lecture halls and churches loom up amongst the trees in startling immensity when compared with their tiny surroundings, and above all the great forest trees keep solemn watch and ward.

The frame houses are mostly uniform as to shape, and consist of a gaping entrance wide as a churchdoor, Gothic in form, a railed stoop, and balcony over it. Upon the stoop and balcony the dwellers reside. It is no figure of speech to say that the Chautauqua people keep open house. The door yawns; the whole façade seems to open like a doll's - house. Everybody can tell what everybody else is doing, and the economy of space is as carefully studied as on board a ten-ton yacht. It is amusing to read "Rooms to Let," posted upon edifices consisting, to all appearance, of but one apartment, the apartment already fully occu

the fire is lighted in a niche in the stump. The odor of frying veal greets the olfactory nerves at every turn. The fatted calf is killed for these non-prodigals. The canvas dwellings are wonderfully picturesque. Some of them are decorated with devices in leaves and ferns and flowers. Canary birds hang suspended in brass cages. The interiors consist of a Saratoga trunk, a bed fit for an anchorite, an iron washstand, and a cracked fifty-cent mirror. In front, as on the stage in a booth at a country fair, stands the dinner - table, camp - stools, and-nothing more.

Chautauqua is indented with ravines, one of which has been artfully embanked, a roof clapped on it, benches for seating 6,000 persons extended down its slopes, and this is called the amphitheatre. Here sermons and lectures and addresses are delivered; here is the Chautauqua salute flung out through the medium of white pockethandkerchiefs; lighted by electricity, the night effect is weird and spectral, especially during a microscopic illustration, and the gaunt, hideous form of some unknown insect leaps into life on the great white disk. In St. Paul's Grove is the Hall of Philosophy, open à la grecque, hung with basket-gardens and ornamented with busts of the ancient

pied. The inhabitants all pose for effect, as if they were sitting to Mr. L. E. Walker, the photographer of the Point. Attitude is everything at Chautauqua, from the amphitheatre to the hammock. The cooking is done al fresco. In close proximity to most of the houses are stumps of felled trees. Upon these are pots and pans and broilers, and all the paraphernalia of the culinary department, while

philosophers, grim-looking individuals all, from Plato to Socrates. This grove was dedicated to the uses of the Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Circle." The Hall is also used by the Normal School of Languages. I was considerably astonished to find myself stumbling over some toy houses about two inches in height; nor did my wonderment abate upon being informed that I had upset the entire City of Jericho. For a moment I imagined myself Gulliver in Lilliput, but a signboard announced that I was in Palestine Park, and surrounded in miniature by the Dead Sea, the River Jordan, Mount Tabor, Mount Hermon, and the cities of Jerusalem, Jericho, Bethany, Capernaum, Bethlehem, and other places mentioned in Holy Writ. Quitting the Holy Land, I turned into a New England kitchen, an exact counterpart of that exhibited at the Centennial, where I found that pork and beans was the only typical New England dish to be had in this roughhewn log edifice. Crossing to Wesley Avenue, I found myself in the great auditorium, erected beneath gigantic trees, and capable of seating 5,000 people. The stage is admirably fitted up, the decorations tasteful in the extreme. The Jewish Tabernacle, Ancient Pyramid and Children's Temple are within bow-shot; the latter, built in the form of a Greek cross, measures 101x94 feet, and has a seating capacity for 1,500. The most important dwelling at Chautauqua, so far as the artist and I were concerned, is the tent used by General Grant when visiting the lake, and in which, owing to the courtesy of Mr. Lewis Miller-the distinguished president of the Fair Point Association—we slept the sleep of the just during our sojourn. It is very lofty, very roomy, and boasts of a parlor, bedroom and dressing-room, in addition to which is a sort of gigantic sunshade in front, forming the most agreeable apartment of all. I have paid dearly for worse accommodation in many first-class hotels.

The Chautauquans are early people, very early people. We were awakened at 5 A.M. by the "Sweet By-and-by," and at 10:30 P.M. we two were the only people outside wood or canvas. Ah, yes, there were two more-lovers, who had improved the occasion by a wander in the bosky shades of the grim old trees. A night-watchman awaited their coming beneath a lamp that hung from a piece of board nailed to a tree. The manner in which that guardian of the night informed the amorous pair that it was past retiring hour was a sermon and an impeachment in one.

"Two bells ring," he informed us, as the abashed couple scurried away, "the first at 10 o'clock to tell all folks to be preparing for bed. That bell brings 'em to their quarters, and the second sees lights out. We don't want no romancing around here, and my business is to see that no couples are out after 10:30. But I never offend them; I only says, "It's past the hour'; they know what I mean well enough."

