that the man of power needs to understand today, it is the ways in which science is transforming human life and human thought. But what is it that the college scientist is teaching him? To know one little "science" fairly well, and one little corner of it really well-so far as there can be any knowing for one who has no width of vision, whose eye is kept always close to the microscope. He who ought to be familiar with the results and great outcome of all science, and with enough of the method and minutiæ of some one portion of the field to true his knowledge, has to content himself with becoming the mere "makings" of a specialist. He is entering upon a campaign. He asks for a field glass: he is laboriously fitted out with-myopia.

Is there no explanation for all this? Is it really so bad as it seems? Are college teachers so extremely idiotic? Can't they justify their procedure? They can, in a way; but it is a pretty poor justification. They can say, "The majority of our students are going to teach after they leave us, and we're getting them ready for that." But what a defence! Better say nothing. "Were you put here," America retorts,

"and entrusted with books and buildings and laboratories and great endowments, that you might teach the youth of the land how to teach other youth to teach still others such things as these? Are false and partial things the better because they are handed on thus from generation to generation? We could forgive you if your folly ended with yourselves. But to perpetuate it so!"

America has been very busy. It has but recently found time to look around and take account of stock and call for reckoning. The day is at hand when it will look into the colleges. And when it does, it will not be satisfied with the excuse that those who have been laboriously wasting its educational resources have faithfully taught others to do the same. It will say: "I want my children trained to be heirs of all the ages. Find how to do this that I want, if you can. Then you may teach a few of those who come to you to do it after you. Pick those few carefully. Don't set every nondescript person at that task. But first of all and most of all make your college a training school for life, where Americans shall learn to do America's work."

A

RE the professors in American colleges underpaid, as a class, considering the cost of their training and the character they are supposed to have? It seems beyond dispute that the average pay of the university professor is to-day considerably below what it was a generation ago, if the increase of the cost of living be taken into consideration, and relatively very much below the rate of pecuniary reward in all other professions (except that of the ministry) and in business.

But is the professor of to-day the equal in ability, character, and standing of the professor of a generation ago? Is the profession as a whole deteriorating under the influence of the enormous commercial prizes which are offered in other careers? A candid answer to this delicate question would be unfavorable to the modern professor. While the college president has grown in power, influence, and standing, the position of the college professor, with a few notable exceptions, has correspondingly sunk. The dignity of the profession, in

the eyes of its own members and in those of the community, has suffered.

The simple conclusion from these premises would seem to be that our colleges must attract to their faculties men who are now drawn in other directions. They must compete in the open market for the best talent, and the obvious way of competing is to bid higher. There has been some attempt in this direction, notably in the case of Harvard, where recently a large sum of money has been raised for the special purpose of increasing salaries, and on the whole the rate of pay in the leading American universities has appreciably risen during the last decade. Nevertheless, it is perfectly clear that the universities can never really compete in a money way with the professions and business. They must expect to secure a grade of men as professors that could normally earn five times outside the academic profession what the university can ever afford to pay them. The salary of the full professor may rise from $3,000 even to $6,000 a year and still remain

hopelessly outclassed. And if a dollar be actually worth to the professional man about two-thirds of what it was worth in the 'seventies, the university must make the difference good or suffer. On the whole it has made this difference good.

The increased cost of living that we hear about, however, really amounts to an increase in the standard of living. We all live a lot better than our fathers ever dreamed of living, and we expect a lot more out of life: some of this greater speed makes for added efficiency; a good deal of it is a real detriment. Much hardship of the academic lot may be traced to the desire of professors' families to compete with others in entertainment, dress, and amusements. It would be a positive evil if the university were ever able to pay its professors salaries anything like commensurate with what their equals in law or medicine are able to earn. The university professor would then lose altogether that quality of service, that pastoral character, which ought to be his chief glory. And it is only men capable of making the material sacrifices, of understanding the distinction of poverty, that should become teachers and scholars.

There are other ways of improving the condition of the professor class than by merely buying superior ability. For one thing, universities promote too rapidly and too indiscriminately, as the President of Yale University has recently pointed out in his annual report. The college president feels compelled to promote an instructor or assistant professor to a higher position whenever there is a vacancy in his department or whenever money can be got to pay him. Promotion goes by accident, more or less, when it should go solely by merit. A college president ought to have the courage to keep professorships vacant until he finds exactly the men best fitted to fill them, and willing to accept the salary offered. Better to run his college on temporary appointments than to fill his faculty with mediocre men.

