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the end of the last century have much disfigured its general appearance, and what the lapse of years had failed to effect has thus been in part accomplished by his causeless and unjustifiable alterations. The altar was removed by him from its proper position to the farther end of the lady-chapel, throwing down at the same time the screen which divided the latter from the choir, and many of the beautiful old tombs and other ornaments seem to have been re-arranged by him in the most arbitrary manner, and without the least regard to ancient principles of propriety, or the commonest dictates of sense and taste. How mischievous a de

structive this conceited creature (without in the least intending it) contrived to become, may be learned from the following extract from a recent monograph on this interesting building: “The usual alterations took place in Salisbury Cathedral at the Reformation, when much of the painted glass is said to have been removed by Bishop Jewell. Although desolate and abandoned, it escaped material profanation during the great civil war; and workmen were even employed to keep it in repair, replying, says Dr. Pope (Life of Bishop Ward), when questioned by whom they were sent, “Those who employ us will pay us; trouble not yourselves to inquire; whoever they are, they do not desire to have their names known.” The great work of destruction was reserved for a later period, and for more competent hands. Under Bishop Barrington (1782–1791) the architect Wyatt was unhappily let loose upon Salisbury; and his untiring use of axe and hammer will stand a very fair comparison with the labors of an iconoclast emperor, or with the burning zeal of an early Mohammedan caliph. He swept away screens, chapels, and porches, desecrated and destroyed the tombs of warriors and prelates, obliterated ancient paintings, flung stained glass by cart loads into the city ditch, and levelled with the ground the campanile—of the same date as the cathedral itself—which stood on the north side of the church-yard.” These operations were, at the time, pronounced ‘‘tasteful, effective, and judicious!” And thus shorn of much of its former glory, the great church remained for years a mute though eloquent witness to the height of ancient excellence and the depth of modern degeneracy. It is, however, most gratifying to know that a better and more reverent spirit is now abroad. The revival of the true principles of pointed architecture has reached every part of old England, and rendered such proceedings as those above described quite impossible in the future. In fact, since the period of my own visit, the late Sir Gilbert Scott—the most competent and skillful of restorers—has been much employed upon the fabric of Salisbury, as upon several others of the best cathedrals. I am not aware of the precise nature or extent of the improvements projected or carried out in the present case by this truly eminent architect. But, from the restorations which he executed at Ely, and which I subsequently studied with feelings of the highest pleasure, it was easy to see how fully the style of the best ages of Gothic is now understood, leaving us little to regret in the way of mediaeval execution, or even of the long - neglected principles of pointed design. The fading twilight of the interior, and the deepening shadows of the old tombs, at length reminded my guide that it was time for us to retire. As we recrossed the foot-worn threshold, the heavy oak door closed behind us with a solemn reverberation, and the profound stillness of six centuries seemed to resume its rightful sway over the vast structure. The

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verger went away, leaving me alone on the green. But with not a movement in the air, nor a living thing near, the spot had a charm for me which I was not willing to break. I felt that I was left alone there with the spirit of hoar antiquity, and face to face with the very ages of chivalry, and “the mighty faith of days unknown.” I sat on a chain rail in the close till it was quite dark, watching the shadows gather in the recesses, and the last tints of light fade away on the spire, till the whole of the majestic pile assumed a sombre and gloomy indistinctness of outline, far more impressive to the mind than the sharpness and certainty of daylight. Its huge dimensions acquired a still more imposing grandeur, while its mystic quietude seemed to enshrine a haven of sweet security from the turmoil, the anxiety, and the busy fears of the Outer world. And I thought, as I at length turned to leave the spot, that the mind which could not see the deepest poetry in every line of its lengthening vista would listen with cold indifference to the inspired harmonies of Beethoven, or turn with apathy from the golden pages of “Paradise Lost.” For myself, I can truly say that I came away impressed “Not only with the sense

Of present pleasure, but with the pleasing thought

That in this moment there was life and food For future years.”

