 20 May 15, 1918. Serial No. 155. The Mentor. Benjamin Franklin by Albert Bushnell Hart, Professor of Government Harvard University, Department of Biography. Volume 6, No. 7. The Whistle. A Bit of Ben Franklin Wisdom. When I was a child, seven years old, my friends on a holiday filled my pocket with coppers. I went directly to a shop where they sold toys for children, and, being charmed with the sound of a whistle that I met by the way in the hands of another boy, I voluntarily offered and gave all my money for one. I then came home and went whistling all over the house, much pleased with my whistle, but disturbing all the family. My brothers and sisters and cousins, understanding the bargain I had made, told me I had given four times as much for it as it was worth, put me in mind of what good things I might have bought with the rest of the money, and laughed at me so much for my folly that I cried with vexation, and the reflection gave me more chagrin than the whistle gave me pleasure. This, however, was afterward of use to me, the impression continuing on my mind, so that often, when I was tempted to buy some unnecessary thing, I said to myself, don't give too much for the whistle, and I saved my money. As I grew up, came into the world, and observed the actions of men, I thought I met with many, very many, who gave too much for the whistle. When I saw one too ambitious of court favour, sacrificing his time in attendance on levies, his repose, his liberty, his virtue, and perhaps his friends to attain it, I have said to myself, this man gives too much for his whistle. When I saw another fond of popularity, constantly employing himself in political bustles, neglecting his own affairs, and ruining them by that neglect, he pays, indeed, said I, too much for his whistle. If I knew a miser, who gave up every kind of comfortable living, all the pleasure of doing good to others, all the esteem of his fellow citizens, and the joys of benevolent friendship, for the sake of accumulating wealth, poor man, said I, you pay too much for your whistle. When I met with a man of pleasure, sacrificing every laudable improvement of the mind, or of his fortune, to mere corporeal sensations, and ruining his health in their pursuit, mistaken man, said I, you are providing pain for yourself instead of pleasure, you give too much for your whistle. If I see one fond of appearance or fine clothes, fine houses, fine furniture, fine equipages, all above his fortune, for which he contracts debts and ends his days in prison, alas, say I, he has paid dear, very dear, for his whistle. When I see a beautiful, sweet-tempered girl married to an ill-natured brood of a husband, what a pity, say I, that you should pay so much for a whistle. In short, I can conceive that great part of the miseries of mankind are brought upon them by the false estimates they have made of the value of things, and by their giving too much for their whistle. Benjamin Franklin, his life, one. Benjamin Franklin, born in Boston, Massachusetts, January 17th, 1706, January 6th, old style, of humble parents, was one of the heroes of the War of Independence, one of the cleverest of American diplomats, and one of the greatest American politicians and statesmen. But this was not all. He possessed so many talents that he can only be described properly as a universal genius. Franklin's life is one huge catalogue of performances, hard indeed to tabulate, for he went from one thing to another, with remarkable rapidity, and excelled in everything that he undertook. A recital of his accomplishments sounds like a round of the old counting game, Dr. Lawyer Merchant Chief. He was, in fact, all the list but the thief, even the beggar man. Franklin's father, Josiah Franklin, a candle-maker, intended that his son should enter the ministry of the Puritan Church, and with this idea sent him, when eight years old, to the Boston Grammar School. A year of this was too much for the slender means of the father, so Benjamin was sent to George Brownell for instruction. A year of this and Franklin's school days were ended. He worked in his father's shop for a time, and then apprenticed himself to his brother James, a printer. While engaged in the printing business—and this did not merely consist of setting type and printing books, but in writing articles for his paper, and also many political pamphlets, that prepared the way for his future career—he was clerk of the General Assembly in 1736, holding this office until 1751, postmaster in Philadelphia in 1737, and after he gave up the post of clerk of the General Assembly, a member of that body for thirteen years, 1751 to 1764. His activity in public affairs was enormous. He organized the first police and fire company in Philadelphia, established an academy which became the University of Pennsylvania, organized an important debating club, the Junto, 1727, took the lead in improving the paving of the city, developed the lighting of the streets, organized a militia force, founded a city hospital, and in every way concerned himself with the bettering of conditions, both civic and political. He undertook to provide Braddock with horses and wagons for the march against Fort Duquesne, and in 1756 he had charge of the Northwest Frontier for a month, during which he erected blockhouses and watched the Wiley Indians. In 1757 he was sent to London as agent for the people to petition the Crown. He returned home in 1762, expecting to settle down and devote the remainder of his life to scientific investigation and the pleasures of the pen. He brought with him many degrees and honors and he thought that his public life was over. In two years' time, however, he was again sent to England as agent to settle questions in relation to taxation, and represented not only Pennsylvania, but New Jersey, Georgia, and Massachusetts. He remained until 1775 and was, therefore, in England during all the stormy days of the Stamp Act. On the day after his return he was elected to the Continental Congress and was one of the Committee of Five to draw up the Declaration of Independence. On September 26, 1776 he was chosen Commissioner to France with Arthur Lee and Silas Deane and arrived in Paris on December 22, 1776 after a perilous passage to be welcomed like a hero. On October 28, 1776 he was appointed sole Plenipotentiary to the Court of France. In 1781 he was appointed one of a Commission to make peace with Great Britain. He returned to Philadelphia in 1785 having made commercial treaties with Sweden 1783 and Prussia 1785. Even then Franklin's work was not finished. He was elected a member of the Municipal Council of Philadelphia and was made a delegate to the convention that drew up the Federal Constitution. It is interesting also to note that he signed a petition to Congress in 1790 to abolish slavery. He died in Philadelphia on April 17, 1790 aged 84. These extraordinary activities including those of a politician, diplomat, philanthropist, civic reformer, philosopher, scientist, printer, and author covered a period of 60 years. And in between all these separate careers as we might call them we find stray hours filled with delightful pursuits and such pleasant diversions as studies in the realm of music, improving the musical glasses, and buying Beaux, Worcester, and Chelsea, China of the newest fashion. Moreover, Franklin always found time to write beautifully and to enjoy social pleasures. The man, too. Benjamin Franklin was the first distinguished American self-made man. He took himself in hand at an early age and with only two years schooling educated himself so that he became