In choosing a man for the permanent position of professor, more regard should be given to the man's character and general quality, apart from his fitness as a scholar. Does he honor his profession and will he be an ornament to it? Oddly enough, college presidents as a rule seem to be attracted to men who have shown their aptitude for the profession by earning money outside their salaries. If they are capable engineers or editors or compilers of

popular textbooks, the college president is inclined to value them more highly because the world has found some use for them other than as mere professors. As a matter of fact, it is just that kind of men who should be avoided. Granting that the university is able to pay a living wage-that is to say, roughly, one-third more than the corresponding salary of twentyfive years ago—it is the man who can live on that salary and devote himself wholly to his profession that is the best investment for the university to make.

For in the long run, the university faculty, if it is to regain its former prestige, must be composed of men who honor their profession and are ready to make the sacrifices that it entails. Orly such men will have the character that the world at large respects. The most effective and necessary way in which to raise the standard of the profession is to cultivate those extra compensations for service, especially general appreciation in the community. Men do not labor for money only: their best efforts are stimulated by the hope of honor and consideration from their fellows.

It is undeniable that the university professor has lost standing in the community to-day-is less than what he was in the pioneer days. It. is partly his fault: he is often less worthy of respect than his forerunner. And he has had the misfortune of living in a material age, where all the standards of appreciation have been concentrated in one and that is money. There are methods, however, of restoring this lost dignity to the profession.

Much may be done by the men themselvesby refusing all forms of hackwork, no matter how well paid; by refusing to compete with their richer neighbors in the ways of living; by feeling respect for their position, maintaining the attitude of honest pride rather than that of discontented humility, which is too often the case. And the community has its part in the work of elevating the profession and restoring it to its former position of honor and pride, in spite of its poverty. It should be possible for the American university professor to aspire to legislative office, as is the custom on the continent of Europe. The term "academic" should be shorn of some of its reproach in our journalistic society. Such men as have risen to the point of civilization where they can recognize other standards than those of money should take pains to honor the professor class, as a body of men who cherish the things of the

mind and the spirit above material conditions and are therefore of great value to society.

One of the rewards of the ill-paid profession should be, of course, a pension at the age of retirement. Men who enter the world's struggle look forward to the risk of failure, to the necessity of accumulating a reserve. The professor has a right to live exempt from that necessity. Provision for pensioning has been made in a few cases, and Mr. Carnegie's large foundation is supposed to relieve our universities from this necessity. There are objections to the latter method. No matter how we look at it, it savors at present of charity, of personal gift. It may seem a slight difference whether Mr. Carnegie hands over his money to separate colleges and allows them to make their own provisions for pensions, or keeps it under the

control of a separate body of trustees; but it is a real distinction. The professor should feel that his pension is a regular part of his salary, withdrawn by his own institution, earned by faithful service, and that it is kept by it for him, that he has as much right to it as to his salary.

The academic profession, we are often told, is a noble one. Unfortunately it is not always so considered by its own members, and rarely so by the successful of this world. It is surely a very important profession for the community at large, one of the very few purely idealistic ones, and it should be the object of special care, not only by its own members but also by the serious-minded men of the world. And care is not always to be translated into the dollar sign.

I

FIRST met Mr. Lincoln in June, 1860," said Speaker Cannon, as he chewed the end of a long, black cigar. "A farmer by the name of Hackett hitched up a two-horse wagon and loaded a lot of us young fellows into it. There was an old fellow by the name of Vanderen, who kept a little two-story hotel at Tuscola, Illinois, from which place we started, and he drove across the prairie with us to Decatur. When we entered the place and drove along the principal street, we saw Lincoln standing on the sidewalk in front of the hotel. Vanderen spied him because he had lived in Springfield and knew Lincoln by sight. Vanderen said, 'There's Abe!' He yelled out, 'Howdy, Abe!' Lincoln's head went up and he answered, 'Howdy, Arch!'

