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by the scholarly results of every year. Women maintain an honorable place by the side of their brother workers. In a recent session they attained first positions in Political Economy, Latin, and Greek ; and the high character of their papers is shown by the fact that although of one hundred and three first-class certificates men received sixty-five and women thirty-eight, of the third class men received fifty and women only two. In a former year the highest mathematical prize—a scholarship of two hundred and fifty dollars—was taken by a woman. Germany is more conservative than England, and the German universities are more conservative than Oxford or Cambridge. Yet the desire to open university advantages to women, so strongly felt on the Cam, is also entertained on the banks of the Pleisse. Women are hearing and taking notes of the lectures of Leipsic professors. The privileges of the university are not officially extended. No woman can be matriculated; no woman can receive a degree. But, on the consent of the professor (seldom if ever refused), she attends his lectures, and receives all the substantial benefits of membership of the university. In the department of law, however, a woman has lately received a degree, and several of the professors of the philosophical faculty are reported as favoring the extension of all the rights of their department to women. Göttingen has pursued a course opposite to that of Leipsic. Although not admitting women to its lectures, it has conferred the doctor's degree on several. Recent movements in women's education are not confined to instruction of a collegiate grade. Women are entering the professions; therefore they require a professional training, and therefore they demand entrance to the professional schools. Many of the law and medical schools of the United States are open to women on the same terms as to men, and at the majority of the one hundred and twenty-five theological seminaries, exclusive of the Roman Catholic, opportunities of study similar to those enjoyed by the young men are afforded them, though they may be neither matriculated nor receive a degree. The number of women practicing law is far greater in the Western States than in the Eastern, and a large proportion of the schools, especially of those

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connected with the State universities, are free to them. Of the three law schools in New England, only one is open to both sexes—that of the Boston University. The school has, however, I am informed, not yet graduated a woman. The women of the East who desire to read Kent and to learn forms of procedure prefer to obtain a legal education in the more private advantages of a lawyer's office. In the chaotic state of ecclesiastical opinion regarding women's preaching, but few have been admitted either to the pulpit or to the theological seminary. Although the number has greatly increased in the last decade, in 1870, of 43,874 clergymen, only sixty-seven were women. The Methodist and Universalist churches have probably proved more cordial in granting clerical privileges to women than the churches of other leading denominations. Yet the General Conference of the former body, held at Cincinnati in 1SS0, refused to take a positive position in reference to the question. Women, however, are occupying several Methodist pulpits, though without official approbation. The Universalist Church has ordained several women, who are preaching not only in the West, but also in the conservi ative States of the East. Three are stationed in as many of the country towns of Maine. In the Congregational and Baptist denominations the cases of the ordination and installation of women are rare, even if a single one has occurred. The sentiment of Unitarians on the question is more akin to the Universalist position. The opinion of a Church regarding the preaching of women indicates its practice in reference to admitting women to the full privileges of its divinity schools. At the theological department of the Boston University, under the supervision of the Methodists, a woman has been a member of nearly every class since its establishment. The theological department, also, of the St. Lawrence University, of Canton, New York, controlled by Universalists, is open to women on the same terms as to men, and two graduated at its last Commencement. For many years women have attended the lectures of Professor Park, at Andover, though the seminary gives no diploma to them. To the practice of medicine a larger number of women turn than enter both the legal profession and the clerical. The first medical school for women ever established—the Female Medical Educational Society—was organized in Boston in November, 1848. For thirty years, in both Europe and the United States, measures for giving women a thorough training in medicine have been pushed very vigorously. At times the contest between those favoring and those opposing their practice of the healing art has been waged with the bitterness of the antislavery struggle. The general result, however, has been a victory for the women. In Europe are no less than twenty-five schools of high standing, in which they can receive a medical education, the large majority of which have been either opened to them or established within the last ten years. In India, seventy millions of whose women are forbidden by social custom from receiving the attendance of male physicians at their homes, several schools have been formed since 1867 for affording women the opportunity of obtaining a regular medical training. Of the eighty-eight medical schools in the United States a considerable proportion admit women on the same terms as men. The more important of these schools are the Woman's Medical College of the New York Infirmary, the Female Medical College of Philadelphia, the Department of Medicine and Surgery of Michigan University, the Woman's Hospital Medical College of Chicago, and the School of Medicine of Boston University. Their women graduates, in proportion to their men, are few, yet increase each year. According to the census of 1870 there were in the United States 62,383 physicians and surgeons, of whom 525 were women. From this survey of recent movements in woman's education several inferences may be drawn. The first is that women can gain as thorough and as extended an education as men—not, perhaps, as conveniently or as cheaply, but one fully equal in breadth and thoroughness. At home, Vassar, Smith, and other colleges of high rank are established exclusively for their training; Michigan University, Oberlin, Iowa College, are as open to them as to their brothers; and the vast resources of the oldest and wealthiest college are theirs in the Annex. Private instruction of all kinds is as free to them as to men, and opportunities for professional training are abundant. Abroad, the English universities and the German are ceasing

to make sex the hinge upon which access to their privileges turns.