a man of science, a man of letters, a philosopher, a statesman, and a diplomat and acquired a fortune besides. And not only was he all of these things, more than credibly, but he took rank among the greatest minds of the highly educated and scientific 18th century. This was a period of original investigation. Much new thought of all kinds was coming into the world, and Franklin's mind was exactly the type of mind that was characteristic of this age, particularly in France. Apart from his genial personality and his talent for always doing the right thing and the popular thing socially, his scientific and philosophical tastes were precisely those in fashion in France. How did this man attain to such power and eminence? At twenty-three he was half educated and crude. At forty he was known as one of the most famous scientists of the day and a brilliant writer, and before he was fifty he had received the Copely Medal from the Royal Society, the Freedom of the City of Edinburgh, LLD from the University of St. Andrews, degrees from Harvard, Yale, and William & Mary, and, in 1762, D.C. L. from Oxford. What were the characteristics and the tastes, and what was the disposition and the appearance of the extraordinary personage who accomplished all these things? These are questions that are naturally asked. We never think of Franklin and his youth. We picture him according to the du Plessy portrait painted in Paris when he was seventy-two, or according to the old prince that show him wearing the familiar old fur cap and the heavy-rimmed spectacles. Franklin was rather tall, about five feet ten inches, corpulent and heavy with rounded shoulders. He was a good swimmer. He was muscular and strong, and he was a believer in vegetarianism and airbaths. In later years he suffered from gout in his foot, and wrote in Paris a humorous dialogue from which we get a very good idea of the old gentleman's habits and tastes. On his appeal to gout, to spare him, his persecutor exclaims, Not a jot, your rhetoric and your politeness are thrown away, your apology avails nothing. If your situation in life is a sedentary one, your amusements, your recreations at least, should be active. You ought to walk or ride, or if the weather prevents that, play at billiards. But let us examine your course of life. While the mornings are long, and you have leisure to go abroad, what do you do? Why, instead of gaining an appetite for breakfast by salutary exercise, you amuse yourself with books, pamphlets, or newspapers, which commonly are not worth the reading. Yet you eat an inordinate breakfast, four dishes of tea with cream, and one or two buttered toasts, with slices of hung beef, which I fancy are not things the most easily digested. Immediately afterwards you sit down to write at your desk, or converse with persons who apply to you on business. Thus, the time passes till one without any kind of bodily exercise. But all this I could pardon, in regard, as you say, to your sedentary condition. But what is your practice after dinner? Walking in the beautiful garden of those friends with whom you have dined would be the choice of men of sense. Yours is to be fixed down to chess, where you are found engaged for two or three hours. But notwithstanding his sedentary life, and his gout, and his other maladies, Franklin lived to be eighty-four, preserving his extraordinary brightness and gaiety to the last. His mental faculties were unimpaired, his face was fresh and serene, and his spirits were buoyant. This charming vivacity, and this play and sparkle of mind greatly contributed towards making Franklin so beloved of the French. His life in Paris was the happiest of his whole career. He was very social, and he therefore enjoyed the Parisian garden parties and dinners, the attractive women, and the literary, scientific, and philosophical men. He left France with reluctance, saying he could never forget the years of happiness that he had spent in the sweet society of a people whose conversation is instructive, whose manners are highly pleasing, and who, above all the nations in the world, have in the greatest perfection the art of making themselves beloved by strangers. Franklin had a great talent for making friends, and one of the greatest pleasures of his life was the enjoyment of his children and grandchildren. He was always ready with a witty retort, and he loved a joke and a hearty laugh. In fact, nothing seemed too large or too small for Benjamin Franklin. Regarding religion, he early revolted against New England puritanism, and went through various stages of belief, but in his old age he had faith in the immortality of the soul. His tolerance led John Adams to say, the Catholics thought him a Catholic, the Church of England claimed him, the Presbyterians thought him half a Presbyterian, and the friends believed him a wet Quaker. Of his morals he has himself written, and he prepared a moral code with comments. Intellectual, practical, industrious, capable, and genial, combining so many qualities in one mind and with a vast amount of public work achieved, Franklin remains a puzzle, for he seems to have had abundant time to enjoy those social talents which amounted to genius. As a politician and diplomat, three. Franklin prepared himself unconsciously for political life, even in his boyhood, when he wrote articles for his brother's newspaper attacking the established religious and political system of Massachusetts. In the paper that he established when he was but 23, the Pennsylvania Gazette, he handled the questions of the day in masterly fashion. About this time he published a pamphlet in favor of paper money, which shows how early his mind was directed towards large questions concerning the government. When he joined the Pennsylvania Assembly he became a leader of the Quaker majority, and to represent the interests of the colony he was sent as commissioner or agent to England. He remained there for five years, returning to Philadelphia in 1762, only to stay at home until 1764, when he was sent on his second mission to England. This time he remained for ten years. The period covered the exciting agitations regarding the Stamp Act, its passage, its repeal, and all the tumultuous proceedings that finally led to the revolution. Franklin's composure during the ordeal of parliamentary investigation, his witty replies, and his brilliant evasions to embarrassing questions greatly enhanced his reputation. His clever satirical essays published in separate pamphlets were widely circulated. During this period of activity, Franklin lived in Craven Street, London, pursued his scientific studies, was appointed on committees to put lightning rods on St. Paul's Cathedral and the government's powder magazines, attended meetings of various scientific and learned societies and clubs of which he was a member, was entertained by the nobility, and knew everybody of distinction in the political, scientific, artistic, and literary worlds. Returning home he was made one of the deputies to the Continental Congress, which met in Philadelphia, and was also a member of the Pennsylvania Legislature and a member of the Committee of Safety to prepare the defenses of the province. His most important work was yet to come. In September 1776 he was appointed, by a vote of Congress, the agent to represent in France the United Colonies which had just declared their independence of Great Britain. Accordingly he left Philadelphia and arrived in France in December. In our infancy of diplomatic service, the old gentleman of 70 was banker, merchant, judge of admiralty, consul, director of the