in a French review of Tolstoi. They exactly express what I believe true:

"Tolstoi maintains a certain simplicity of nature in the society of his fellow-beings which seems to be impossible to the writers of our country; he observes, listens, takes in whatever he sees and hears for all time, with an exactness which we cannot but admire. Not content with describing the distinctive features of the general physiognomy of society, he resolves them into their original elements with the most assiduous care; always eager to know how and wherefore an act is produced; pursuing the original thought behind the visible act, he does not rest until he has laid it bare, tearing it from the heart with all its secret roots and fibres."

There is something fine about Tolstoi's face when he is in conversation, although when in repose you would hardly call the broad, rugged forehead, the sunburnt face, the large and prominent nose, the shaggy iron-gray mustache and beard, fine. It is strong and masterful rather than fine. It attracts you by the inner something the soul rather than by the exterior graces which our imagination always throws around a great man.

About ten o'clock, chai or tea was announced and we made our way up stairs to the large common dining-room. It, too, as well as every other part of the house, was severely plain and simple. One of the elder daughters presided at the samovar and the Count and myself were treated to tea. The breakfast was the ordinary one, little being taken by the Count except tea and bread. Although meat is served at dinner and supper, Tolstoi never uses it; he contents himself with vegetables, bread and tea, not even indulging his desires so far as a glass of wine or a cigar. He asked me what I thought of the temperance question and whether I believed in prohibition. I told him that forcing people to do right through laws hardly seemed the wisest way to me, but that I was heartily in favor of any measure which would lead to a restriction of the drinking habit, and help on the cause of temperance.

"I agree with you," he said, "I do not believe in prohibition, but I do not drink any myself. I am, as you say, a 'teetotaler'. It helps to give me influence with my mujicks when I try to get them to give up bodka drinking." Then he told me of a case in point, how one of his men, a fine young fellow, had pledged himself never again to drink, and what a temptation it was to do so on the day when his child was christened. "But now is your time, in the moment of temptation," said Tolstoi to him, "to prove beyond doubt your own strength, to show to yourself and to me that you can resist."

In ways like this Tolstoi is continually working for the betterment of the lowly people around him. He told me of his efforts to get his views to the peasants, how he had written a large number of short stories, all teaching the simpler Christian virtues. With the assistance of some interested Moscow friends he had these published, so that he could sell them at the low rate of 11 Kopeck, or a half cent apiece. Thousands of them had been distributed, but lately the government had forbidden many of them, and so the work in that direction was greatly crippled.

As an illustration of government meddling, the Count told me how this spring he had walked from Moscow to his country home, trudging along with knapsack on his back, some 270 miles. At night he would sleep in the peasants' huts and during the day fare as best he could. Among other places, he stopped one night at the home of an old soldier who lived by himself, a petty sergeant or something of that kind in the Polish campaign. The soldier was greatly afflicted with rheumatism, yet, during the night, he told how he was most afflicted and tormented by remorse at the remembrance of those he had beaten to death. Their faces, their forms, would come back to haunt him. This tale made such an impression on Tolstoi that he worked it up into the form of a simple story, calling it Nicholas Palkine; the object of the story being to show that he who inflicted cruelty was more to be pitied than his victims. A young friend

of Tolstoi's kindly hectographed the story, and for this the Moscow authorities put him into prison. Tolstoi went to the Censor and begged for the young man's release; finally the Commission commanded Tolstoi himself to appear and explain the whole matter. He did not do so, but returned to Yasnai Poliana. The affair was then dropped and the young man liberated.

Here I took the liberty of asking him why he did not write his new views in the form of a novel, as in that way they could reach the reading public all over the world. He did not agree with me. "Public opinion cannot be moulded through the novel," he said. "Those who read novels the great mass of people-read them for the story; they do not look or care for the application. It is a too diluted way to speak the truth and fails of success. No, I will write no more novels."

I suggested Dickens and the work he had accomplished. Tolstoi expressed admiration for Dickens; then our conversation naturally drifted on writers. "America," he said, "is producing some strong and fresh thinkers, Emerson, Thoreau, the elder James, they are true and natural.” "I like, too," he continued, "the literary style of Henry George for its clearness. I make a distinction between English and American writers. I do not care for the English scientific school, for Mill and Spencer and the others; their conclusions are brutal. Matthew Arnold, however, is a pleasant and thoughtful writer. When I read his 'Literature and Dogma.' I was surprised to find the same line of thought which I have tried to express, which you will find in my book on 'Life.' When I wrote my book I had not yet read Matthew Arnold."

