history that their skins went to the binding of the second edition of that book!"

There is one instance of homage to genius-one of the most noble and knightly I ever read-which I must mention before beginning my humble story. After one of Mademoiselle Rachel's marvellous tragedy-queen performances at the Imperial Palace at Saint Petersburg, the Emperor Nicholas, who was present, was coming forward to greet her, when she rose to receive him. "Nay, mademoiselle, keep your seat," said the great Emperor, "we actual sovereigns must ever give way to the sovereigns of art; for they live and reign long after we are forgotten!"

Now for my story. I came home one day from school, at the usual hour, when I found some ladies and a youth of eighteen, one of my former scholars, visiting my wife and children. I began to tell them of a beautiful song which one of my teachers was instructing her scholars to sing; a song which seemed to me so touching, that the first time I heard it my heart throbbed with emotion, and my eyes filled with tears. Then I took the song out of my pocket-for I had asked the teacher to give me a copy of it—and began reading it aloud. When I had finished reading it, my little daughter Alice, who is ten years old, exclaimed,— Why, papa, Frederika can sing that song !”

66

Now Frederika is a young girl who had lately been engaged as "help" in our family, and my little daughter had become very fond of her. She is American born, of honest German parentage, and was educated at one of our public schools-a very pleasant, good-looking, intelligent girl, with blonde hair and blue eyes, a charming voice, and an agreeable manner.

"Can she?" I exclaimed. "Well, we shall ask Frederika to sing it. Frederika!" I cried, in a louder voice, directed toward the kitchen, "would you be so good as to sing that song for us?"

Frederika, who had from her place in the kitchen heard me narrate the whole story, hesitated for a moment: she didn't like to sing before an audience, she said; but, after a little pressing on the part of my daughter, she sang out in charming, yet quiet, sweet tones the following little song, while all the company listened in curious yet pleased surprise:

THE UNFINISHED PRAYER.

"Now I lay me'-say it, darling !"
"Lay me," lisped the tiny lips

Of my daughter, kneeling, bending
O'er her folded finger-tips.

"Down to sleep"-"To sleep," she murmured,

And the curly head dropped low.

"I pray the Lord," I gently added

"You can say it all, I know."

"Pray the Lord," the words came faintly,

More faintly still-"my soul to keep"

Then the tired head fairly nodded,

And the child was fast asleep!

But the dewy eyes half opened,

And I clasped her to my breast,

When the dear voice softly whispered,

"Mamma, God knows all the rest!"

You may imagine what a pleasant surprise this was to me, and to us all. We felt as if we had been entertaining an angel unawares; and I couldn't help thinking, and saying to my wife afterwards, "That little girl is worth more to us than the work she can do; she will be a pleasant companion to our children." And from

that day we treated her as a friend, not as a servant; she dined at our table, and went with the children wherever they went; and this contined for a period of three years.

But the influence of that song did not end here. It had a still more fascinating effect on the youth who was present on that occasion. This youth, who had just graduated from the Academy, and had entered the business of his father, a prosperous New York merchant, took due note of the gifted maiden, and soon found occasion to improve his acquaintance with her. As she lived with us as one of ourselves, this of course presented no great difficulty, and his parents being perfectly aware of his intention, we put no obstacle in his way. He often came to our house after that day; and although many of the young ladies of his own circle, well-to-do, well connected, and well educated, would have given their little finger to have secured his attentions, he neglected them all for that little maiden who sang the beautiful song; who captivated him first through the ears, then through the eyes, and finally through the heart; and I received this morning an invitation to the wedding of that youth and that maiden, to take place this day fortnight at the "little church 'round the corner." Who will say there is no romance in real life?

CHAPTER XVI.

I

OTHER CONCEPTIONS OF GENIUS.

KNOW that many persons have a very different conception of genius from that which I have presented in this essay. I have already spoken of Mr. Howell's notion; but we shall leave him out of consideration at present. Many consider none but the very greatest men deserving of the name of men of genius; none but those who have helped to shape the character of their age, or who have produced the greatest work of their age. Homer, Pericles, Demosthenes; Virgil, Horace, Cicero; Hannibal, Cæsar, Alexander; Michael Angelo, Raffael, Rubens; Dante, Cervantes, Byron; Lessing, Goethe, Schiller; Shakespeare, Bacon, Milton; Corneille, Racine, Molière; Voltaire, Pascal, Descartes; Burns, Scott, Coleridge; Washington, Jefferson, Hamilton; Wellington, Napoleon, Grant; Irving, Emerson, Whittier; Webster, Clay, Lincoln, and such brilliant stars of the first magnitude, are the only names they consider worthy of being classed as those of men of genius. This, however, is, in my opinion, very arbitrary and very unsatisfactory. There are degrees in genius as in other things; greater lights and lesser lights; some burning with a dazzling brilliancy, and some with a serene, mild, yet steady blaze. "All ex

perience shows," says Archbishop Whately, "that different persons have different degrees of ability;" and all experience shows that different men of genius have different degrees of genius. "The power of one man over another," says Dr. John Brown, "is proportioned to bulk-for we hold to the notion of a bigness in souls as well as in bodies, and that one soul differs from another in quantity and momentum as well quality and force."

as in

Genius, therefore, is ability of a high order; or, if you please, of an uncommon order; but who shall say, by exact measurement, of what height or of what breadth? Who shall say, precisely, which of the large number of able men who figure in history were men of genius and which were not? For I hold that not only he who writes an epic poem, paints a beautiful picture, plans a successful campaign, or remodels a failing government; not only he who conceives and carries through parliament wise measures for the relief of a nation, or creates a new literature for its edification and delectation; but he who invents a sewing-machine or a telephone, who makes some grand discovery adding to the knowledge or welfare of mankind, is possessed with the attribute of genius. It is the successful application of mind to any problem that is the proof of genius.

It is all nonsense to talk of the "divine afflatus" that moves the minds and distinguishes the works of men of genius: the "divine afflatus" would be of little value to any man if the possessor of it did not do something worthy or useful; and it is very much of a question, which is the divine afflatus, the energy that causes the mind to work, or the action of the mind itself. know no great men," says Voltaire, "except those who

"I