which she realizes he can take whenever he so wills-and in a fit of agonizing despair she falls under the wheels of a moving train.

The trend of the story shows the inside life of political and fashionable Russia; shows the domestic and social conditions among all classes, makes vice hideous and righteousness desired.

Resurrection was first printed in this country with the title, The Awakening. The book was so blue-penciled by the censorship of Russia that there were whole chapters left with hardly one sentence. The book was hurriedly finished, to raise funds to help the Emigration of the Doukhobortsy, "the spiritual strugglers," who, like the Quakers, will not fight. Howells in speaking of Tolstoï's work says: "It is the flower of this man's love for men and his desire to be true to them. His art is matchless, his fiction makes all other appear feeble and false." This story, Resurrection, is the story of a ruined and redeemed soul. The central figure is Katusha Maslova, half maid, half ward, of the aunt of the young man, Nekhludoff, who at first has high ideals, is full of joyous life, innocent, pure. They love each other but the young man yields to the wishes of his family and "sees life;" goes into the army, becomes a spendthrift, a careless idler and sensualist. Tolstoï with tragic realism tells how Katusha is sacrificed at the next meeting of these young people. The change in the girl is a pitiful study. When she realizes the awful wreck of her own life she deliberately goes down into a degradation she hates, feeling that to some extent in this way she is avenging herself on society, on man, on God. From this on it is a heartbreaking story and many have laid the book down unfinished. The descent of Avernus is easy; night and day the gate of Pluto stands open; but to retrace one's steps-that is the toil, that is the difficulty. Nekhludoff meets this girl after nine years of absence and the awfulness of his sin comes over him with mighty power. For this girl's lost soul and the evil she has wrought he feels responsible. In prison there comes to Katusha a hideous loathing of her former life as a meschanka, and the horror of it all is like hell. The prison scenes, the bestiality of a march of convicts to Siberia are matters of history. The individualized politicians, soldiers, policemen, the life of princes and peasants, rich and poor, officers and criminals, all are held up to

view with a glaring searchlight thrown upon their naked souldeformity. It is a story that brings an inexpressible acuteness of pain; a book for mature minds; and even then an intelligent reader asks, "Why should I read this book?" "What has Tolstoï done for the world with these stories?" We need not read Tolstoï's book. We can close our eyes to art and artists. We can close our ears to sorrow, suffering, sin. Perhaps, if we did not come into the kingdom to be a help to or sympathizer with Russia, we might learn about some other land we could help. Count Tolstoï said in the London Times, March, 1905: "In America, France, Germany, Japan, and England those who belong to these nations point to Russia and naïvely imagine what is done is only done in Russia, while they enjoy freedom from these evils, and need no improvement of their conditions." The religious views of Tolstoï are woven into his stories and discussed by his characters. The character of Nekhludoff, as seen in the last chapter of Resurrection, is strengthened by the reading of the Sermon on the Mount. It is read as the lovers of Socrates would read his lectures; as the followers of Confucius have studied him and accepted his ethics as the right way of living. He read, "Seek ye first the kingdom of God and his righteousness," and a new life began because everything he did had a new and different significance.

He makes prominent in all his later stories a few points which direct toward a Christ life. "Be reconciled with your enemies," is one. "Abjure oaths," "Resist not evil, and consider every man your brother." These he takes from the teachings of Christ. In several of his stories he shows through some one character the wholesomeness of one point taken from the Old Testament, "Get your bread by the sweat of your brow."

We need not accept the religious views or endorse the political theories of this man, but we can bow before his genius, honor his honest efforts to uplift the world, and do reverence to one whose life is full to the brim of toil, sacrifice, patriotic devotion for the country he loves and hopes to see redeemed.

Charlotte & Wilder

ART. IX. ENGLAND'S HOLY HILL OF SONG

THE ideas which a not-much-traveled American has of the places which he should attempt to "do" on his first visit to the British Isles are largely gathered from the regulation description of the itineraries the tourist companies have prepared, which with marvelous precision and mathematical accuracy predict where you will be every hour during your absence and the sums of money you will expend for every meal, lodging, bath, coach-ride, and excursion. Now none will deny that there is a field for such parties, and certain advantages in them to nerve-exhausted ministers, timid women and half-grown school girls, but to the "free-lance" they do not make a strong appeal. To him such parties seem pathetic, under the conduct of the infallible tourist agent, whose geyser of information and anecdotes never knows exhaustion, traveling from place to place with the do-or-die spirit to keep up with the schedule-which will permit them to say to their fellowpassengers on the homeward voyage, "I, too, have finished the prescribed course." The "free-lance" can go where he pleases, when he pleases, stay as long as he pleases, eat where he pleases, pay what he pleases, and rest when and where he desires. This fact made possible one of the most memorable pleasures of a certain vacation. The trip to this place was not included in any consulted itinerary, nor had any one of the several score of regulation tourists on the homeward-bound vessel visited this particular one of England's sacred shrines.

