# The Pacific Monthly/Volume 1/How the Commander Sailed

HOW THE COMMANDER SAILED.
By DAVID STARR JORDAN, President of Leland Stanford, Jr. University.
ONCE there was a great sea captain, born in Jutland, in 1681, and his name was Vitus Bering. But when he went away from Denmark and became a commander in the Russian navy they called him Ivan Ivanovich Bering, for that was easier for the Russians to say. He was a man of great stature, and greater heart, strong, brave and patient, and so the Russians chose him to lead in the explorations of Siberia and North America.
And so it chanced that in the spring of 1741 Vitus Bering found himself in the little village of Petropaulski, the harbor of Peter and Paul, which is the capita of the vast uninhabitable region of moss, volcanoes and mountain torrents they call Kamchatka.
And from the village of Peter and Paul Bering sailed forth to explore the icy sea and to find North America, and to learn how to reach it from Kamchatka. There were 77 men all told on board the St. Peter, and one of them was George Wilhelm Steller, the German naturalist, clear-headed, warm-hearted and imperative, who has told the story of the voyage.
First they sailed for Gamaland, a great island, which, on the Russian maps of that day, lay in the ocean to the southeast of Kamchatka. But when the St. Peter came to where Gamaland was, they said: "Only sea and sky; a few wandering birds, and no land at all." There never was any Gamaland, but Bering did not know this, so he was surprised to find no land nearer than the bottom of the sea.
The east wind blew and the great fogs hid the sun and stars, but still Bering sailed on. Away over the sea where Gamaland was not, away to the eastward, on and on, till at last they saw before them a great belt of land. The coast was high and jagged, covered with snow in July, and lined with wild islands, between which the sea swept in swift currents. Over the scrubby forests of stunted fir a snow-capped mountain towered so high that they could see it 70 miles away. "I do not remember," Steller wrote, "of having seen a higher mountain in all Siberia and Kamchatka." And he was right, for there was none other so high in all the Russian dominions. As it was the day of St. Elias, they named the mountain for the saint, and the bay and the cape and the island, everything they saw was named for St. Elias. And they are named for St. Elias to this day; and Mount St. Elias is the highest in all North America. They found no inhabitants in St. Elias-land. They had all run away in fear at the sight of the ship and the white men. But they found a "house of timber with a fireplace, a bath-basket, a wooden spade, some mussel-shells and a whetstone," used to sharpen copper knives. Besides these articles they found in an earth hut "some smoked fish, a broken arrow and the remains of a fire." Some of these things they took away with them. So, to make everything fair, Bering left in the house "an iron kettle, a pound of tobacco, a Chinese pipe and a piece of silk cloth." But no one was there when the Indians returned to see what use they made of these unexpected presents.
They did not stay long about the bay of St. Elias. Bering knew that the summer was well along, and that if they were to learn anything of the coast they must go along it rapidly. With their few provisions and their small ship they could not spend the winter in this rough country. Many men have blamed him for going away so soon. Whether Bering did right it is not for us to say. We know Steller's opinion, but Bering's we have not heard. Steller said: "The only rea- son for leaving was stupid obstinacy, fear of a handful of natives, and pusil​animous homesickness. For 10 years Bering had equipped himself for this great enterprise; the explorations lasted 10 hours." "We have gone over to the New World," he said, "simply to bring American water to Asia."
But however this may be, Bering had none too much time for his return to Kamachatka. Half his crew were sick already, and the rest were none too strong. Those who would stay here longer, Bering said, forget "how far we are from home and what may yet befall us." So the St. Peter sailed homeward on the wings of a southeast gale. In the mist and fog the coast was invisible, though the soundings showed that land was not far away. Islands they sighted from time to time, black, inhospitable headlands, where the great surf broke before the constant gales. They sailed around the great island of Kadeah, narrowly escaping shipwreck on an island they called the Foggy one; but every island is foggy in those wild, storm-washed seas.
Once more they saw the tall, snow-capped volcanoes of the mainland, as they passed close below the seven high rocks we call the Semidi; and whenever the sun shone for a day the sea grew rougher than ever, for a break in the clouds of the north is the signal for a new storm. Salted meats and hard biscuit without change of diet brought on the disease called scurvy. This comes when men eat too much salt without fruit or vegetables, and it shows itself in loosened teeth which fall out of the shrunken gums. Affairs grew worse and worse, Bering and more than half his men were sick, and when they came to the 13 ragged, barren islands that rise above the surf in the thick mist, they landed there and carried the sick ones ashore. One of the sailors, named Shumagin, died here, and so the islands are called Shumagin to this day.
While the men searched for fresh water Steller looked everywhere for roots and berries with which to heal the men sick with scurvy. Some of the most delicious berries in the world grow on these islands; and Bering was wonderfully helped by them. The medicine chest, it was said, contained "plasters and salves for half an army," but no remedies for men who were hurt inwardly by the poor food.
At the Shumagins the sailors filled their water-casks, but they took water from a pond into which the surf had broken, and when they came to drink it the scurvy grew worse than ever. One of their boats was wrecked as they went on, and they had trouble with the Esquimaux on the shores. Still they sailed on, with the east wind behind and the thick cloud rack overhead.