Secondly, women (as a body) are as capable as men of receiving, profiting by, and using the highest intellectual training. Wherever women have been brought in school or college into fair competition with men, it has been demonstrated that they are as capable of availing themselves of the highest educational opportunities.

And thirdly, the liberal tendency of the age, and the excellence of the results so far won in the higher education of women, form a basis for the assurance that before the opening of the next century a much larger majority of the colleges and professional schools will be open to women on the same terms as to men. Not only will new colleges and new professional schools for them be formed, but also conservative colleges will make their resources available to them, and conservative professional schools, as the Harvard Medical School, which seems only to await a fit endowment before inviting women to its lecture-rooms, will be free to both soxes.

REVEILLE! The dawn smiled through the blueness overhead, The lark awoke; The mists and mysteries of the night were fled, The morning broke;

And soon the crystal chalice of the air,
All pure and clear,

Was brimming o'er with music sweet and rare
From far and near.

It overflowed the universe with song
So fresh and bright

That weary faces, pale with vigils long,
Suffused with light;

And turning toward the beauteous eastern sky,
In glad surprise,

Reflected half the glories from on high
In happy eyes.

And in the rosy shadows of the morn
A tiny life,

In solemn hush of joy and love, was born
To human strife.

A buried heart, long cold as drift of snow,
'Neath breast as white,

Stirred strangely in the rapturous morning glow,
And throbbed with might.

A weary soul, unloved, alone, and old,
And long oppressed,

Sped outward through the azure and the gold
To endless rest.

The dawn smiled through the blueness overhead, The lark awoke :

The mists and mysteries of the night were fled, The morning broke!

MRS. CABOT'S GUEST.

M R. EDWARD WINSLOW left the A dock where the steamer Polynesia lay, discharging its passengers and cargo, with slower steps than seemed becoming in a young traveller returning home after a year's wandering in Europe. His feet stumbled a little as his eyes followed a carriage, burdened with trunks, which was threading its way amongst the drays and teams. Presently a veil fluttered from the window, a head nodded to him, and a hand waved a deprecatory good-by, as if the dangers into which the incautious young man was marching were easily apparent from within the coach. He drew back from the jaws of a nervous horse, the carriage slipped from his sight, and he made his way now with better attention to his steps. It was just at dusk of an October evening, the pleasantest time in the world to arrive home after an ocean passage. The city had a picturesque look in the cool light, and every house which threw out gas or fire light from its windows seemed to offer a welcome. A warm welcome this young man was sure to find at his mother's, where he was expected, and the door at the head of the stone steps stood open wide as he sprang lightly up. The lively little lady in snowy cap who was compromising, in the shadow, between dignity and affection, went over bodily to affection when her son once was inside the doorway, and bustled with him into the library, with her cap cocked jauntily on one side, where his last embrace had left it. “Well, this is jolly,” said the young man, keeping off the fire with his hands while he surveyed the lady. “Mother, I'd rather see you than the Jungfrau. Your cap just now makes me think of that girl. I suppose after dinner we are to sit before this fire, and I am to tell you all about it 7” “Yes; I have already sacrificed society to this evening. Just before you came in I burned an invitation for this evening.” “Bless you, mother, I've not forgotten how dearly you love parties, and how cordially I hated them. You are a devoted mother.” “Oh, but you will have to make the party call with me, Edward. You have had your year abroad, and you must go into Society, and I shall be so proud to in