Navy, ambassador to France, and negotiator with England for the exchange of prisoners and for peace. He accomplished his mission with such success that he was the idol of the French nation. Franklin was liked by the French for his social qualities, his scientific accomplishments, his philosophical mind, and his humorous and satirical writings. Moreover he was worshiped as the personification of liberty. His mission in France ended in 1785. The last important work of his life was helping to frame the national document that took the place of the Articles of Confederation, and his plan regarding representation in Congress was the one adopted. The most active period of his life, as he himself has told us, was between his 70th and 80th years. If any statesman ever deserved the name of Grand Old Man, it certainly was Benjamin Franklin. As scientist, four. One of the stories that is always charmed school children is that of Dr. Franklin and his kite, and the quaint little illustration that appeared in Franklin's lifetime and that was printed by him hundreds of times over is still reproduced in the accounts of this experiment. It was not until 1746 or 1747, after Franklin had been making original researches in science for about five years, that he took up the subject of electricity. Franklin was then forty-one years old. The subject was literally in the air. Peter Collinson of London had presented to the Philadelphia Library one of the new glass tubes that was rubbed with silk or skin to produce electricity. Franklin began at once to experiment with this tube, and people came in crowds to see his performances. Thomas Hopkinson and Philip Sing, who experimented with him, discovered electrical fire and invented an electrical machine for producing the electrical spark. Franklin discovered what is now known as positive and negative electricity. He also attempted to explain, in his letters to Collinson, thunder and lightning as phenomena of electricity, and in 1759 sent him a paper announcing his invention of the lightning rod and an explanation of its purpose and action. He also suggested an experiment that would prove that lightning was a form of electricity, and to show that lightning was attracted by points, he proposed that a man should stand on a tall steeple or tower with a pointed rod and draw electricity from the thunder clouds. The experiment was tried in France and England, and Franklin was proclaimed the discoverer of the identity of lightning with electricity. Some of the scientists used a tall metal rod. Franklin now thought of the kite experiment because there were no steeples in Philadelphia tall enough. To an ordinary kite covered with silk, he fixed a sharp pointed wire rising about a foot above the frame of the kite. To the end of the twine next to the hand, a silk ribbon was tied, and where the silk and twine joined a key was fastened. When the thunder clouds passed over the kite, the pointed wire drew the electric fire from them and down the string to the key from which electric fire was obtained. This experiment was made in 1752, and the news, as contained in Franklin's simple letter to Mr. Collinson, spread over the world and with various theatrical embellishments in the telling. Franklin, writes one of his biographers, cannot be ranked among the great men of science, the Newtons, the Keplers, or the Humboldts, Huxleys, or Darwin's. He belongs, rather, in the second class, among the minor discoverers. But his discovery of the nature of lightning was so striking and so capable of arousing the wonder of the masses of mankind, and his invention of the lightning rod was regarded as so valuable, that he has received more popular applause than men whose achievements were greater and more important. His command of language had seldom been put to better use than in explaining the rather subtle ideas and conceptions in the early development of electricity. Even now, after the lapse of 150 years, we seem to gain a fresher understanding of that subject by reading his homely and beautiful explanations, and modern students would have an easier time if Franklin were still here to write their textbooks. Public business and long years of diplomatic service interrupted the original study of science to a great extent. But even so, in England, in France, and in the closing years of his life in Philadelphia, Franklin found time now and then to devote to that loving investigation of nature which, after his thirtieth year, became the great passion of his life. Everything in the way of scientific research fascinated him. He investigated earthquakes, eclipses, storms, winds, the science of sound, the laws of hot air and its movements, ventilation, water spouts, phosphorescence, light in seawater, he called it, the cause of saltiness in the sea, the Gulf Stream, rainfall, evaporation, the aurora borealis, light, heat, the daily motion of the earth, and many other subjects. He studied music as a science and invented a new kind of musical glasses, fashionable at that time, called armonica. He studied political economy in a scientific way and was so interested in agriculture that he tried experiments on his New Jersey farm. He also invented the Pennsylvania fireplace and the Franklin stove. Though his scientific writings are numerous, they are in the form of essays and letters. His investigations and experiments were thus made known to the world in letters to friends in France and England, for, as there were no scientific periodicals in those days, men of learning kept up a lively correspondence and occasionally issued a pamphlet. As man of letters, five, Franklin was a master of style. He had what critics call a light touch and he had the rare faculty of making any subject interesting. He even wrote charmingly about stoves. How did he acquire this wonderful skill, this clear and beautiful language which dropped so easily from his pen, however dry the theme? No matter what essay, what letter, what political pamphlet, or what year of poor Richard we may pick up, we are always held by Franklin's magic personality. His autobiography is considered one of the greatest works of its kind ever written. A careful study of the third volume of Addison's spectator, and experimenting with it in various ways, seems to have been the beginning of Franklin's literary education. It was a queer task for a young boy, particularly one of an uncultured family, to impose upon himself, but he tells us that he was encouraged, for, I thought I might possibly in time come to be a tolerable English writer, of which I was extremely ambitious. Moreover, he fed himself on the best literature, and this, too, was extraordinary for a boy in his position. Some of his early essays, published in pamphlet form, have very dry titles, a dissertation on liberty, necessity, and pain, and a modest inquiry into the nature and necessity of paper currency, are hardly alluring, but these papers are full of shrewd reasoning and common sense, qualities that are conspicuous in all his future writings. Franklin's newspaper articles were a splendid preparation for his political work. Franklin was very fond of paraphrasing the Bible in a humorous way, and fond of hoaxes like the edict of the King of Prussia, in which he made Frederick the Great claim a right to the Kingdom of Great Britain, because the British Isles were originally Anglo-Saxon colonies, and, having reached a flourishing condition, deserved to be levied upon. Franklin greatly enjoyed seeing the English take this seriously. It was copied widely. So was another satire of 1773, called Rules for Reducing a Great Empire to