach a cleared spot not far from the tomb, whereon a great pile has been erected. Huge logs of wood form the body of the structure, interspersed with various inflammable substances; it stands foursquare, like some gigantic altar to the unseen powers. A row of cypress trees, transplanted for the occasion, throws a gloomy shadow across it. The bier is placed on the top with all its splendid belongings. Ointments of the costliest description, spikenard and frankincense, and all the strongest and sweetest smelling unguents, are plentifully poured on the pile; Palestine and Syria, Arabia, Cilicia, have been laid under contribution. All is now ready, and as Lucius Scipio steps forward, the women raise a piercing wail. You may see the tears in the young man's eyes, for his head is turned to us and away from the pile, as with trembling hand he applies a lighted torch. The flame mounts skyward with immense rapidity; huge swirls of smoke, pungent yet fragrant, sweep to leeward. As the fire reaches the body, the wailing of the women is redoubled. The men stand by in silence. No funeral games are exhibited to-day during the burning; nor do his relatives follow the somewhat barbarous custom of throwing in armor, clothes, and valuables to be consumed in the flames. The great crowd stands wellnigh motionless in genuine grief.

It does not take very long to reduce the whole to ashes. The pitch and rosin, the rich unguents, all make the fire fierce and brief. The crowd melts away, while the relatives perform the remaining rites. The embers are quenched with wine, and a solemn invocation addressed to the soul of the departed. Those officiating then wash their hands with pure water, and

proceed to gather the calcined bones, easily distinguishable from the dark wood-ashes which cover them. These precious relics are solemnly sprinkled, first with wine, then with milk, dried with a linen cloth, and deposited in an alabaster urn. Perfumes are mingled with the ashes.

The urn is then carried

to the tomb, and deposited in the niche prepared for it. All round the walls you see similar urns, each in its own niche, each inscribed with a simple memento, like the inscriptions on our tombstones. All being now over, the family take their departure, with pious ejaculations and prayers for calm repose "Sweet be the place of thy rest!" Outside the tomb, the priest sprinkles each of them thrice with pure water, to remove the pollution of the dead body, which was recognized by all nations of antiquity; and then dismisses them with the well-known formula Illicet, ye may depart.

reaching the house they will be purified afresh by water and fire, being sprinkled with the one, and made to step over the other. For nine days they will then remain apart, mourning for the dead. On the expiry of that time, a sacrifice will be offered to the gods below, and a great funeral feast will be given, at which all the guests will be dressed in white. Games, it may be, and shows of gladiators, will then be exhibited; food will be distributed to the populace. After that the family will return to their ordinary avocations: the men will not resume their mourning garb; the women will wear theirs for some time longer, the widow perhaps retaining hers for a year. But not for long will the dead man be forgotten; at intervals they will go to the tomb on the Appian Way, bearing flowers and perfumes to lay beside the ashes of the dear one gone. Lamps will be lighted there, to relieve the sepulchral gloom. And on stated occasions commemorative feasts will be held, where the family and friends will assemble, dressed in white, to do honor to the memory of the departed.

Such, says the authority whom we have quoted, was a funeral in the old days of Rome.

THE GERM LIFE OF THE SOIL

better.

ORMERLY we were wont to regard the soil as composed of dead, inert matter; now, however, thanks to recent bacteriological research, we know Most of it, it is true, is composed of dead matter; but this is so inextricably and intimately permeated by microbic life that it can hardly be regarded as dead. What all the functions of these microbes are, observes a writer recently in the Edinburgh "Scotsman," we do not as yet fully know, but many effect the decomposition of organic matter; which, indeed, they have been shown to be among the earliest agents in giving rise to. The fertility of a soil is directly due to their initiative, for they elaborate in various ways the food materials of the plant, and convert the latter into forms suitable for assimilation.

Soils may be said to be, in a very direct sense, the product of bacterial

work through the long past ages. Till recently it was believed that these organisms required for their development organic matter; but one of the most important discoveries in this domain which has recently been made goes to prove that some of them, at least, are able to subsist on a purely mineral food. These latter microbes are of very wide occurrence, and are found even on bare rock surfaces. Although we know as yet but very little with regard to the methods in which the decomposition of the material of the soil is effected, it would seem as if the ultimate results obtained are due to a highly interesting system of co-operation. Thus to one class is due the initial stage in decomposition; while another class carry out the work started by the former bacteria to a further stage of development, and

so on.

Few of us probably grasp the impor