troduce my great boy. Besides, Mrs. Cabot is such a charming hostess.” “Mrs. Cabot o' “Yes; you remember I wrote you that I met her at Saratoga.” “Not Mrs. Cabot, of Harlem?” “Yes, the very same. What a good memory you have, Edward ' Travel has improved you. You used to laugh at your old mother's sudden friendships, and profess to forget the names as soon as you had heard them.” “Mrs. George Cabot of Harlem * “Yes, Mrs. George Cabot. Why not?” “Why not ? Certainly there's no reason in the world. We'll begin with her. We'll march into Society's figure-4 trap this evening.” “Oh no, Edward. I declined, positively declined, on account of a previous engagement (my engagement with you, you see—this engagement). I never dreamed you would be willing to go.” “But you see, mother, Europe has done what you asked her to—made a man of the world of me. We'll get out my dresscoat, and Mrs. Cabot will enjoy your coming all the more that, like the son in the parable, you said, I go not, and went.” “But I can't, Edward. I haven't anything to wear—and my hair, too. Oh, it's impossible, just impossible. Besides, I have a dreadful headache.” “My poor mother! And you meant to sit here and listen to my dull stories all the evening, and never say a word about it! You shall not go to the party. You shall go to bed. I will go, and give you one evening of peace before I begin my winter's torment.” Mrs. Winslow looked at her son in amazement. Europe had indeed transformed him. In what city or village of the Old World had he cast off his old suit of bashfulness and indifference to society 2 The young man smiled a good-natured response to her astonishment, and went to hunt out his dress-coat. Perhaps, too, there was something of disappointment in her look. Mrs. Cabot had expended less regret on Mrs. Winslow's apologetic note than that lady had expressed, and indeed felt. She liked Mrs. Winslow, but her chief need was young men. It was not so difficult to get very charming widows (she was one herself), and they were often essential as chaperons; but young men!—she would have subscribed liberally to a society for the encouragement of young men to enter society. Her invitations had, like many sent from the suburbs, brought back very irregular responses, and no mathematical law of chances had ever enabled her to forecast the size or character of her frequent parties. This evening she stood in the dimly lighted drawing-room, before it was quite time to expect her guests, giving a few final touches, and speculating afresh upon the contingencies of her company. She heard a carriage in the street, and detected a hesitation in its movements, as if it were hunting in the dark for something. One objection to living in the suburbs was that people might come very early, and so she had always made a point of being well beforehand herself. She stepped now to the window to see if she could make out anything. The carriage had stopped before her house, and the driver was dismounting. He ran up the steps and back again, having made out, apparently, the number on the door. Two large trunks decorated the rear of the carriage. None of her guests could be coming with such elaborate preparations for a simple evening party; and as the driver opened the door of the carriage, and a lady descended and began to climb the stone steps, Mrs. Cabot herself went to the door, opening it before the new-comer could ring. The light fell on the pretty face and trim figure of a girl in a gray travelling dress, who came forward and asked for Mrs. White. “You have made some mistake,” said Mrs. Cabot. “Mrs. White does not live here. Mrs. White lives a few doors above here.” “Oh, I beg your pardon. The driver read the number 19, and that was the number I was looking for.” “This is 19. I believe Mrs. White's islet me see, one, two, three—it must be 27.” “But is that where Mrs. Cabot lives o' “No ; this is Mrs. Cabot's. I am Mrs. Cabot.” “It is certainly very strange. I have always sent my letters to Mrs. White, in care of Mrs. Cabot, 19 Fayette Street.” “This is 19 Fayette Street, and I am Mrs. Cabot. How extraordinary Stop! Do you know what Mrs. White's first name is o' “She is my aunt Mary.” “Is it possible! Yes, it must be. Excuse my surprise. Your aunt Mary has lived with me for some time; but I had