"A little later, somebody wanted to send a telegram. We went down to the railroad station and there saw Lincoln writing a telegram. You know, this was at the time of the Illinois State Convention, held to name delegates to the National Convention that nomi

nated Lincoln for the Presidency. One of the boys who was with us, and who knew Mr. Lincoln, stepped up beside him and began to ask him about his candidacy for the Presidential nomination. Everybody in Illinois and all over the country had got to talking about Abe Lincoln, so it was no secret. Lincoln looked at his questioner and in that drawl of his said: 'I'm most too much of a candidate to be here and not enough of one to stay away!'

"This was the day before the convention. Decatur was a place of seven or eight thousand people and every house in the town had been occupied long before we got there. We had to camp out with our wagon in an empty lot as best we could. I can see that convention hall yet. They made it by setting a row of goodsized saplings upright in the ground and then putting up another row opposite them. Scantlings were put across near the top and the whole thing was covered over with green branches for a roof. Rough boards were placed on short pieces of tree-trunk and these formed

seats for delegates and onlookers. The whole thing was in the shape of an amphitheatre, and plenty big enough to accommodate everybody. "The convention assembled, as I recollect it, at 10:30 o'clock in the morning. Lincoln's name was in every mouth and in those stirring times everything was on fire. There was a Chicago contingent, and a few others here and there, who were for Seward, but they were so completely in the minority that not much attention was paid to them. The convention was called to order and after the prayer a cry was started on the platform: 'Open a passage way! Open a passage way! Let Dennis Hanks and Dick Oglesby through! They have some rails that Dennis Hanks and Abe Lincoln made in 1830.' They came in with the rails, which had a piece of cotton cloth rolled round them. When this cloth was unrolled it disclosed the legend: These rails were made by Dennis Hanks and Abraham Lincoln in 1830.' They were walnut rails, such as would be hard to find now, but there was plenty of that kind of fine hard wood in those days. The crowd went wild and it was some time before order was restored. There was a yell for Lincoln. After a bit, he apAfter a bit, he appeared on the outskirts of the crowd. By this time the crowd was very dense and somebody yelled 'Mr. Lincoln is here!' Then everybody began to holler: 'Bring him down to the platform!' Lincoln was a mighty long man, but they carried him down over their heads right over everybody in the crowd. I have heard of that sort of thing, but never before nor since have I seen a long fellow like Lincoln passed hand over hand over a solid mass of people. As they passed him along, everybody shouted, 'Speech! speech!'

"Lincoln smiled and bowed. After thanking them, he said that he would not delay the business of the convention, as it was a busy time of the year for the people of Illinois. At this stage of the proceeding, some fellow yelled out: 'Abe, did you split them rails?' Said he: 'Dennis Hanks says I split those rails. I don't know whether I did or not, but I have made many a better one!' Then the crowd yelled. That is substantially all I saw of Lincoln at that time at Decatur. He had a splendid tenor voice, as I remember it, one that would carry to the utmost limits of a vast crowd.

"I felt well acquainted with Lincoln when I was practicing law in those days in the old

Ninth Illinois Circuit. Ninth Illinois Circuit. Everybody knew him or about him, and almost everybody was fond of talking about him. We used to hold court. in different towns and 'court week' was a great time for each locality and the immediate country surrounding it. All the lawyers used to gather from several counties and, in addition to the witnesses, there were always a lot of folks who came in to listen to the witnesses or the arguments by counsel. I never met Lincoln at any of these places, however. I went to Illinois in the latter half of '58, but I did not meet Mr. Lincoln until the time I was telling you about, in 1860 at Decatur. Almost all of the people I met in those days knew him, some on sight, and some personally. I was lawyer for a good many of those folks and they would delight in telling me how he urged this case or argued that one, or of some story he told them. He surely was a great favorite.

"A short time after the Decatur convention, the Republican National Convention was held in the wigwam at Chicago and Lincoln was nominated for the Presidency. There were present at that convention a great many men who were prominent in the state then and some who acquired prominence later. Among these were Norman B. Judge, of Chicago, who was a candidate for Governor; Richard Yates, the war Governor of Illinois, and father of young Dick, who has just completed his term of service as Governor of that state; John M. Palmer, Leonard Swett, Owen Lovejoy, and Jesse K. Dubois. The latter was a candidate for Secretary of State and the father of the present-day United States Senator of that name. Part of these had been Democrats, part Whigs, and some were Abolitionists. They were all united in a common cause. 'Uncle Dick' Oglesby was formerly a Kentuckian, and my recollection is that Palmer was, too. Thomas J. Henderson, who was in the State Senate, lived in the same county with Elijah and Owen Lovejoy. There was a good deal of 'scrapping' when they tried to organize the convention. David Davis was present. He lived in the old Ninth Judicial District and had been intimate with Lincoln for many years. He was a Marylander and was not in harmony with the Tom Turner and Owen Lovejoy sort of fellows, inasmuch as he was not so radical. He had been an old Whig and some of that spirit clung to him. He was much in fear that the party would be weakened on account of the conservative element of the Democratic party