a Small One, descriptive of the British Government. While in France his pen was always busy. Many of his letters were practically essays. For Madame Breon, the Ephemera, the Morals of Chasse, Dialogue between Franklin and the Gout, Story of the Whistle, and Petition of the Left Hand were written. Franklin's letters, so numerous and so witty, cover all periods of his life. His electrical experiments and theories were all announced in this form. His letters, written home from England before the Revolution, are delightful reading. Poor Richard was a real creation. The character made Franklin known in England and France before he lived in those countries. It was quite common a hundred years ago, writes a biographer, to charge Franklin with being a plagiarist. It is true that the sayings of Poor Richard, and a great deal that went to make up the Almanac, were taken from Rabelais, Bacon, Rochefoucault, Roy Palmer, and others. But Poor Richard changed and rewrote them to suit his purpose and gave most of them a far wider circulation than they had before. There is no little enemy. Keep your eyes wide open before marriage, half shut afterwards. Lend money to an enemy and not gain him. To a friend and not lose him. Necessity never made a good bargain. A word to the wise is enough. God helps those that help themselves. The sleeping fox catches no poultry. Drive thy business. Let that not drive thee. Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise. Experience keeps a dear school, but fools will learn in no other. Are some of Poor Richard's proverbs that have passed into our everyday speech. 6. Benjamin Franklin, printer, was Franklin's favorite way of describing himself. He was, indeed, a printer all his life. When only twelve he became apprentice to his half-brother, James, but quarreled with him and ran away, finally reaching Philadelphia. Here he obtained employment and the patronage of Sir William Keith, governor of Pennsylvania and Delaware, who gave him the public printing to do. Persuaded to try his fortune in London with Keith's patronage, Franklin set sail with high hopes. But, on arriving, he found that Keith had played him false, and that no letter of credit, as promised, awaited him. After a year and a half of struggle and adventure, he was back in Philadelphia working at his trade. Franklin was now twenty-one. In a short time he started in business with a partner, and the firm of Franklin and Meredith limped along slowly but surely until Franklin became possessed of the leading newspaper in Philadelphia, to which he gave a new title, the Pennsylvania Gazette. This he improved in every way, making it the best and most widely read newspaper in the colonies. By this time, 1729, Franklin had a very well-trained pen, and his journalistic writings and published pamphlets had attracted much attention. He now dropped his partner, and to help out his small income, he opened a shop where he sold stationary, goose feathers, soap, liquors, and groceries. About this time he printed the laws of Delaware. The Pennsylvania Gazette grew better and better all the time, for it contained anecdotes, extracts from English newspapers, and articles which Franklin had written for and read to his club, the Junto. In colonial days every printer issued an almanac. Franklin followed the rule, but the annual he published differed in no way from any of the others until 1733, when Franklin, having nobody to prepare his almanac, had to write it himself. He published it as the work of a Richard Saunders, called in Franklin's genial way Poor Richard. In a note to courteous reader, Poor Richard introduced himself, little anticipating the success he was to have. Poor Richard's almanac appeared every year thereafter for 25 years, the annual sale averaging 10,000 copies a year, far in excess of any other colonial publication. Poor Richard is now a classic, even those that have not read it have heard of it. Moreover, many people quote the homely proverbs without knowing it, for poor Richard's wisdom became part and parcel of our English speech long ago. Sometimes it has been published as Father Abraham's speech and the way to wealth, and it has been translated into every modern language. Besides his newspaper and almanac printing, Franklin printed books. He brought out the first novel ever published in America, Richardson's Pamela, 1744. Franklin's tremendous industry and his general thrift made him successful enough to retire at the age of 42. Then came a brief interval before his political career began in earnest, during which he lived more like a man of taste and a scholar accustomed to cultured surroundings than a self-made man who had battled for years with the material world. The year 1748, though marking the end of Franklin's career as active printer, did not terminate his interest in the setting of type and issuing his writings from his own press. Even in Passee, when in the midst of his busy diplomatic duties, he had a printing press of his own from which he issued those bagatelles that so charmed the French ladies of his acquaintance. Cleverly the printer speaks in the famous epitaph. The body of Benjamin Franklin, printer. Like the cover of an old book, its contents torn out and stripped of its lettering and gilding. Lies here, food for worms, but the work shall not be lost. For it will, as he believed, appear once more in a new and more elegant edition revised and corrected by the author. Franklin's grandson, William Temple Franklin, who claimed to have the original manuscript, said the date upon it was 1728. This disposes of the theory that Franklin took the idea from the Latin epitaph of an Eaton schoolboy, published in the Gentleman's Magazine for February 1736. But as writing comic epitaphs was a fashion in those days, there is no reason why both should not have been original. The mentor, Department of Biography, May 15, 1918, Benjamin Franklin by Albert Bushnell Hart, Professor of Government, Harvard University. Think of an American Revolution without Benjamin Franklin. As well think of English literature without Shakespeare, a civil war without Lincoln. Franklin was the revolution itself. That is, he prepared the way for it, represented it, infused it with his lively spirit. He was indispensable. If the British had carried out their cheerful project of hanging Sam Adams, Patrick Henry would have continued to breathe out the flame of liberty. Washington and Franklin, however, were unique figures. Without the courage, faith, and personal leadership of Washington, the Army would have gone to pieces at Valley Forge, and the United States of America would have been postponed. On the other hand, it was Franklin's cool sagacity that first convinced the French and then the British that there was an America, that several million people were determined to cling together as a nation. Washington was the standing proof of the willingness of Americans to fight for self-government. Franklin was the man who went far to convince the world that Americans were capable of carrying on their government after they got it. Besides his reputation as the greatest American writer of his time, and the most renowned scientific man, he gained and deserved the repute of being a main supporting pillar of the new United States of America. Franklin in Massachusetts In a time when most Americans passed their lives within the borders of their own colony, Franklin was a citizen of two colonies and an official of four. He honored Massachusetts by being born in Boston in 1706, the son of an immigrant, like millions after him, his father being of English birth. Benjamin