entirely overlooked her last name, and thought—yes, I remember she is Mary White. Is your aunt expecting you?” The girl's voice trembled. “Not so soon. I had written her that I should come, but not by this steamer.” “What, are you just from England :'' “Yes, Mrs. Cabot.” “Well, I will speak to Mary.” “Wait, please, Mrs. Cabot. I am sure there must be some mistake from your manner. Let me go away again;' and she turned with a sudden resolution. The driver was standing by his carriage, and watching the two ladies curiously. The girl caught sight of his face, and turned back. “Oh, I can't go. I have no place to go to.” “You need not go. Here, driver, bring up the trunks, if you please;” and presently the luggage was deposited in the hall, and the door was closed. “Now come into the parlor, and tell me exactly how it is,” said Mrs. Cabot. “First, what is your name * The question was not unkind in its tone. It had something of the re-assuring ease of its position in the catechism. “My name is Stella Greyson, and Mrs. White is my aunt, as I said.” Miss Greyson hesitated, but as Mrs. Cabot did not ask the next question, she asked it herself. “Has my aunt never told of her English family " “No; I never asked her anything about her relations.” Miss Greyson looked puzzled. “And yet she has lived with you since her husband died.” “I remember that she was a widow, but I never talk over their affairs with my—servants.” Mrs. Cabot stopped a moment before the word: she was talking to the niece of her cook, but the niece was plainly a lady, and a very pretty lady too. Miss Greyson colored violently. “There must be some mistake, I am convinced,” she said, faintly; and then, presently, “Mrs. Cabot, will you kindly explain to me just what my aunt's—relation to you is :'' “Why, I told you she lived with me. I thought you understood it; she is my cook. I always thought her much above her station. I am sure,” she went on, rapidly, as she saw the changing color in Miss Greyson's face, “nothing could be more proper every way than your aunt's position. She came to me, I remember, without ever having lived out anywhere before, but I understood perfectly her situation. Her husband had died, and she had no means of support. She was used to housekeeping, and preferred the home of a widow like myself to any less domestic means of support. She has been with me now a year, and we have got along admirably. I give up everything almost to her. Indeed, she is really housekeeper, and I think I ought to call her so, but—” “But what o' asked Miss Greyson, who had had time to regain her composure, and now looked determined to hear the worst. “But—oh, only she isn't: she is cook,” said Mrs. Cabot, with a helpless candor. “That's all. I had really nothing whatever against her. I have the greatest respect in the world for her.” Mrs. Cabot was trying again to set up the figure which Miss Greyson's face had helped her to construct, and which had suddenly fallen over. That young lady, however, seemed to have recovered her equanimity. “I am extremely sorry, Mrs. Cabot,” she began, “at this most awkward state of things. My aunt is not at all to blame. She did not know I was coming. It was entirely my own misunderstanding; but I must take advantage of your good-nature to let me pass the night, for I am an entire stranger to the city. You will pardon me, I am sure ?” and she looked at Mrs. Cabot with a pretty beseechingness. “Why, of course, of course, Miss Greyson. Stay as long as you like. Now shall I call Mary—I mean Mrs. White, your aunt 2" “Please let me go to her alone.” “Certainly, certainly. But perhaps you would rather not see her in the kitchen. There are some men there who are looking after the supper. You see, I have a little party to-night. I think I heard some one come just now. So you'll excuse me if I don't ask your aunt to come here 2 You might go into the diningroom—but no, they're setting the table now. I'll tell you how we'll arrange it. Just come into the hall, and sit there while I have your trunks carried up stairs. It's lucky the men are here. I’ll coax them to do it, and then I'll send your aunt to see you in your room. That will be the easiest.” Mrs. Cabot smiled with pleasure at her management, and led Miss Greyson out of the drawing-room. “Oh,” she said, suddenly, “won't you just turn

up the gas while I speak to the men? for some one will be coming down immediately.” So she gathered her skirts together for an excursion to the kitchen, and Miss Greyson, giving a look at herself in the mirror, which laughed suddenly back at her, went round the room with alacrity turning on the gas until the chandeliers were wide-awake with brilliancy. She glanced at the door; it was closed, and standing before a mirror she made a low courtesy to her pretty figure, rising from the salute just in time to turn a demure face toward Mrs. Cabot. “Now come, Miss Greyson, the coast is clear. I have a little room next to your aunt's which I can let you have while you stay.” “You are very, very kind, Mrs. Cabot. Now I want to ask another favor of you. Let me go into the dressing-room and assist the ladies when they arrive.” “Will you ? That would really be what I should like, but I never should have asked it of you.” “But it was very proper of her to propose it,” said Mrs. Cabot to herself as she went down to send Mary to her niece. “There is some one who would like to see you, Mary,” Mrs. Cabot said as she entered the kitchen. “You will find her in the little room next to yours.” “To see me!” The cook, usually so self-possessed, was thrown into great agitation. “Up stairs o' “Yes; I could not ask her into the kitchen very well,” whispered the mistress. “But go up–go just as you are,” and Mrs. Cabot found it difficult to conceal her own lively interest. The cook did go at once, with trepidation, but with re-assurance after Mrs. Cabot's words. “Stella Greyson " she exclaimed as she entered the room. “Aunt Mary!” “What does this mean o' “That is what I want to know. covered with confusion.” “Stella, do you know that I am cook— cook here 2'' “The awful fact has just been divulged to me. I believe I am lady's-maid, too.” “What to “Help me unpack my boxes, Aunt

I am

Mary. My travelling dress is not exactly suitable. I am to assist the ladies. What larks!”

“Stella, you will do no such thing.” “But why not, Aunt Mary 2 How else

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