Then the wind blew from the west and rose from time to time into hurricanes. "I know of no harder, more fatiguing life," wrote one of Bering's officers, "than to sail an unknown sea." And of all the seas in the world, none is rougher than the one the St. Peter sailed, and none has such a wilderness of inhospitable islands along its shores. When Bering's men thought they were half-way home they saw land to the north of them, still another wild, inhospitable cliff, topped by a snowy volcano. They called the island St. Johannes, but its real name is Atka, and there are many more such before one comes to the end, where the far west joins "the unmitigated east." Still they sailed against the west wind, which Steller said "seemed to issue from a flue, with such a whistling, roaring and rumbling that we expected every moment to lose mast and rudder, or to see the ship crushed between the breakers. The dashing of the heavy sea against the vessel sounded like cannon." They could not stand erect on the ship; they could not cook. The few who were well remained so because they did not dare to get sick. All lost "their firmness of purpose; their courage became unsteady as their teeth." Still they sailed on. It was as easy to do that as to return. Still another snow-topped island, Amchitka, came in view to the north, again to their great surprise, for they thought they were in the open sea. They knew nothing of the long line of Aleutian volcanoes which pass in a great bow from Alaska across to Kamchatka. They sailed past Attu, the last of the Aleutian islands. After a time they came to a long, steep coast, running north and south, which they took for Kamchatka. Every one was overjoyed. Bering crawl​ed from his bed to the deck, revived by the sight of what seemed to be friendly land, and in such fashion as they could they celebrated their "happy return."
But though the land they found was very different from the Aleutian islands, and bore no volcano at its summit, they could not recognize it, nor did they find it hospitable. Medni island is a narrow backbone of rock, shaped like a crosscut saw, with wild cliffs and great reefs, over which the surf breaks on the deep green waves. There were no inhabitants, no harbors, no landing places, and the winds came down in wild gusts or "wil- lie-waugs" from the snow-covered craggy heights. A storm carried away their mainsail, and as they drifted along, to the northward, the island came to an end in a cluster of jagged rocks. So it could not be Kamchatka. Their joy gave way to direst distress. The sailors broke out in mutiny. Nobody cared for the ship. It drifted on to the west with the gentle wind beating against a little sail at its foremast, but the ship with neither helmsman nor commander.
Soon another island loomed up before them, a shore of great flat-topped mountains, ending in huge black vertical cliffs at the sea. In a clear night they came to anchor in a little bay to the north of a black promoncory now called Tolstoi Mys, the thick cape. In the great surf "the ship was tossed like a ball," the cable of their anchor snapped, and the vessel came near being crushed on the jagged rocks of the shore.
In the morning they landed in the lit- tle sandy bay north of Tolstoi, and set out in search for inhabitants. They found none, for Bering's men were the first who ever set foot on the twin Storm islands. The little bay was surrounded by high craggy steeps, without trees, overgrown by dense moss, and cut by swift brooks. The sailors, under Steller's direction, built a house in the sand, and covered it with driftwood and turf, and made its walls of the carcasses of the foxes they had killed for their skins. Everywhere swarmed the little foxes, blue foxes and white foxes, Eichkao and all his hungry family, and those of the sailors who died were devoured almost before they could be buried. Other little huts they made
of driftwood and foxes, their floors dug out of the sand.
Then Commander Bering, still helpless, was placed in one of these. The vessel, when he had left it, was beached by a storm, and the crew dragged it up into the sand, where it could be all winter. The blue fox, the most greedy and selfish of animals, hung around the camp all winter, attacking the sick and devouring the dead, almost before the eyes of their friends. Of the 77, 31 died, among them Bering himself. "He was," Steller said, "buried alive; the sand kept constantly rolling down upon him from the sides of the pit and covered his feet. At first this was removed, but finally he asked that it might remain, as it furnished him a little of the warmth he so sorely need- ed. Soon half his body was under the sand, and his comrades had to dig him out to give him a decent burial."
So perished the great commander at the age of 60 years. The island where he died has ever since then been called Bering island. The two great "Storm islands," Bering and Medni, or Copper island, have been called for him, Komandorski, the Islands of the Commander, and the great icy sea is known as Bering sea. And his life and work, says Lauridsen, will ever stand as "living testimony of what northern perseverance is able to accomplish, even with the most humble means." In the spring of 1742 Steller and the rest made of the wreck oi the St. Peter an open boat, in which they traversed the 150 miles of the icy sea between Bering island and Petropaulski, and we need not follow them further.
But their stay on Bering island is forever famous for the discovery of the "four great beasts" of the sea, on the account of which Steller's fame as a naturalist largely rests. These were the sea cow, the sea otter, the sealion and the sea bear.