The next morning found me early at the gate, and eager to ascend to the upper portions of the building. A bright-eyed, lively boy of thirteen presented himself as my guide, piloting me up a winding stone staircase, scooped out of one of the corner turrets, to the battlements at the top of the tower, two hundred and twelve feet from the ground. Standing here, behind and above me rose the great spire, profusely crocketed, and ornamented with sculptured bands of stone, to the fearful height of two hundred feet more. Access to the very top is practicable, but is not generally permitted to visitors; and as the view was already so extensive and beautiful, I felt no inclination to attempt any infringement of the usual rule. Beneath lay the cathedral close, its lofty elms looking, from this airy height, like bushes of foliage almost close to the ground; the cloisters, where had walked and prayed the studious monks of old, surrounding the quiet greensward of their secluded area; the episcopal palace, with its trim gardens, neat walks, and fantastic clipped hedges; and beyond these the curious old city, looking like the toy-box towns which children delight to arrange—all spreading out like a gay map at the spectator's feet. Three miles away lay the noble domain of Wilton, the seat of the Earl of Pembroke, standing in a richly wooded park, in whose broad paths and under whose quiet shade had walked and mused “the flower of chivalry,” Sir Philip Sidney, and here wrote his Arcadia amid its seciuded and congenial scenes. Here, too, was the home of the beautiful Countess of Pembroke, to whose memory was inscribed the famous epitaph by Ben Jonson, so familiar to every lover of old English quaintness: “Underneath this sable hearse

Lyeth ye subject of all verse—

Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother:

Death ! ere thou hast slain another

Learn’d and fair and good as she, Time shall throw a dart at thee.”

Still nearer, one might recognize the little hamlet of Bemerton, where lived and ministered to a simple village congregation George Herbert, the author of “The Temple,” “one of those spirits scattered along the track of the ages,” says Bishop Doane, “to show us how nearly the human may, by grace, attain to the angelic nature.” The sunny slopes and fertile wheat fields of the Wiltshire hills hemmed in, at a distance, the exquisite panorama through which flowed the silver Avon on its way to the sea. Though an entirely different stream, it still bears, singularly enough, the same title with that of the placid river so consecrated through all the world by its association with the birth-place, the home, and the grave of the immortal Shakspeare.

It must not be supposed that my mercurial little guide left me entirely to the uninterrupted contemplation of the scene. As we were groping up the dark and narrow staircase together, he had confided to me that he combined this congenial branch of employment with the more responsible duty of tolling the great bell in the tower twice a day for service. In this double capacity, however, he appeared not unwilling to acknowledge that he acted only as subservient to the ex-butler, whose evident shortness of wind, he fancied I must have noticed, would prove an insuperable bar to indulgence in these or any similar

exercises. But I can not say that the substitution was in all respects an agreeable one to myself, since the staid gravity of the elder functionary certainly formed no part of the character or behavior of his youthful deputy. Among other eccentricities, which in fairness, I suppose, must be put down only as the normal result of his age and sex, he had contracted an exciting though not particularly safe habit of lying horizontally across the parapet of the tower, with his body projecting considerably beyond the line of the old stonework, his feet braced merely against one of the foliaged crockets of the spire, and, while in this position, tilting with his cap, at arm's-length, at the swallows that were wheeling and darting in airy circles around the dizzy pinnacles above our heads. To my frequently expressed doubts as to the entire safety of these peculiar sports, I am sorry to say that he paid little attention, beyond the assurance: “Poh, sir, I ain’t a bit afraid; I does it often. I darts out my cap at 'em, and they flies into it like bats. I’ve caught a many this way, sir.” Wearied at last with the amateur labor of humanity which I had felt it my duty to carry on, in holding him as fast as I could by the waistband of his trousers—particularly as those garments were not in any such high state of repair as gave assurance of furnishing the firmest kind of hold upon his person in case of accident— I unequivocally offered him the bribe of a sixpence to desist. To my great relief, I found that the proposal was instantly accepted; and whether the fact of the verger crossing the green below at that particular moment, and giving a professional glance upward, had anything to do with it or not, I think it no more than justice to record that, while on my side of the steeple at least, the urchin acted up to the very letter of his bargain, though in the face of constant and, on the part of the swallows, most aggravating temptation. In the afternoon I attended for the first time at the cathedral service. The music, led by the sweet-toned organ, was sung, as usual, by a choir of twelve surpliced boys and eight men, one-half ranged on either side of the choir. The solemnity, propriety, and beauty of the music, and the decorum of its performance, were, to me at least, highly impressive. I had heard much said, it is true, of the heartlessness and formality of this musical service, and indeed I believe that to speak of it slightingly is the usual custom among our practical and utilitarian countrymen abroad. But I must say that my own impressions were of a widely different character. As the pealing organ swelled forth, with a majestic volume that seemed full of the very spirit of devotion, the soft, high notes of the boys' voices, shaped into decision by the rapid chant of the tenor, and supported everywhere by the rich and vigorous harmony of the bass, ran through the antiphonal responses with such a plaintive earnestness and beauty of tone that it seemed to me impossible to lift a higher and holier song to the ear of Heaven. Nor could I find any