A Chautauqua day is thus apportioned out: 6 A.M., bath; 6:30, breakfast; 7:30, normal class drill; 8:30, witnessing the exercises in the Children's Temple; 9:30, concert; 10:30, scientific conversazione in the Pavilion; 12:30, dinner; 2, lecture in the Auditorium; 4, lecture in Palestine Park; 5, blackboard exercises; 6, tea; 7:30, evening service, and then croquet, boating, fireworks, etc., till the 10 o'clock bell; at 10:30 everybody is housed, or ought to be.

THE new Catholic Theological Seminary for the archdiocese of Boston, to be built at Brighton, will contain rooms for 200 students, and is expected to cost $300,000.

BARZILLAI, A VETERAN OF THE BIBLE. BY THE REV. J. HILES HITCHENS.

Ir has been often said that nothing is more difficult than the termination of what we have once begun. To quit a room gracefully, leaving agreeable remembrances of one's conversation and presence, was a matter that Chesterfield could not overlook in his advice to his son. To retire from any official position which has been occupied so as to carry with one the best wishes and cordial regrets of the old associates requires great prudence and patience. To withdraw from conflict, when we are consciously defeated, peacefully and unostentatiously, without exhibitions of ill-will, needs an unusual exercise of self-control. And so, to pass into private life, into retirement from social pleasures and pursuits, into the shady vale which leads to the house appointed for all living, without disturbing the hearts of those about us, and awakening only feelings of admiration and regret, is exceedingly difficult. But it can be done, as the case of Barzillai will suffice to prove. sion is to his loyalty and generosity. When David was fleeing from his ungrateful son Absalom, weariness, hunger and thirst overtook the royal party, and then, when in their extremity, David and his followers were needing speedy relief, Barzillai was one of those who sent a liberal supply of provisions, beds and other conveniences for the benefit of the King's retinue. By means of this assistance the spirits of David and his people were revived, and very speedily they were able to go forth against the forces of the rebellious usurper. The result was favorable to David, though thereby he lost his son, and when the monarch was about to return to his palace, he desired to make some amends for the valuable kindness shown him by this wealthy chief. He endeavored to induce him to accompany the Court to Jerusalem. Probably David thought that every man was ambitious enough to desire a position near his throne, and that Barzillai, wealthy and well-to-do as he was, would not refuse to quit Rogelim for the pleasures and palaces of the metropolis. But Barzillai respectfully declined the King's invitation, and he did it in language characterized by courtly refinement, kindly consideration of others, and pious reference to his future. "Barzillai said unto the King, How long have I to live, that I should go up with the King unto Jerusalem? I am this day fourscore years old: and can I discern between good and evil? can thy servant taste what I eat or what I drink? can I hear any more the voice of singing men and singing women? wherefore then should thy servant be yet a burden unto my lord the King? Thy servant will go a little way over Jordan with the King: and why should the King recompense it me with such a reward? Let thy servant, I pray thee, turn back again, that I may die in mine own city, and be buried by the grave of my father and of my mother. But behold thy servant Chimham, let him go over with my lord the King; and do to him what shall seem good unto thee. And the King answered, Chimham shall go over with me, and I will do with him that which shall seem good unto thee: and whatsoever thou shalt require of me, that will I do for thee." Together they proceeded on their journey, and Barzillai crossed the Jordan with David and his followers. Then very reluctantly the monarch parted from the aged Gileadite. "The King kissed Barzillai, and blessed him." The monarch proceeded to Gilgal, with the son of the aged and generous friend; whilst Barzillai returned to his home to end his days in quietude and preparation for his change.

There is not much recorded of Barzillai. The first allu

The infirmities of old age were fast accumulating. The

lease of life appeared to him to be at the most but very brief. "How long have I to live ?" he inquired of David; "I am this day fourscore years old." Already he had received some of the monitory evidences of nature's decay. Already some of the pins and cords of the frail tabernacle had been loosened. Already "those that look out of the windows were darkened "-" the sun and the light and the moon were darkened "- he could not "discern between good and evil"—his sight was obscured, the near and the distant mingled in confusion before him. Already the "grinders” ceased, because they were few, and the feasts of the royal palace would be no pleasure to him, he could not taste what he ate or what he drank. His hearing, too, had lost its power-"all the daughters of music were brought low" so that the sweetest sounds could awaken no response in his breast-he could hear no "more the voice of singing men and singing women."