In the giant kelp which grows on all the sunken reefs, like a great tawny mane, the sea cow had her home. A huge, blundering, harmless beast, feeding on kelp, shaped like a whale in body, but with a cow-like head, a split upper lip and a homely, amiable appearance, as befits a beast of great ugliness who lives ​like a cow on weeds. The creature was 40 feet in length and weighed about three tons. Bering's men soon found that the seacow made good seasteaks. They fed freely on her meat, and the sailors who came after them in years to come devoured and destroyed them all. The last one was killed in 1768, and its bones are now among the treasures of the great museums.
Next came the seat otter, a creature as large as a good-sized dog, with long gray fur, the finest of all fur for cloaks and overcoats. The sea otter lived in the sea about the islands, the female swim- ming about in the kelp, with her young in her arms, and making long trips from place to place in search of food. The sea otter is not extinct, but it is growing rare, and a good skin is worth now from $500 to $1500.
The great sealion was a ponderous beast, like the fur seal in figure and habits, but much larger, the male weighing upwards of 1500 pounds. His huge head is like that of a St. Bernard dog, and his roar is one of the grandest sounds on earth. It is a rich, mellow, double bass, like the voice of a mighty organ, and it can be heard for miles. The female is much smaller, also yellowish gray in color, and has also a rich bass voice an octave higher. When a herd of sealions are driven into the sea, they will rise out of the surf at once and all together, roaring in chorus. Such a wonderful chorus can be heard nowhere else on earth, and it is no wonder that the lion of the sea made a great impression on Steller. The sealions live in families on the rocks, where the males fight for supremacy, often overturning huge boulders in their struggles. The young are cinnamon-colored, and when they are born they look much like female fur seals, and are almost as large. And when the old males are fighting they toddle away, else
they will be crushed under the rocks, or trampled on by huge, flappy feet.
But most interesting of all the great beasts of the sea was the one Steller called the sea bear, "Ursus Marinus," or, as men now call it, the "fur seal." These creatures came on shore by the thousands on the west coast of Bering island, when the ice left the island in the spring. They made their homes on the rocks of Poludionnoye, as it were a great city rising from the sea.
But the story of how "the great man seal haul out of the sea" on Bering and Medni and St. Paul and St. George and Robben has been many times told, and in many ways, so I need not give it here.
But we can imagine how Steller looked down on the slopes of Poludionnoye and saw the old beach-masters roar and groan and weep and blow out their musky breath as they fought for supremacy. We can see with him the trim ranks of sleek and dainty matkas, tripping up ihe beach as they come back from the long swim. We can imagine the great groups of snug kotiks that clustered about the warring beach-masters, while along the shores wandered and played the hosts of young bachelors eager to keep near the homes, but afraid to enter them till their wigs and tusks had grown. We can see them in countless hosts, trooping, playing, sleeping on the sands, reckless of drive and unharmed by clubs, and we can understand the splendid enthusiasm with which the discoverer of all these things wrote of the "beasts of the sea." And as a recompense for all the pain and disappointment in Bering's life, we can place the fact that he was the first. His for all time are the twin Storm islands, where the St. Peter was wrecked and tht commander met his death, and his for-
OVER THE BAR.
By LISCHEN M. MILLER.
ON the loneliest of lonely shores, on the very verge of the continent, nestled close against the base of the grassy headland, stands, or used to stand, a little cabin built of driftwood.
From its low doorway one locks out over a stretch of sand and surf and windswept sea to the place where the sun goes down. Northward the view is shut off suddenly by the frowning cliff, upon whose rugged front the waves beat ceaselessly. It is a quiet and restful spot in spite of its solemn grandeur, and one grows into closer kinship with Nature there. In those days travelers did not often come that way, for there was no road, only a narrow trail winding in and out among the hills and along the brow of the beetling cliff. The nearest human habitation was a good 10 miles away to the south.
One stormy night in November we gathered about the driftwood fire that blazed upon the generous hearth in the little cabin. Outside the wind shrieked and howled, and the roar of the surf was something awful to hear. The rain beat furiously against the one small window and fell in sheets upon the "shakes" overhead.
At every fresh outburst oi the tempest we shivered, not from fear or cold, but with a delicious sense of contrast — the fury without, the warmth within.
"If it had happened on such a night as this," said the captain, breaking through the easy silence. "If it had happened on such a night, I could better have understood the loss." His deep, full voice had an unaccustomed ring of sadness, and his face, showing like a splendid bronze in the ruddy firelight, wore a retrospective look as he gazed into the leaping flames.
"What was it that happened on a night not like this?" asked Neja, saucily, from her sealion pelt in the corner. Neja did not share our respect for the captain. She stood in no awe of him, or of any one, in fact. She was a law unto herself.
The captain looked up at her question. "I was thinking of my boys," he said. "I must have spoken my thought unconsciously."
The captain's wife leaned over and slipped her white hand into his strong brown one. "Tell them about it, dear," she said, softly.
"Yes, tell us," we urged, for we bad never heard the story, though we knew that in some sad and unaccountable way the two young men in question had met their fate.
"It was three years ago," began the captain, looking again into the fire. "Three years ago. There were not more than a dozen white settlers on the river then, though the country was full of Indians. There was, it is true, the salmon cannery at the mouth of the river where Neja has her claim, but the men who worked there were brought in by the company at the beginning of the season, and taken out at its close. They were in no sense settlers.