was a human kind of boy, eager to run away to sea, went to the kind of school kept by a schoolmaster only two years of his life, educated himself on a mixed diet of John Bunyan, Plutarch's lives, and the spectator, became a kind of printer's devil to his brother James, and early got into trouble through incautious writing for the newspapers. At 17 the graceless youth ran away from home, yet he came back four times to visit Boston, and toward the end of his life wrote, I long much to see again my native place and to lay my bones there. My best wishes attend my dear country. Franklin as a Pennsylvanian On his arrival in Philadelphia in 1723, Benjamin Franklin began to make himself a Commonwealth builder. And for more than 30 years he was one of the motive forces in that colony. From the first he found himself more at home in Philadelphia than in Boston. A man never over-disposed to self-denial, he enjoyed the comfort, the good dinners, the pleasant associations, the building up of social forces. Still at that time, Franklin had a much greater interest in Benjamin Franklin than the community around him. He even showed the unusual enterprise of going abroad in 1725, a practice commonly reserved for wealthy colonials who wanted to spend their money like gentlemen. Returning in 1727, he first of all laid the foundations of a printing business large and profitable for the time. In 1729, then only 23 years old, he started a newspaper for himself, which speedily made him a force in the community. Once launched as a publisher, Franklin extended his ventures more and more widely. And in 1740 he founded a general magazine and was one of the first Americans to discover how much money can be sunk in a literary periodical and in how short a time. In 1732, he began the most popular and the most effective of all his publications. Poor Richard's Almanac, an annual which sold the incredible number of 10,000 a year and which applied the sagacity and humor of the writer to setting forth a standard of morals, which however utilitarian and self seeking had a powerful influence upon a crude and growing people. Indeed, it is almost the only bit of American literature that circulated throughout the colonies and infused a national spirit into the half century preceding the revolution. Once established as a man of property and influence, Franklin bent his energies to setting up a new standard of education. In 1743 he issued proposals for an Academy of Learning and in 1744 founded the American Philosophical Society. In 1749 he raised the great sum of 5,000 pounds for the new school and secured an excellent building for it. This far-reaching plan also included a free school for the instruction of poor children in reading, writing, and arithmetic. Apparently the first suggestion of a free school in his Commonwealth. In 1755 his school developed into a college which subsequently became the University of Pennsylvania. No man in America had such solid and thoroughgoing views as to the value of education. As has been the case with many journalists, his calling speedily brought him into political relations for he was chosen to be the official printer of the colonial legislature and thereafter for 59 years was seldom out of some form of public employment. Thus established as a kind of public character, Franklin set himself to improve both city and colonial governments. In 1737 he was made postmaster of Philadelphia and caused great surprise by his prompt and accurate financial accounts. Benjamin Franklin also organized himself into the first good government club on record, backed by at least half the press of the city for he owned one of the two newspapers and unanimously supported by the postmaster he demanded a regeneration of the city. Eventually he succeeded in dispossessing the old constables who served in rotation and in securing a police force paid for that special service. He organized a fire company which not only operated its hand engine when necessary but carried materials for covering and protecting goods. He was also the first of many exasperated persons to criticize the Philadelphia pavements. When later elected member of the common council and then an alderman and also a local justice of peace, Franklin, like some other good Philadelphia citizens, became rather apathetic. Nevertheless these honors were not unwelcome for he said of himself I shall never ask, never refuse, nor ever resign an office. By this time Franklin was involved in the public life of the colony. In 1736 he obtained the office of clerk to the general assembly which he continued to hold for many years. Colonial affairs became especially important when war broke out with France and Spain in 1744. The Quakers were then the great problem in the Pennsylvania government. The Quakers were then the great problem in the Pennsylvania government since their principles forbade them to fight or even to vote money for military purposes. Franklin relates that by a judicious application of Madeira Wine to the gullet of Governor Clinton of New York, he borrowed 18 cannon for the defense of Philadelphia. He did more. He so aroused the Quakers that although they refused to authorize the purchase of powder for the army because that was an ingredient of war, they voted an aid to New England of three thousand pounds to be put into the hands of the governor and appropriated it for the purchase of bread, flour, wheat, or other grain. The governor accepted with the remark I shall take the money for I understand very well their meaning. Other grain is gunpowder. Franklin himself suggested that the Quakers be impotuned to permit the purchase of a fire engine and then said he we will buy a great gun which is certainly a fire engine. From his position of political and intellectual influence in Pennsylvania, Franklin easily passed into the larger field of general colonial policies and public service. In 1754 he was made one of the commissioners to a joint congress of seven colonies which met at Albany. From beginning to end of that meeting he was the leading spirit and he prepared what is practically the first plan for a federal constitution. This was to include a grand council which is the earliest suggestion of a national legislature. The Congress of Albany liked the plan and approved it but the home government frowned upon it and Franklin records that the assemblies did not adopt it as they all thought there was too much prerogative in it and in England it was judged to have too much of the democratic. Franklin called to mind the confederation of the Iroquois and marveled that the six nations of ignorant slaves should be capable of forming a scheme for such a union and be able to execute it in such a manner so that it has subsisted for ages and appears indissoluble and yet that a like union should be impracticable for ten or a dozen English colonies. In the war that followed, Franklin showed himself almost the only vigorous administrator. He was the man who found the wagons necessary for Braddock's expedition. He was even chosen colonel of a militia regiment. Then in 1757 he was sent by the Pennsylvania Assembly to be the agent of the colony in England and thus entered on a new and important career. Many Englishmen found their way to the American colonies and made reputations there. Franklin was one of the few Americans that became renowned in England. For years he stood for the thought that Englishmen in Great Britain and the colonies were alike citizens of a common Anglo-Saxon empire which might look forward to a glorious future. He even ventured to assert that the foundations of