"I am trying to finish a series of books. They may not all be published in my lifetime. I am looking to America for that. This is the order of them: My Confessions, Criticism of Dog matic Theology (not published), The Gospels, Translations and Concordance (not published), My Religion, which is a sort of popular summary of them all." "And what do you make the basis of

your preaching?" he said, suddenly changing the conversation. I told him that my sermons were mostly on practical themes, and for a basis I took the Jewish and Christian command "Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.' I cannot recall all he said on this point. First it was about love, and then he showed me how impossible it was to love one's neighbor as long as there was envy within leading to hate, envy caused by one person having in his possession something which the other desired. "Do away with property, especially landed property, that must be the first step."

Our conversation closed with his telling me of a great work he has in mind. He has made arrangements to have it published in Leipsic. It will be in the form of a book of selections, and its object will be to show that he does not stand alone in his opinions, but that many of them, especially that on the doctrine of resistance to evil, (which appears the keystone of Tolstoi's faith) are many centuries old. "I am surprised,” he said, "that you in America have paid so little attention to some of the utterances of your own thinkers on this subject. There is Garrison and his non-resistance theory. I wrote to Garrison's son about it, but received no reply.

And you, too, are you not struggling to bring in these truths? Why, then, do you Unitarians and Quakers and liberal Mennonites not unite ?"

Why do we not unite?

As I rose to go, he detained me for an instant longer to talk of this, his latest planned work, and to ask whether I would give time and attention to gathering together and sending to him any selections of prominent American writers that could be utilized for this Book of Selections.*

Just then my troika drove to the door. I was already very late. One quick hand-shake and a "good-bye" and I was off.

It is a cold gray sky above me, a long, low range of hills in the distance, fields

*We are requested by Mr Van Ness to say that he will be glad to forward to Count Tolstoi any such selections as may be sent to his address, Denver, Colorado. [Ed. Unitarian.]

GOD'S WORD.

God's Word! Behold it blazing
On the starry skies of night,

The unnumbered suns above thee

Its characters of light.

God's Word! dear heart, 'twas graven
On the granite base of earth,
When the flame-rent darkness curtained
A new world's awful birth.

The tortured sea's abysm,

The heaving, shifting strand,
Received 'mid pealing thunders
The writing of His hand.

And the rooted might of mountains,
The vales of peace they frame,
And the azure-smiling ocean
Do still that Word proclaim.
Each day the dawn-flushed summit,
Each day the pearls of dew,-
Whate'er hath form or color,-
Speak unto thee anew.

There is no tiny blossom
But is a book divine,
No pebble in thy pathway

But bears God's signet sign.
All sound, sublime or tender,
That bids the ear rejoice,
And crowns the world with music,
Is the echo of His voice.

My child, life's self declareth
The Lord's Most Holy Word,
And history is record

Of what the ages heard.

Not only in a volume

Of Hebrew or of Greek,
But through all realms of being,
Thy Father's message seek.

Let science spell the pages

In lowly reverence meet,

And Faith and Thought together
Shall worship at His feet.

E. H. J.

TWENTY-FIVE YEARS IN A THEOLOGICAL SCHOOL. MEADVILLE, PENNSYLVANIA.

The first thought which comes to mind in reviewing these many years, is the great privilege it is to be engaged in such a work. In fact it is in itself

its chief reward. For it is making life one continued education for one's self as for others. To be associated, too, in these duties, with some of the best of men, in close and harmonious relations, is the purest of friendships. Then to come into invigorating contact with fresh young minds, intent on self-culture and the pursuit of spiritual truth, and preparing for the most solemn and tender duties possible to man, is a perpetual inspiration. The work is a ceaseless meditation on the nature of God, and the nature of man, and the mediatorial connection of one with the other through Christianity. Into these moulds of thought are poured the contents of the Bible, theology, philosophy, poetry, history, literature, ethics and sociology. Nor do these instruments in a theological school become mere dry sticks of speculation, but beat with the pulse of a present vitality. These ideal visions embosom us like the air, and are brought to the touchstone of every day's experience as practical factors in the world's regeneration, and the soul's salvation from sin. To be agents in a humble degree in preparing ministers for the Christian church, the greatest institution on earth, overtopping thrones and kingdoms, carries a blessing that is "a joy forever."

But we no sooner feel what a privilege it is to be employed in furthering such a work than we are arrested midway in our complacency by the consciousness of its extreme difficulty. All education is a constant sphinx, ever to be questioned, and ever to baffle our inquiry. The schoolmen tried it and failed. The monasteries played "solitaire," and made monks, not men and ministers. The modern universities and schools are still experimenting with more or less encouraging results. we must still write over the portals of our schools of divinity, as over those of our business houses, "limited." Indeed we find no perfect satisfaction until we take ourselves back to that school of apostles in Nazareth, in which Jesus was master, and the days were filled with works of beneficence, and the nights with med itation and prayer.

But