"We had come up, my boys and I, a few months before, and located our land and built our cabins, making the improvements necessary to establishing claims. My wife was still in the city, and I did not then propose to bring her into this wilderness. The boys were enthusiastic over the evident resources of the country, the excellence of the harbor which they had in a sense discovered, and were full of plans for the future.
"Well, as I said, we had our cabins up and fairly habitable, and as winter was coming on, and it was unnecessary for us all to remain here, Harold decided to return to San Francisco to look after our interests there till spring. A vessel had come in to carry out the season's results in salmon, and it seemed a good chance for Harold to return home without the difficulties and delays incident to the journey overland. Besides, the ​master of the Mist was short of men and offered him a berth, which in itself was an inducement, for our funds were running low.
"A few nights before the vessel was to sail, as I lay wrapped in my blankets before my cabin fire, I had a disturbing dream. It made so strong an impression upon me that I urged Harold to give up his intended voyage. He only laughed at my fears, and, indeed, I had to confess them to myself foolish and ungrounded." Here the captain lapsed into silence, seeming to forget his audience in retrospection.
"Tell us the dream," ventured Neja, softly, and the captain, always responsive to her voice, whether grave or gay, continued:
"It was this: I dreamed that, standing upon the shore, I watched the Mist, with my two boys on board, sail out across the bar. As I looked, a great wave lifted her upon its mighty crest, held her suspended thus a single instant, then, as if she had been a painted toy, snapt her beams asunder, and her parted decks went down forever out of sight in the gulfs of the sea.
"Well, the cargo was all stowed, the water-casks filled and everything made ready for departure. The weather was fine, the bar as smooth as I have ever seen it. The Mist was to sail in the morning at floodtide, which would occur about 10 o'clock. Harold was on board, and late in the afternoon Fred took a small boat and pulled out to the ship where she lay anchored in the bend of the river just opposite the cannery. He meant to spend the night on board and take leave of his brother in the morning. "As I came down the coast and climbed the hills above the cannery in the red glow of the setting sun, I saw my brave boys leaning over the ship's rail, and waved my hand to them. They answered gaily, and Fred laughingly called out that he was going, too. Their words came to me clearly and distinctly in the stillness of the evening, and as I rode along the shore I heard the voices of the sailors and the shuffling of their feet as they passed to and fro about their work. "Late that night the people at the cannery saw the ship's lights shining
quietly, and thought as they retired to rest that all was well with her. At break of day, when they looked out, she was gone.
" 'Strange,' they said, 'that she should attempt the bar in the night, and at low tide, too,' and went about their work.
"A bank of fog lay close alongshore and hid the white surf line and the bar, not half a mile distant, whereat the men grumbled, for it was a rare sight to see a vessel sailing by, and they had looked forward for days to the mild excitement of watching the Mist cross the bar and fade away into the distance down the coast. They speculated variously about the absent boat and her unaccountable movements, commenting severely upon the rashness of the captain in braving the dangers of a practically unknown bar in the darkness of night and at a stage of tide considered unsafe even in broad day.
"Along toward noon the fog cleared away, and there, not more than a mile to the southward and just outside the breakers, lay the Mist, motionless, with her sails still furled, evidently riding at anchor.
"All day she lay there, and the men on shore cast many a wondering glance toward her, but she sent no signal or sign of distress, only at irregular intervals, in the breathless stillness, a long-drawn, wailing cry came up from the sea, the like of which they had never heard before. Whether it came from the ship, or from the sands or further out they could not tell. Sound carries strangely in the dead October calms that hold these lonely regions as in a spell.
"'Sealions, likely,' they said, and yet they were mysteriously moved by it.
"The sun went down and the stars came out, and the Mist faded to a dimly discernible shadow. She hung out no lights, which was in itself a thing to cause comment. Something must be wrong, and they resolved that if she still lay there when morning came they would try to discover what it was. Their vague uneasiness would not let them sleep very soundly that night. As soon as it was light some one brought a glass and they observed her long and carefully, only to ​report that not a soul was to be seen on board.
"Some of the men took a boat and rowed across the river, and, walking over the sandspit, came down to the shore within hailing distance of the vessel rocking idly just beyond the breakers. They called and shouted themselves hoarse, but elicited no response, nor caught sight of any living thing on board. But as they turned away, above the roar of the surf rose a cry so wild, so weird and mournful that their very hearts stood still. Just once they heard it, and they could have sworn that it came from the deck of the deserted ship.
"No one thought of sleep that night. The mystery surrounding the vessel out there in the darkness was a thing that oppressed them heavily.
"The morning of the third day found them ready for action. It was out of the question to carry any one of the heavy fishing boats across the sands and launch it through the always boisterous surf, but the day was calm, with not a breath of wind, and the bar lay as smooth as a mountain lake. It would be an easy matter to pull out and back before there should be any change in the weather. Six of the best oarsmen in the place, therefore, set off on the last of the tide in the gray dawn. They pulled a steady stroke, and the swiftly ebbing tide seemed to fairly shoot them along and out across the bar. When well outside they turned southward, and those watching from the shore could note the small boat rise and fall with the swell of the sea.