the future grandeur and stability of the British empire lie in America. The English government bestowed upon him the important post of deputy postmaster general for the colonies. He so impressed the men of learning that he received doctorates of law from the universities of St Andrews, Oxford and Edinburgh. Yet his public functions were the lesser part of his influence. He found friends everywhere and by his personal relations with ministers and private persons affected the minds of the British. The colonies of Georgia, New Jersey and Massachusetts also designated him as their agent and his various public offices brought him the large income for that time of fifteen hundred pounds a year. When the question of the Stamp Act arose in 1766 Franklin appeared before the House of Commons to protest and in his examination occurred the famous passage, question, can anything less than a military force carry the Stamp Act into execution? Answer, I do not see how a military force could be applied to that purpose. Question, why may it not? Answer, suppose a military force be sent into America. They will find nobody in arms, what are they then to do? They cannot force a man to take stamps who chooses to do without them. They will not find a rebellion, they will indeed make one. Franklin's position had great weight in bringing about the repeal of the Stamp Act, and thereafter he strove with all his might to prevent the breaking up of the Empire. When the storm broke in 1775, Franklin needed to make no choice. An American through and through he never thought of anything but casting his lot without of his countrymen, and on March 21st 1775 he left England and became an original son of the American Revolution. The conditions have never been better set forth than in his own words, and now the affair is nearly in the situation of Friar Bacon's project of making a brazen wall round England for its eternal security. His servant Friar Bungee slept while the brazen head, which was to dictate how it may be done, said time is and time was. He only waked to hear it say time is past. Franklin in the Revolution. When Franklin arrived at Philadelphia May 5th, he found himself at once a member and a leader in a body of men who, without any legal mandate, were called upon to create, to organize, and to defend the United States. The day after Franklin's arrival in America, he was designated by Pennsylvania as a member of the Continental Congress, which was to meet shortly. A few days later he was elected a member of the Pennsylvania Colonial Assembly. The next year he was chosen member and president of the State Constitutional Convention, and in 1776 he was appointed envoy of the United States to France. Besides these dignities, in that year and a half he was one of the half dozen men who designated the framework of the future state and national governments of America. July 21st, 1775, Franklin formally presented to Congress a skillful plan for a federal government, which was the foundation stone of the present federal constitution. It contains some things out of the Albany plan of 1754, and had it been adopted as it stood, would have been a better instrument of government than was later drawn up by Congress. Franklin proposed and urged a strong, vigorous, and well-knit union. He was also a member of the committee to draw up the Declaration of Independence in 1776. His principal contribution to the discussion was his famous retort when somebody said, we must all hang together. Yes, we must all hang together or we shall all hang separately. Franklin took an honorable part in the Pennsylvania Constitutional Convention of 1776, and to him was due the fine phrase in the Pennsylvania Bill of Rights, that all men have a natural and inalienable right to worship Almighty God according to the dictates of their own consciences and understanding. Franklin as a diplomat. Benjamin Franklin was now 70 years old, and said of himself to a fellow member of Congress, I am old and good for nothing, but as the storekeepers say of their remnants of cloth, I am but a fag end, and you may have me for whatever you please to give. Yet he accepted the most important post of his life when, in September 1776, he was elected commissioner to France. There, for nine years, he served his country as the most popular, most sagacious, and most successful foreign minister ever appointed by the United States. He was not merely a diplomatic representative. He was a commercial and financial agent. Fitted out vessels, issued commissions, borrowed money. Well, did Horace Walpole say of him, that Franklin was furnishing materials for writing the history of the decline of the British Empire. Without Franklin, the two treaties of 1778 with France could not have been obtained. By his personal relations with Englishmen of note, he was the natural starting point for overtures of Concorde, and in the negotiations of the Peace of 1782, he stood alongside the eager, impetuous, and hotly national John Adams and the courteous, high bread and determined John Jay as chief of that remarkable triumvirate of negotiators. After all, Franklin's chief service abroad was not so much the obtaining of favorable terms as the maintaining of American character. Who could deny the right to be a nation to a people whose best aspirations were typified by this shrewd, hardheaded, kindly man, a gallant among the fashionables, a philosopher among scientists, a statesman among ministers, a man among men? Franklin in the Federal Convention. At 79 years of age, most men expect retirement. And it was very grateful to Franklin that on his return to America in 1785, he should almost immediately be chosen by Pennsylvania to be president of the Commonwealth. His universal popularity was shown by the people of western North Carolina, now East Tennessee, who in 1784 set up a short-lived frontier Commonwealth to which, by way of compliment, they gave the name of Franklin. In 1787, Franklin readily accepted membership in the Federal Convention as one of the Pennsylvania delegation. He was somewhat out of touch with the real difficulties of the time, and most of his suggestions were overruled. But his influence throughout was in favor of a well-organized, strong central government, and he was almost the only member to introduce an element of humanity and good humor. On the last day of the convention he rose to urge a spirit of compromise, a willingness to yield something of one's own opinion, to avoid the spirit of a certain French lady who, in a dispute with her sister, said, I don't know how it happens, sister, but I meet with nobody but myself that is always in the right. When at the end signatures of the members were appended, numerous enough to make it likely that the constitution would be accepted by the people, Franklin looked at the sun painted behind the president's chair and made a comment which is as applicable to his own reputation as it was to the new federal constitution. I have often and often in the course of the session, and the vicissitudes of my hopes and fears as to its issue, looked at that sun behind the president without being able to tell whether it was rising or setting, but now at length I have the happiness to know that it is a rising and not a setting sun. This was the end of Franklin's public life. Three years later he died, full of years in honor, with the established reputation of a man of learning, power, and statesmanship. Possessed of a calm dignity that impressed even the frivolous court of France, he added a love of fun such as no other great American public man has shown except Abraham