that might be scared off by the Abolitionists. and all that sort of thing. But Davis headed a delegation to Chicago and did very efficient service in securing the nomination of Mr. Lincoln. The consensus of opinion was that Seward would be nominated; but in the end Pennsylvania came to Lincoln, as did Missouri and other states that were not with him at first.

"Horace Greeley was there and he was at war with Seward and Weed. They prevented Greeley from coming as a delegate from his own state, so he got a proxy from the state of Oregon. From the very beginning, he cast the vote of Oregon for Abraham Lincoln." When Mr. Cannon had finished his reminiscence of the convention which nominated Lincoln, I asked him for an opinion of the great man. In his frank, direct way, without an opportunity to choose other words than those which came spontaneously, he answered:

"Lincoln's power lay in the fact that he was of the people, and that he knew them as God has given it to few men to know them. He was out of the borderland. He was born in Kentucky. He afterward lived in both Indiana and Illinois. He did flat-boating on the river which divides the Northland from the Southland, and all the time he was reading law by a bark light. He knew the people because he never allowed himself to get away from them or to be anything but a part of them. When a crisis came in those trying days, which afterward made of him a martyr, he had but to close his eyes and put himself personally in the position where he was to decide for the people. "Lincoln had but to put the question to himself and in his heart he found the right answer, and the answer from time to time which has made him the greatest figure in our history. He had a majority of the people of the Middle West with him and this made his political success possible. I firmly believe that if Seward had been selected at our Chicago convention we would have had two countries instead of this great Republic which now stirs our hearts.

"I think if Morton had been made President, he would have proved the equal of Mr. Lincoln in many respects, and a stronger man in some. He was not so patient a man, but in my opinion he was the intellectual equal of Lincoln or anybody else. In dealing with the situation in Indiana, he had a task that would have daunted any strong man. The Legisla

ture refused to make the necessary appropriations. He got a lot of Indiana people to put up the money and borrowed enough to carry on the state government. In 1864, another Legislature was elected that proved to be in harmony with him and he came out all right in the end. He was a great, strong, forcible man from every standpoint. from every standpoint. Yates was a genuine, sincere fellow-which you could not say of everybody in that time or this. Lincoln used to call him a 'vote-getter,' and he was, too.

"Lincoln's stepmother lived in Coles County, Illinois, down near Farmington. He always thought a great deal of her. His own mother had died when he was young. Tom Lincoln, Abe's father, married Mrs. Johnson. Lincoln was of some account even when a small boy. The Johnson boys were ne'er-do-wells and Abe's stepmother took quite a shine to him. Lincoln used to go and see her and he never lost his love and affection for her throughout his life.

"He was on his road down there to see her when I last saw him, just before he went to Washington to take the oath of office. He was with Tom Marshall, the senator from Coles County, when I got on the train at Tuscola on my way to Mattoon, where I was going to try a lawsuit. I was a constituent of Marshall's, and when he saw me in the car he motioned to me and, turning to Mr. Lincoln, said: 'Mr. Lincoln, I want to introduce you to a young lawyer in this county.' There was a lot of other people in the car who crowded around and wanted to see Mr. Lincoln and be introduced to him. I was a modest young fellow then, particularly in the presence of men who occupied positions of dignity, trust, and responsibility. I always felt myself the equal of any other man and was quick to resent any effort either to patronize me or tyrannize over me. For that reason I was always careful, when around other men, not to place myself in a position where I would be subjected to anything of the sort. Of course, with Mr. Lincoln there was no need for such a feeling, as he was the kindliest sort of a man. I stepped back and others crowded forward to see him.

"I did not hear Mr. Lincoln talk much, but a man by the name of Morgan, who was a great personal friend of his, said: 'Abe, be you going down to see your mother?' Lincoln replied: 'I am going down to spend a day visiting her before I go to Washington to take the oath of office.'"