"As for the men themselves, a silence fell upon them as they turned toward the ship, that was unbroken till they came within a cable's length of her bows. Then they rested upon their oars and hailed. There was no answer. Again they shouted, and a low, whining cry thrilled the morning air. They rowed slowly all around her. There was not another sound heard from her decks, nor had they sight of anything, human or alive.
"The red and blue shirts of the sailors were hanging aloft as if to dry. Her life- boats were undisturbed. Everything looked as it had looked when she lay in the bend of the river three days before,
save that she seemed a little lower in the water as she swung there in dan- gerous proximity to the breakers, held only by her kedge anchor. From her stern dangled a rope, evidently the painter of Fred's boat. This rope showed a clean cut, as if it had been severed by a sharp knife.
"They boarded her without difficulty. As the first man stepped over the rail the meaning of that weird cry was clear, for there bounded to meet him 'Dis,' the captain's handsome St. Bernard, gaunt with hunger and wild with joy.
"They searched from stem to stern; they went down into her hold; they look- ed high and low, everywhere. Not a soul was to be found. Save for 'Dis' the ship was deserted. How, when or where it was beyond them to determine. Nothing but the men was missing. The sailors' stormcoats and caps were lying in the empty bunks, as if but a moment since discarded; the ship's log, the captain's private papers, the compass, all things, in fact, were in place. If master and men had left that ship alive they had left it empty-handed. Their fate, the strange and sudden disappearance, and the man- ner of it, are shrouded in impenetrable mystery.
"I never saw my boys again. But — " The captain paused and glanced toward his wife. There were tears glittering on her long, dark lashes.
"Is there nothing more?" asked Neja softly. "Did you never hear or find even the least little hint or trace, nothing that gave you any clue?"
"No," replied the captain; "nothing, at least nothing that I could be sure of. It is true that some six months later the headless body of a man was picked up on the beach 20 miles to the north; that was thought by many to be that of the captain of the Mist, from a pecu- liarly-chased gold ring found on the little finger of the left hand, but no one ever really knew. No; there was noth- ing, but — " The captain looked again at his young wife. She shook her head and smiled through her tears.
"That is another story, my dear," she said; "another story altogether, and to-
EDUCATION IN FRANCE.
By SAMUEL JACQUES BRUN.
THE French youth is duly ushered into the world under the auspices of a "sage femme" of the village, and wrapped in swaddling clothes like the infant Jesus. In this costume of close wrappings that gives little play to the limbs, he is kept for the first six months; and the mother and father will tell you that it is a very good system, because a very old one.
Within 48 hours after birth he takes part in his first ceremony of state — the registry at the mayor's office, and gets his birth certificate, which fictitiously reads that the child has been brought to the mayor of the place, who ascertained him to be a child of the male sex, and whom the parents wish to have here reg- istered under the names of, etc. Then follows a period of banishment from the parental presence, for most likely he is placed with a nurse in the country dur- ing his infancy, and upon his occasional visits to mamma he may recognize her but prefer his foster-mother. Even after his return to his parents the bond be- tween the two is kept up, and a certain patronage expected by his foster-broth- ers through life.
The youth, if he be the eldest, is early impressed with his future responsibility as head of the family. His conscious au- thority asserts itself in many childish comedies. As heir apparent and protector of the honor of his house and the women, he indulges in precocious fancies. He vows to cherish his doting grandmother, to shelter her in his house forever, and to protect her even by means of blows from any indignities from his wife. His favorite aunt he has already, at the age of 6 years, promised to marry, and as- sures her he will wed no other.
Thus, early resenting the offices of the match-makers, who would lead the par- ents to decide the fate of their children before they reach the age of self-asser- tion. He does not, like many American boys, grow up with books and magazines
in the home. Instead of the circle around the evening lamp with the Youth's Com- panion or Saint Nicholas, the French boys gather around the hearth and listen to story-tellers. Sometimes it is history, sometimes romance; but always very real like a voice out of their own past.
History and art he learns from oral and object-lessons. The historic monu- ments and ruins, the cathedrals, statues and paintings are always to be seen or accessible, and a constantly educating in- fluence to the humblest citizen. The vil- lage boy, though he is no student, has a remarkable perception of good taste and artistic fitness, which comes no doubt from his contact with art in the church, in public structures, and in public pa- rades. He has also a keen appreciation of what freedom means; for everywhere he sees relics of tho broken bonds of fuedal oppression.
His home work and his home play are not unfamiliar to American boys, but a glimpse of his school days, college and military life and marriage customs may be of some interest.
Guizot, in 1833, gave the first impetus to public education in France, but up to 1870 there were public schools only in the more enlightened communities. Poor country villages had none, and many boys and girls grew up entirely illiterate, unable to either read or write their names. To be sure, there were a few private schools of a religious character, but the children of the better class who went to school at all did not like to go, the schoolrooms were unattractive, the lessons dry, and the teachers uninterest- ing.