Lincoln. His autobiography abounds in delightful pictures of the gawky youth and the serene statesmen. His vast powers belong to his country. His great endeavors went into federal government, which he helped to found, to protect, and to restate in the immortal constitution of 1787. That is his best monument. Daylight saving, Franklin's idea. There was nothing of any significance in the affairs of mankind that escaped Benjamin Franklin's attention. Not only political, social, commercial, literary, and artistic matters concerned him, but likewise the many problems great and small that had to be met in the course of the day's work. He was the first to conceive the idea of daylight saving, which means that he was, in practical wisdom, 130 odd years ahead of his time. On an early morning walk along the streets of London in 1784, the thought first came to Franklin, and in passing it on to the world at large he said, In a walk through the Strand and Fleet Street one morning at seven o'clock, I observed there was not one shop open. Although it had been daylight and the sun up above three hours, the inhabitants of London choosing voluntarily to live by candlelight and sleep by sunshine, and yet often complaining a little absurdly of the duty on candles and the high price of tallow. Soon thereafter in the Journal de Paris, he published an article later appearing among his essays under the title An Economical Project, which further elaborated the advantages of daylight saving, namely of turning the clock forward an hour so that everybody would live one hour longer by daylight and one hour less by artificial light. Do you stand for Richard Wagner or do you not? That question was enough to sever friendships 50 years ago. It created a riot at the Paris Opera in 1861. Wagner's art admitted of no compromise. It was either gospel or apocrypha, and it had to be accepted as one or the other. It commanded enthusiastic administration or provoked strident resentment. Many came to rail and remained to worship. Some came in curiosity and left in dismay. For half a century Richard Wagner was the center of bitter conflict, but the people listened to him and seemed to appreciate and understand. In the blackest hours the messages of Franz Liszt, Wagner's best friend, sustained him. Be of good cheer, the people are with you. So through half a century the music drama withstood the assaults of criticism and ridicule, and the burden of proof now rests with the opposition. The secret of Wagner's success with the people, and of his influence on dramatic art, lies in his naturalness of expression. His dramas are epic poems of primitive, elemental life, and they breathe the fresh vigorous spirit of the morning of time. His music commands our interest, even before we fully understand. It makes an irresistible appeal to our feelings. His art is the art that conceals art. His music seems to us so natural. As the dramatic situation rises in intensity, so his music seems to lift us on an ever-swelling flood until we are moved to our depths, though we may not know why. We are simply conscious of having assisted at something which has swept us momentarily out of ourselves into a world of throbbing emotion, and the proportions of the drama before us are so well determined that it is hard to say which of all the various scenes has touched us most. It is as though we had walked in a great forest where the rich variety and completeness of nature's handiwork had been so absorbing that the memory could not recall vividly the outlines of single objects. We get a certain intellectual satisfaction from following the details of Wagner's art, but the supreme enjoyment is in the effect of mass. The music drama, monograph number one, in the mentor reading course. Music drama, as Mr. Fink says, is quite different from opera. In Wagner's early years, opera, for the most part, was a weak, vapid thing, dramatically. The plot, foolish and flat. The music was string of songs, duets, quartets, and choruses connected by dull recitative. The music was showy, and of a kind to display the skill of the singer, rather than the composer, and prima donnas at the time in their vanity would embellish this most fluid music with additional vocal flourishes. Richard Wagner composed operas before he perfected his music drama, but in several of these operas, the Flying Dutchman, Tanheuser, and Lowengren, he gave plain imitations of the principles which he developed later in what he called the art work of the future. Instinctively, he reached out toward his ultimate object in art before he had fully formulated his ideas, and the composers whom he admired were those who had made music a means of true dramatic expression, Gluck, Mozart, and Weber in opera, and Schubert in song. All of them made music the expression of the composer's intentions as against the vanity of the singer. Mozart defeated the despotic methods of prima donnas in some cases by making his areas so difficult technically that the singers could not add any embellishments of their own. But while insisting on the claims of the composer, none of these great musicians thought of allowing the drama to determine the form and style of the music. That is an essential principle in the music drama. The music does not simply accompany the drama, it is itself the very expression of the drama. The Rhine music, 135 bars, opening Rhine gold, is not simply an appropriate accompaniment to the flow of the river. It is the river translated into musical form, so much so that if played in a concert room, apart from the scene of the murky Rhine depths in which the Rhine maidens are circling, it would have no meaning. And while a great deal of Wagner's music lends itself readily to concert production, and is popular as such, the interest in it is a combined music and dramatic one. The music drama is not a single art, it is a manifold art, combining the arts of poetry, painting, sculpture, and music. Wagner contended that the arts strayed away and fell backward after the days of the glory of Greek drama. Because each art tried to develop and perfect itself separately in its own way, Wagner asserted that the way to the true, full, perfected artwork was to reunite these arts in the music drama. This theory he set forth in many writings and finally expressed in his compositions. His music drama, therefore, gives full expression for the poet in the text of the play, for the painter in the scenic effects, for the sculpture and the statuesque groups on the stage, and for the composer in the musical expression which completes the combination, and none of these contributors, not even the composer, dominates or controls the others, not even accompanies them. The elements of the music drama are more closely interwoven than that. The contributing arts are amalgamated in one single, complete art. This is what Wagner called the art work of the future. The festival house, it be right, monograph number two in the mentor reading course. It was in 1870 that Wagner's dream of a theater of his own gave promise of full realization. In 1864 King Ludwig of Bavaria at the age of 19 gave Wagner his patronage and backed him financially. By this means in the year 1865 through 1870 Tristan, Meistersinger, Reingold and Valkyrie were performed in Munich. The king wanted the festival house there, but the court and the populace regarded this plan with jealous resentment. Moreover Wagner preferred a more remote place, better suited to fostering a new art undertaking, so the little town of Bayreuth was chosen. Wagner obtained from the municipality a free grant of land for a festival