The explanation lay in the literature class in old Dickinson. It is a far cry from the classroom of 1894 to that glorious August Sabbath in 1905, but thus are dreams sometimes realized. When the unique and charming story of Cadmon was told the class by the professor one of the forty students determined, if opportunity ever permitted, to visit that holy hill of song, and one Saturday inquiries in Edinburgh concerning the route to famous old Whitby resulted in a six-hour ride down the romantic northeastern coast of England. The scenery was bold and grand, arousing the admiration of one who viewed it with eyes familiar with the

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grandeur of our own western country. For many miles the coastline is a succession of immense white cliffs and prominent and imposing headlands. The views are most attractive. One of the most picturesque spots of this rugged coast is where the river Esk has formed a deep glen in seeking its outlet to the sea. In this beautiful location nestles quaint old Whitby. Hitherward the traveler who proposes to know thoroughly the land of his fathers must sooner or later turn his steps or his pilgrimage will be lamentably incomplete.

The town itself is sufficient reward for the visitor; for England possesses no more characteristic combination of ancient and modern life. Down along the river's edge the houses are small and ancient, with bright red tiles, gabled roofs and narrow windows. The streets are so narrow that pedestrians with outstretched arms can almost touch the buildings on either side, and many of them would not permit vehicles to pass. Above the fishing village the cliffs climb up into the blue air, carrying the traveler to the modern and pretentious residences, the large and dignified hotels, and the bathing beach, one of the finest and most popular in England. Whitby is visited by an increasing number of summer visitors. James Russell Lowell, when American minister to the Court of St. James, passed his summers at this resort, and is said to have declared upon one occasion that the journey across the Atlantic was a small price to pay for a six weeks' sojourn at Whitby. Toiling up the steep incline of the town the Crown hostelry is reached, lodgings secured, and a few minutes later, from the open window of the room of rest, a first view is obtained of England's holy hill of song. Across the deep chasm through which the river has found its way to the sea, in the gorgeous moonlight, the ruins of famous Whitby Abbey are clearly outlined against the sky. Moments passed as hungry eyes drank in that view and memory recalled all that had been read concerning Lady Hilda and Cædmon. The next morning ushered in a perfect Sabbath day and a steadfast calm rested over the little city.

A walk through the narrow winding streets of the ancient town to the foot of the hill on which the ruined Abbey stands, and a climb up 199 stone steps, and one stands on the holy hill.

Cadmon wandered over these hills, stood on these cliffs overlooking the sea, rested himself upon the warm grass, and was inspired by one of the sublimest views upon which the human eye can gaze. What wonder that the first song that burst through his lips should have been one of gratitude to Heaven for the gift of earth and the gift of life? One who passes some hours in that environment is convinced that the poet could have sounded no other note, and on that Sabbath morning it seemed that no spot could have been more appropriate for the cradle of English song than this place, where the gates of English poesy were first opened, and room was made for Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton, Wordsworth, Tennyson, and all the glorious company of English bards. Cædmon, like many other bards whose songs have stirred the soul, had little learning, but he had three principal sources of poetic inspiration: external nature, a human heart, and admiration for a good woman. The highest source of the true poet is God. Every poet who would exert an abiding influence must be religious. He must not be dogmatic, but show forth the fruits of an intellectual humility and a tender toleration in all his teaching.

The Dean of this historic parish, who preaches every Sabbath morning in the ancient St. Mary's Church which stands on this holy hill, has frequently looked out from his pulpit over the seas when the storm-king was uttering his hoarse diapason and driving the sails before his angry gusts. Truly, old St. Mary's is a lanterntower set upon the hill, which cannot be hid, and in the olden days a luminous lantern was fastened to her tower to guide the sailors of Whitby home. Such was the Nature which inspired Cadmon to sing. This music of the billows, this thundering cry of the storm. king, passed into his soul, and produced his song. That day, as our feet stamped the soil of the holy hill, we felt we trod holy ground. God never seemed nearer. The sweet music of the chimes on the church, which stands immediately in front of St. Hilda's famous abbey, summoned the visitors from God's acre to the church service. It chanced to be the first Sabbath after extensive improvements, and the Dean, preached an historical sermon in which he gave a most interesting statement of the religious life of that hill from the days of the founding of the Abbey, in 650, by