A Frenchman visiting the United States in 1886, noticing how eager our boys and girls were to attend school remarked: "It is not so in France; they have to be driven to school with a stick." Such was the case previous to the Franco- Prussian war.
That war, which caused the downfall ​of Napoleon III, also brought about a great awakening in France. The great men of that nation realized that Germany's superiority lay in the education of her humblest citizens. "The school-teachers of Germany have beaten us," was the common saying, and France set to work in earnest to popularize education. There were many obstacles to be overcome, not the least of which was the economy of the peasantry. After the schools were built and equipped, they re- fused to take their children from work to send them to school. So, for the good of the children who were growing up in ignorance, the government obtained from parliament in 1882 a school law which embodied two good provisions, viz., free tuition and compulsory education, from the age of 6 to 14. Inspectors were ap- pointed to see that the provisions of the law were complied with, and in case of infraction the father or guardian was lia- ble to three kinds of punishment. For the first offense his name was to be post- ed, either for two weeks or a month, in the most conspicuous part of his village or town; for the second offense, he was to be fined from 11 to 15 francs, and for the third offense sent to jail for five days and even deprived of his political and civil rights. The law has worked well, and today there are fewer opponents to its enforcement than there were 15 years ago. Very few children are now illiter- ate; it is no longer necessary to drive them to school; they go of their own ac- cord, and are as eager, almost, for an ed- ucation as are American boys.
To give the details of the work in the public schools would lead me too far, but I will describe a feature of the system not generally known. I refer to the cre- ation of bureaus of savings in connection with the government schools. The aim of these bureaus is to cause children to contract early habits of thrift and econ- omy. France is a thrifty and rich na- tion. She owes her wealth to her geo- graphical position, to the fertility of her soil, to the thorough cultivation of her fields, to the intelligent preservation of her forests; in short, to the proper hus- banding of all her numerous resources. But she also owes her material prosper- ity in no small degree to the inborn thriftiness of her inhabitants. It was to
further foster that trait of French char- acter that the law was enacted. States- men were quick to recognize that in the possessions and comfort of the greatest number depended the stability of their institutions.
The creation of these bureaus of sav- ings is not, however, compulsory. It is mainly left to the individual initiative of the school teachers, who are an able body of patriotic men and women, and to pri- vate benevolence. In the Department of Basses-Pyrenees, a philanthropist, Mon- sieur Tourasse, spent no less than $100,- 000 in taking upon himself the creation of over 600 bureaus of savings, and en- couraging by all legitimate means thrift- iness in the scholars.
School boys and girls in all countries get hold of pennies, which they often waste on useless things. French boys and girls once in a while get hold of French sous, and it was with a view to induce them to accumulate those sous that bureaus of savings were started. In 1887 no less than 22,000 of those bureaus were in operation, with a credit to the scholars' side of $2,400,000.
The government accepts no amount under one franc, or about 20 cents in American money. Now, for a boy to carry 20 cents in his pocket is a little rash. If he does not lose his money he will surely spend it. To save him from either unfortunate predicament the school teacher sells him as many penny stamps as he has pennies to purchase them with. The stamps the scholar pastes in a book furnished him at his request by the postal department. At the end of the month, or oftener, if the teacher thinks best, the books are gathered and sent to the nearest postoffice. If the postoffice is conveniently near, the boys themselves may take their own books there. The postmaster cancels the stamps and gives the scholars credit on another book for the amounts the stamps represent. The scholars who are perseveringly saving of their sous have soon a snug little sum to their credit. This sum may be with- drawn by the pupils with the father's or guardian's consent, if they are under 16 years old, and without any one's consent if above 16. By such a system school children become small capitalists, and
A NEW ERA IN OUR NATIONAL LIFE.
B. B. BEEKMAN.
THE 19th century has taught the world that a great nation can be successfully evolved upon the principles of justice and equality. The problem as to whether the constitution of the United States embodied a feasible plan of government has long since been settled, and that great charter of liberty remains a most marvelous work of constructiveness. The weak republic of 100 years ago has be- come a mighty and puissant nation. The constitution has grown, with each dec- ade, in the affections of the people, and our institutions have been jealously cherished and guarded as sacred monuments of constitutional liberty and freedom.
Government of the people, by the people, and for the people has become an established fact, and "shall not perish from the earth." The great current of American life has been sweeping through the century towards "liberty, equality and fraternity."
The dominion of the republic has been extended, in magnificent continuity, from the rock-bound shore of the Atlantic to the golden sands of the Pacific, and the flag of the Union, enriched and glorified by 32 additional stars, floats in triumph over a land of almost limitless re- sources. The tide of population, swell- ing with the passing years, has swept Westward, bearing on its bosom the blessings and glories of the new civiliza- tion.
