ing him how to appreciate the beauty in the commonplace things of life. He was fourteen years old when a copy of the Scotch poet's works fell into his hands. In his autobiographical notes Whittier thus refers to his introduction to Burns:

When I was fourteen years old, my first schoolmaster, Joshua Coffin, the able, eccentric historian of Newbury, brought with him to our house a volume of Burns' poems, from which he read, greatly to my delight. I begged him to leave the book with me, and set myself at once to the task of mastering the glossary of the Scottish dialect at its close. This was about the first poetry I ever read- with the exception of that of the Bible, of which I had been a close student- and it had a lasting influence upon me. I began to make rhymes myself, and to imagine stories and adventures. In fact, I lived a sort of dual life, and in a world of fancy as well as in the world of plain matter of fact about me.

Robert Collyer, in relating a conversation which he had with the poet, quotes Whittier as follows:

Burns is to me the noblest poet of our race. He was the first poet I read, and he will be the last. I read Burns every moment I had to spare. And this was one great result to me of my communion with him: I found that the things out of which poems came were not, as I had always imagined, somewhere away off in a world and life lying outside the edge of our own New England sky- they were right here. about my feet and among the people I knew. The common things of our common life I found were full of poetry.

It is the true teacher who so instructs the childish mind that it learns to apprehend the beauties and truths which lie around it, who stimulates the imagination and awakens the noble sentiments of the soul, who succeeds in calling into independent action the reasoning faculties, and centres the youthful thought upon the vital problems of life as they affect the peace, happiness and elevation of man.

Whittier inherited a deeply poetic nature; his imagination was limited, but within its bounds it was compelling in its power. He also inherited a deeply spiritual nature. On one occasion when in conversation with a friend, he described a sense of awe and almost oppressive solemnity which suddenly came over him one evening as he was driving home the cows-he was only seven years of agewhen the thought, "Why am I different from those cows, what have I got to do in life, what is life?" swept in upon his startled mind.*

"He never lost the impression of that hour," observed his friend. "It affected his whole life."

He was a born dreamer. In reply to a little girl who wrote him of his childhood, he said: "I think at the age of

"Whittier with the Children" by Margaret Sidney.

which thy note inquires, I found about equal satisfaction in an old rural home with the shifting panorama of seasons, in reading the few books within my reach, and in dreaming of something wonderful and grand in the future." In reminiscent moods the poet often related how when a boy his imagination carried him far away from the work in hand and, lost in dreams, he would lean upon his hoe or spade until his father, "a prompt, decisive man," would call out, "That's enough for a stand, John."

The work on the farm was ill suited to one so delicate as Whittier and, when seventeen years of age, he sustained from overexertion injuries from which he never fully recovered. Yet this apparent calamity was not an unmixed evil, as it helped to gain for him his father's consent to his going to the Haverhill Academy. Heretofore the only regular schooling the poet had enjoyed had been received in the district schools, which were very indifferent in character. He had written many verses which his sister Mary had highly complimented. One day this sister, who had always occupied a very large place in the poet's heart, sent one of his poems to Garrison for the Newbury Free Press. The poet knew nothing of the submitting of the lines, and the editor was ignorant of the authorship. However, on reading them, Mr. Garrison promptly published the poem. Whittier was spell-bound when he found his stanzas in print. In referring to this experience Mr. Pickard observes:

His heart stood still a moment. Such delight as his comes only once in the lifetime of any aspirant to literary fame. His father at last called to him to put up the paper and continue his work, but he could not resist the temptation to take the paper again and again from his pocket to stare at his lines in print. He has said he was sure he did not read a word of the poem all the time he looked at it.

Garrison found out by inquiry who the youthful poet was, and forthwith drove out to the Whittier homestead to meet the young author. On the editor inquiring of the father for his son John, the worthy Quaker became much agitated, fearing that his boy had in some way got into trouble or disgrace; when, however, the facts were made known, the old gentleman was much relieved, but he frowned upon Garrison's suggestion that the boy be encouraged in his literary aspirations. "Poetry will not bring him bread," exclaimed the old man, a fact which Garrison could not then gainsay.