To these infirmities doubtless there were others. At eighty years of age the "almond-tree" must have been flourishing with him, bestrewing his brow with its snowwhite blossoms; "the keepers of the house" had beyond doubt "begun to tremble"; the limbs were not so vigorous to support and defend that physical frame as they had been; perhaps the " grasshopper had become a burden"; such feebleness may have already seized him that the slightest matter was a trouble to him; most likely he rose up "at the voice of the bird"; he found sleeplessness, for "tired nature's sweet restorer flies on his downy pinions" from the eyelids of age, as well as from those of care and anxiety; and no doubt "fears" were "in the way," he was apprehensive of real or imaginary dangers — of accidents which might happen because of his inability to hear, or to see, and want of agility to escape. There is every reason to believe that Barzillai at this time realized most of the wise man's description of old age in the last chapter of Ecclesiastes, and felt that he was not distant from the period when

"Pale concluding Winter comes at last,

And shuts the scene."

But whilst thus physically infirm, he was spared that more terrible infirmity, debility of mind. He went down the vale of old age retaining that power of thought and strength of self-control which characterized his earlier years; and we cannot examine his words and actions without devoutly wishing it may be so with us, if spared to see old age. Ever and anon we hear of men retaining their remarkable powers of mind despite the increasing signs of approaching decay. The conversation of the celebrated musician, Cherubini, when at the age of eighty, is said to have been as brilliant as during the meridian of his existence. Of Fontenelle it is written, "His intellectual faculties, with the exception of a slight defect of memory, had preserved their integrity in spite of corporeal debility. His thoughts were elevated, his expressions finished, his answers quick and to the point, his reasoning powers accurate and profound." Cardinal de Fleury was Prime Minister of France up till the age of ninety years. And many others have experienced like favors at the hand of God. But, alas, not all blessed with mental vigor amid physical infirmities have used those mental powers aright. Barzillai is a pattern to the aged in this respect.

1. He was infirm, but not selfish. There was a beautiful consideration for the feelings of others evinced by him. His words were, "Wherefore then should thy servant be yet a burden unto my lord the King ?" One main reason why Barzillai declined to accompany the monarch to Jerusalem was this, lest he should be a source of trouble to the Court. It is a saddening aspect of life that it is possible

for us to live long enough to be a burden to our relatives and friends. When the wasted frame requires continual watching, when the changeful longings of disease crave for the incessant supply of every new thing that fancy suggests, when the restlessness of pain forbids the ministering one taking rest, then there grows upon the minds of those about the aged invalid a feeling that death would be a merciful release for both sufferer and attendants. some cases, also, the lingering life becomes a burden from another cause the fretfulness, the complaining, the irritability to which the aged one surrenders.

In

There are beyond doubt some elderly persons who might make prolonged life a blessing by being less demanding of those about them, by exercising more control of self-by striving to possess their souls in patience. Barzillai could not foresee what would be his experience, and, anxious not to trouble any more than possible, he determined to remain in retirement from active scenes, that thus he may find his main resources in himself. Ah, "a good deal of the fretfulness and irritability exhibited by old persons arises from their overlooking this, from their forgetting that there is a science in retirement as well as a science in business, and a science that requires time to learn, too."

"Why is it," said a friend to an officer of Charles V., "that you, with so much vigor of body and mind left, should wish to be discharged from further service ?" "Because," answered the officer, "I think there ought to be a pause between the hurry of life and the day of death." Well would it be for those who feel the increasing years telling upon their constitutional and mental energy, if they divested themselves of the selfish, worldly, ambitious purposes of life, and, like Barzillai, gave the remainder of their days to more or less quiet attention to the work of preparing for another world.

2. Barzillai was infirm, yet not wanting in affection. "Let thy servant, I pray thee, turn back again, that I may die in my own city, and be buried by the grave of my father and my mother." His desire was to spend his few remaining years, and then to close his eyes in death in his own home, amid all the sweet and tender associations of the family circle. He might have died happily, hopefully, and triumphantly, in Jerusalem, for it matters comparatively little where the good man meets his fate, but his desire was to yield up the ghost in the presence of those to whom his heart was fondly attached. He wished that the last sound he heard might be the music of a familiar voice, that the last sight he saw might be the face of some longloved form, that the last thing he felt on earth might be the pressure of a kindly hand. He wanted to gather his son and his sons' sons about his couch, and trace the goodness of God to him through all the course of life. He desired to let those who knew his life witness his death, and behold how a follower of the Lord can make his exit from this state of being. Ay, he was still mindful of those he had loved who had been taken from him. His father and his mother were not forgotten. Though he was eighty years of age, he cherished for his parents the same fresh and fond attachment. He remembered all their interest in him, and constant unwearying love to him, and he anticipated the time when he should be reunited to them.

His wish to be buried "by the grave of his father and mother" is no childish whim. It is not the expression of an old man in his dotage. It is an intelligent desire, based upon a deep-seated yearning after a time of resurrection and a place of reunion. Such a desire has dwelt in the breasts of God's saints in all ages. Hence they have given commandment concerning their bones. Not that they believed it necessary that their remains should lie in any