The history of the United States during the century has been one of unparalleled progress, and the great republic stands forth at the threshold of the 20th cen- tury a mighty power pre-eminent in all the elements that make a nation great. With more than 70,000,000 of people, with marvelous strength and resources, with wide-extended trade and commerce, she presents a splendid contrast to the feeble republic of 100 years ago. In close touch with the four quarters of the globe, her foreign relations rival in magnitude and
importance the wonderful expansion and development of her domestic affairs. A mighty nation in a mighty age — the con- ditions underlying our national life and energy demand the adoption and main- tenance of definite national policies com- mensurate with our greatness. The hegemony attained in the two Americas in the early decades of the century im- pelled the United States to the enuncia- tion of a distinctively American doctrine — a doctrine that the other powers of the earth have been uniformly compelled to respect. The Monroe doctrine, based in part upon the principle of self-preserva- tion and self-interest and in part upon the sentiment of altruism, has become an inseparable part of our governmental policy — a doctrine that our liberty-loving people are resolved to maintain and per- petuate. Whatever may be the destiny in store for the republics of the Americas, the United States has once and for all firmly decided that never again shall any one of them pass under Old World dom- ination; that these continents are and of right ought to be dedicated forever to the holy cause of freedom. The Monroe doctrine guarantees our own future safety and welfare, but equally does it serve as a palladium to the liberty of the weaker and less-favored peoples of this hemisphere.
Startling as was the announcement of the Monroe doctrine, and far-reaching as have been the consequences flowing therefrom, it remained for our govern- ment to take a still more advanced step.
From 1895 the people of the United States have followed with growing inter- est and concern the heroic efforts of the Cubans in their last and supreme strug- gle for freedom, and desire for inter- vention in their behalf has grown stronger with the passing months. Ad- miring and sympathizing with the valor and heroism of the Cuban patriots, con- vinced of the incapacity and inability of Spain to subdue and conquer the insurg​ent forces, horrified at the cruelty of Spanish warfare, and at length aroused to deepest anger by the cowardly and treacherous destruction of the battle-ship Maine, and the murder of 266 of our brave seamen, while in a supposedly friendly harbor, the American people with remarkable unanimity, declared and promulgated, through the government at Washington, the right and purpose to intervene and end the long period of Spanish misrule in this beautiful isle of the sea.
Once again has our never-conquered nation donned the panoply of war, and once again have its proud banners waved in triumph. Never have more altruistic and disinterested motives moved a people to deeds of righteousness, and never have the strength and power of a nation been exerted in a more magnanimous undertaking. Martyrs to Spanish treachery, the blood of the Maine's seamen is upon that despotic nation—but to them will be reared a lasting memorial among men—a new republic, another gem in the crown of Freedom.
Our manifest national policy has been foreshadowed by the conditions that have been created. Averse to wars of conquest, and free from disturbing visions of imperial power and grandeur, the nation has become great beyond the dreams of its founders. A new era is upon it—a condition and not a theory confronts it. Its traditions must be partially shattered and its policy revised and shaped with reference to the exigencies of the times. In the future the words, "I am an American citizen," are to become a still prouder boast, a password to higher respect, a synomyn for governmental protection commensurate with our national strength, for—
They must upward still and onward who would keep abreast of truth;
Lo! before us gleam our campfires; we ourselves must pilgrims be; Launch our Mayflower and steer boldly through the desperate sea,
Our extended trade and commerce, and the economic considerations for the further expansion thereof, our hegemony in this hemisphere and the firmly established doctrines it has entailed, and our intricate and complex relations with the world at large have greatly extended the horizon of our governmental and national duties and responsibilities, and are likely to constantly bring us face to face with critical questions, and often, perhaps, to the verge of conflict. We can no longer trust to chance, and to maintain peace and security we must be able to resort to and exercise force whenever necessary. The surest guarantee of peace is preparedness for war, and upon this truism we should base and shape our future course. This country in its resources is sufficient unto itself, but every consideration of public policy demands the ability to act immediately when danger threatens. American conditions do not call for an armed imperialism, but do require an easily available military reserve force and a naval strength commensurate with our national dignity. Against possible foreign attack and invasion our harbors and coast cities should be rendered invulnerable, and wherever American commerce and interests extend there should float our flag over ships and fleets of war.
We front two oceans, and our trade relations extend to Orient and Occident, from northern ice-bound coasts to distant lands upon which shines the southern cross. Here and there our war vessels should be seen, and as, in naval warfare of today, coal is king, strong and fortified strategic stations and outposts should be maintained. Again, naval as well as commercial interests demand that our Eastern and Western states be more closely joined, and to that end the United States should at once construct the Nicaragua canal to furnish short and speedy passageway for all our ships. Every citizen is proud of our present navy, and will eagerly hail its steady increase until our flag shall float on every sea and American men and ships and guns shall everywhere and always be ready to maintain against any foe the rights of the humblest citizen, and to protect our interests whatsoever they may be. We glory in the past deeds and achievements of our military and naval heroes, and we know full well that American valor and ​daring, skill and genius still exist. We have given to fame a Jones, a Lawrence, a Perry, a Decatur, and a Farragut, and we have startled the world with the brave and invincible Dewey.
In the light of past events, in the face of present deeds, we welcome the new era, and shall hail with pride and joy the inauguration of a more vigorous naval and military policy.