The visit, however, fanned anew the ambition of the dreamer boy. He importuned his father to let him go to

the academy about to be opened in Haverhill. At length it was agreed that, if Whittier could earn sufficient money by working nights to pay his way, he might go. The youth made shoes during the winter evenings and thus earned enough for his first six months at the academy. Subsequently he taught school for a short time and assisted in posting books, and in this manner earned enough for his second term.

Thus, with the slight profit derived from the district school and two terms in the academy, Whittier went forth to play upon the heartstrings of his fellow-men, and touch the conscience of a nation in a manner seldom equalled in this century. He entered upon the aggressive warfare that marked his early manhood without the polish which lent grace to the work of several of his contemporaries; but he also escaped the benumbing influence of soulless conventionalism, whose skeleton fingers extend from a dead past and too often crush originality and silence the voice of conscience in aspiring youths while they are pursuing the curriculum of our conservative educational institutions. If he lacked in polish, he possessed what were of far more importance-a heart aflame with love of justice, a nature pure and simple, and a brain stored with "knowledge never learned in books and schools." His boyhood days, if uneventful, were far from uninteresting; and the pictures he has given us of old New England life, no less than the hopes, joys and sorrows which filled the horizon of his boyish world, are dear to our people, and will continue to be a source of pleasure and inspiration for many generations to come.

Ah! thou little barefoot dreamer boy, who wandered over the hills and vales round thy native home, revelling in the beauty and fragrance of our wild flora, charmed by the matchless music of the forest's feathered orchestra, awed by the sublimity of nature in her grander manifestations, thou child of pure and honest parents, had we more lives like thine, the curses of our day and generation would lose their power, and in the place of feverish hate, misery, poverty, drunkenness, debauchery, bigotry, intolerance and woe, we should see peace, love, prosperity, purity, and nobility open their blossoms on every side; earth would put on Eden-like beauty, and humanity with great strides would sweep onward and upward toward the sun-bathed plane of perfect civilization. And all peoples, even as the voice of one man, could unite in these words from thy song of triumph:

The airs of heaven blow o'er me;
A glory shines before me
Of what mankind shall be,—
Pure, generous, brave, and free.

A dream of man and woman
Diviner but still human,
Solving the riddle old,
Shaping the Age of Gold.

The love of God and neighbor;
An equal-handed labor;
The richer life, where beauty
Walks hand in hand with duty.

I feel the earth move sunward,
I join the great march onward,
And take, by faith, while living,
My freehold of thanksgiving.

MYSORE, OR A GLIMPSE OF AN EAST

INDIAN STATE.

BY JNANENDRA NARAYAN GHOSE, M. D.

Mysore is one of the feudatory states of India governed by an Indian prince. It is situated in the southern part of India, and has an area of 27,936 square miles, with a population of 4,943,604, of whom 4,639,127 are Hindus, 252,973 are Mohammedans, and 38,135 are Christians. It is larger than West Virginia, but with the advantage of having more than six times the population of that state. The importance of Mysore does not lie in its size or population, but in its representative system of government, its railways, telegraphs, educational institutions, irrigation works, good roads, sanitation, and the prosperous condition of its people. Mysore is to-day not only one of the most prosperous states of India, but it can be favorably compared with any other civilized country of the world.

The administration report of the last year is just out. We have very meagre materials at our disposal to give an adequate idea of its good government. We have before us The Sanjibani, a Bengalee weekly paper published in Calcutta, containing a brief review of the last fourteen years' government of his highness, the late maharajah, Sir Chama Rajendra Bhadia Bahadur.

From 1830 to 1880 Mysore was governed by the British government. The story of Mysore of this period is a very sad one. A British officer was appointed chief commissioner. The Public Works and other departments were under the control of the British officers-in fact, British officers were everywhere, and they were highly paid. "They had the country to deal with after the most approved British fashion." The seasonal rains failed in 1876, 1877, and 1878 in Mysore as well as in other places of India, and the result was that one out of every four persons died for scarcity of food. Such was the forethought and precaution of the English officers. There could never have been a famine in Mysore had the officers in charge of the Public Works department been careful; for so complete and admirable is the tank system of Mysore that famine was an impossibility.