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“YANRTON, DAkoTA TERRITory, April 5, 18S0. “General Armstrong : “MY FRIEND,--I never saw you, but I have a strong attachment for you. I already wrote you two letters, as you know, but to-day I have thought of you again. “I had two boys big enough to help me to work, but you have them now. I wanted them to learn your language, and I want you to look after them as if they were your boys. “This is all, my friend. “IFAT MANDAN is my name, and I shake your hand.”

HERE are many, no doubt, who will smile at the title of this article, much as if it had read, “Education for Buffa

loes and Wild Turkeys.” Such, however, will be likely to read it, as others will from a more sympathetic stand-point. For it is evident that, from one standpoint or another, public interest is excited upon the Indian question now as perhaps never before. With the opening up of the country, and the disappearance of the game before the settler's axe and locomotive whistle—to say nothing of treaty “reconstruction” and Indian wars—the conditions of the Indian himself have radically altered, and perhaps not in all respects for the worse, since the shrewd Saponi sachem declined William and Mary's classical course for his young braves, because it would not improve them in deer-stalking or scalp-lifting, but, not to be outdone in graciousness, offered instead to bring up the Royal Commissioners' sons in his own wigwam, and “make men of them.” Fat Mandan, on the contrary, seems to think that to make men of them is just what Hampton will do for the boys he is so proud of, and he looks to them to help him to work, not to hunt. It is possible that red and white theories of education and manhood have healthily approximated in fifty or a hundred years. To a young colonel of the Union army in the late war, as he stood on the wheelhouse of a transport, with his black regiment camping down on the deck below



him, floating down the Gulf of Mexico through the double glory of sunset sky and wave, there came, like a vision shaped half from dreamy memories of his island home in the Pacific, and half from earnest thought for his country's future, a plan for a practical solution of one of her troubles, and the salvation of the race that was its innocent and long-suffering cause. Four years later the dream which had faded in the stern realities of war was called into life by the exigencies of the new era, and took tangible form as a normal and agricultural school for freedmen at Hampton, Virginia, twenty miles from the port where slaves first landed in America, and on the very shores where they were first made free as “contraband of war.” The growth of this institution under the charge of its originator was described seven years ago in this Magazine, since which time it has attracted the attention of leading thinkers upon education and race problems in this and other countries, and become widely known as an exponent of the value of manual-labor training in education of men and women—certainly as far as the black race is concerned. Twelve years have proved its mission in the South to be no “fool's errand.”


As the Hampton school was founded on the theory that “the gospel of work and self-help” is essential to all human development, and therefore as good for negroes as for Sandwich-Islanders, why should it not try the same for the Indian :

Visitors to St. Augustine from 75 to '78 remember as one of the chief attractions of that ancient city the Indian prisoners at Fort Marion, held there by the United States government for their conspicuous part in a revolt of their tribes —Kiowas, Comanches, Cheyennes, and Arrapahoes in Indian Territory. Many brought away from the old fort not only polished sea-beans, bows and arrows, and specimens of primitive painting, but a few new ideas on the Indian question, and a surprised sense of some strange transformation going on in savage natures under the forces of kindness and wisdom.

What this transformation was, and what were its subjects, no words can so well set forth as do two photographs which lie before me as I write; one taken of the prisoners on their arrival at Fort Marion in chains, ignorant of the fate before them, defiant, desperate, plotting mutiny and suicide; the other, a group of the same men, three years later, received into an

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