In the broader conditions of our national life, in our extensive foreign relations, in our expanding commerce, and in our extended governmental policies, we must recognize correspondingly increased duties and responsibilities. The hour is come for the United States to shake off the apparent lethargy of the last three decades and prepare to meet successfully any crisis that may occur. We are not eager for colonization in and of itself, but we are desirous of trade relations throughout the world, and the exigencies of the times point to the holding of certain strategic points beyond our shores. The near future is very likely to witness the Americanization of the isles of the seas, and to behold the unfurling of the Stars and Stripes over alien races and strange lands. Our aims, though conservative, are determined and certain of accomplishment, and having reaped the fruits thereof we must be prepared to preserve and protect them. Our future foreign policy must be marked with vigor, albeit leavened with conservatism, and foreign aggression and interference be less brooked than heretofore. Identity of interests may some day ob- literate the differences of the past, and cause—
"Strand to nearer lean to strand,
Till meet beneath saluting flags,
The lion of our mother land,
The eagle of our native crags!"
The events of the times are pointing in that direction, and should mutual interests be superadded to common tongue and law and faith and an Anglo-American co-operation or alliance result, the conjoined forces of the Anglo-Saxon race would insure the most magnificent safeguard of free government. But whether or not this mighty race shall hereafter act in unison and jointly guarantee the continuance and extension of popular rule, America must be prepared not only to defend and maintain her own national honor and prestige, but also to prevent aggression and interference in the affairs of her less-favored sisters to the south.
QUATRAIN.
When first my sky with clouds was overcast,
"Alas!" I cried, "The joys of life are past."
But now the clouds have fled, the joys remain,
All sweeter grown, as violets after rain.
—Florence May Wright.
THE OREGON EMERGENCY CORPS.
By Mrs. LEVI YOUNG.
IN response to an appeal from the state military board, at the first "call to arms," the Oregon Emergency Corps was organized in Portland April 27, with Mrs. Henry E. Jones, president; Mrs. W. A. Buchanan, vice-president; Mrs. F. E. Lownsbury, secretary, and Mrs. Martin Winch, treasurer. Mrs. O. Summers, Mrs. A. Meier, Mrs. Levi White, Mrs. W. T. Gardner, Mrs. B. E. Miller, Mrs. J. E. Wright, Mrs. E. C. Protzman, Mrs. R. S. Greenleaf, Mrs. G. F. Telfer and Mrs. J. M. Ordway constituted an executive committee. The purpose of the organization was to assist the military board in providing material comforts for the Second regiment, Oregon volunteers, and to soften the transition from civil to army life for the raw recruit. And the society was composed of women from every walk of life, who hastened to enroll as members and offer their services in the name of patriotism.
The first work of the corps was to raise a regimental fund and to supply such needful articles for the soldier's knapsack as army quartermasters do not keep in stock. At Camp McKinley, where the Second regiment was being introduced to military life, members of the corps were daily visitors, and nothing that loving hearts and willing hands could do to add to the well-being of volunteers was left undone. The membership grew into the hundreds, subscriptions and funds came pouring from every side and from unexpected sources. Rooms were kept open at 132 First street and came to be known as headquarters for all interested in patriotic work. And meetings were held every Saturday afternoon in the Armory. Meantime circular letters had been sent to the towns throughout the state, urging the women to form auxil- iary societies for the purpose of raising money to swell the regimental fund and help in purchasing a flag to be presented to the volunteers by the women of Ore- gon. Hood River was the first to re-
spond, with Roseburg, Pendleton, Cor- vallis, Hillsboro, La Grande, Lafayette, Hubbard, Weston, Woodburn, Astoria and The Dalles quickly falling into line. Faithfully have these auxiliaries labored in the cause of the soldier, meeting promptly and willingly every call from the mother corps.
Sunday, May 8, a sacred and patriotic concert was given at Camp McKinley The presence of over 10,000 people wag an evidence of the zeal and interest felt by the public. The programme was fur- nished by the First Regiment band, Miss Rose Bloch and Madame Norelli.
It was a scene never to be forgotten by that audience, when, at the close ot the evening drill, the Stars and Stripes were slowly lowered at the booming of the sunset gun, and the long lines of volunteers listened to the strains of the "Star-Spangled Banner," floating out upon the evening air.
When, May 16, the First battalion, un- der command of Major Gantenbein, and a week later the remaining companies, with Colonel Summers in command, left for San Francisco, the Emergency Corps gave to each of the 10 captains and to Major M. H. Ellis, the regimental su- geon, $100, besides sundry supplies necessary to the health and comfort of the men.
In addition to looking after the welfare of the Oregon volunteers, the corps re- ceived and fed all troops passing through Portland on the way to the front, and whenever called upon fitted out recruits from its own and other states, and sent fever bandages, caps and cordials to San Francisco. There has never at any time been a lack of funds when funds were needed, and every call upon the corps has been promptly met. Finding it ad- visable to extend the work, and in order to secure transportation of supplies through military lines at Manila, the Oregon Emergency Corps, in July, under the direction of Judge Sheldon, an au