theater and his own house. The architect Gottfried Semper was commissioned to prepare definite plans. Everything was settled but the money and the estimated cost was one million one hundred and twenty-five thousand francs. Wagnerian societies were formed all over Europe and in the United States, and the interest of financial men in Germany was secured. The foundation stone of the festival theater was laid with great ceremony by Wagner himself on May 22nd, 1872, the 59th anniversary of his birth. The work of construction proceeded rapidly, although the subscriptions were short of the total sum required. Ludwig made up the amount lacking. Thus after forty years of struggle Wagner saw his colossal project realized in 1876 when the festival theater was opened for the production of the Ring of the Nibelung. Three representations of the ring took place during the summer of that year. Then for six years it was impossible to open the theater for want of money. In 1882 Parsifal was produced there, and since then festival performances have taken place there about every two years. Wagner however died in 1883, so he saw only two of his own great music festivals. The theater was a model in its way, which means in Wagner's way. It was planned entirely with the thought of the performance, and not at all for the display of the audience. It contains 1,344 seats arranged in a fan-shaped amphitheater. There are thirty rows of seats, and at the very back of the hall there are nine boxes reserved for the royalty and for Wagner's invited guests. Above the boxes there is a large gallery containing two hundred seats. The orchestra is sunk and invisible. Musicians descend on steps a long way under the stage into a kind of cave, which has received the name in Beirut of the Mystic Abyss. The space reserved for the stage is even larger than the hall. The curtain divides the building almost into two equal parts. There is no foyer for the public. The audience steps out readily from any of the rows in the auditorium directly into the outer air, and can find refuge and refreshment in one of the many cafe restaurants in the vicinity. On the same floor with the royal boxes, an annex is built in 1882 which affords entertainment rooms for privileged guests. The spirit that permeates the festival theater is one of unselfish devotion. The characteristic of everyone who takes part there is a complete surrender of personal interests. Each one comes to Beirut with a sole purpose of contributing the utmost to the festival play. Therefore, no one, singer or members of the orchestra or chorus, instructors or conductors, scene shifters or aides, receive any salary or reward. Their travel expenses are paid and they are lodged in Beirut at the expense of the administration. That is all, and in return they are treated not as paid artists, but as honored guests. Das Reingold, monograph number three in the mentor reading course. In the beginning, Gold, the symbol of human desire, laid in the bed of the Rhine. It was worshiped and attended by the daughters of the Rhine. Then it was stolen from them. In the end it was restored to them, but between the beginning and the end it carried its curse through many tragic chapters. This treasure was called the Rhinegold, and when wrought into a ring it gave its owner universal power. One condition only went with the Rhinegold. He who owned it must renounce love forever. Three beautiful maidens of the Rhine guarded the gold, and Albrecht, the ugly king of the Nebelungs, the dwarves who lived underground, tried to make love to them. They rejected him scornfully, and so the dwarf, seeing the gold in the river and knowing its power, foreswore love forever and seizing the treasure bore it off to his underground home. Just at this time, Votan and the other gods were building a marvelous castle. They did not have the strength to build this palace by themselves, so they had called the giants to their aid. For their pay, Votan promised them the goddess of youth, Freyja. As her loss would bring old age and decay upon the gods, he never meant to keep his promise. A habit of Votans, by the way. He trusted to the cunning of Logue, the fire god, to get him out of the predicament. When appealed to, however, Logue declared that after searching all heaven and earth he could find no way out of the difficulty. But he also reported that he had heard of the stealing of the Rhinegold and suggested that perhaps the giants would take the ring of the Nebelung in place of Freyja, if the gods could get it away from Albarich. The giants between whom and the Nebelungs, if you had existed for a long time, knew that if Albarich kept the ring he would have dominion over them. So they agreed that if the gods would get them the Rhine treasure they would give up their claim to Freyja. Therefore, Votan and Logue descended to Nebelheim. There they found Albarich gathering together a great horde of treasure by the aid of the magic ring. Furthermore, Nima, one of his lieutenants, had made him a helmet by which he could change his shape or become invisible. Logue suggested that to prove the power of the helmet, Albarich changed himself into a toad. The dwarf did this, and the gods promptly seized and bound him. Then they forced him to give up the helmet and the ring. Albarich had to agree, but he uttered a curse on the ring, that brought death and destruction to everyone who owned it. When the giants came for their reward, they placed their tall spears upright in the ground before Freyja and demanded a pile of gold high enough to conceal her. However, when all the gold was heaped together, and even the magic helmet added to the pile, there was still a chink through which the eye of the goddess could be seen. To fill this, the giants demanded the ring. Votan did not want to part with this, but the goddess Erda appeared and warned him against the curse so he added it to the heap. The curse immediately began its work. Fofner, one of the giants, claimed the greater part of the horde of gold for himself. When fossiled, the other giant resented this he slew him. This was but the first of the many tragedies that followed the ring. A beautiful rainbow bridge now appeared, spanning the valley, and over this the gods passed, and entered their new palace of Valhau. D. Valkyrie, monograph number four in the mentor reading course. Votan and the rest of the gods were in a serious dilemma. They must not get back the cursed ring, for its possession would bring ruin, and yet if they left it with the giant Fofner, Albert might recover it and make the gods his slaves. There was only one way out of the dilemma. The ring must go to someone whom the gods need not fear. As long as no enemy had the ring, the gods were safe enough in their new citadel. This was guarded by the Valkyrie maidens, all daughters of Votan and Erda. Their mission was to follow mortals in combat and to carry the fallen heroes on their horses to Valhau to form its guard. Having provided for present safety, Votan looked to the future. He went to the earth and uniting himself with a mortal woman under the name of Valsa, meaning wolf. He founded the formidable race of the Valsongs, Sigmund von Sieglinde, on whom he had set his hopes. Sieglinde grew to maturity, was carried off and married against her will to the rough hunter Hunding. One night to the hut where Hunding and Sieglinde were living came Sigmund, a fugitive, weary with conflict and battered by the storm. He had been fighting with Hunding and had entered the very home of his enemy. Sieglinde came in and found him lying exhausted by the hearth. She gave him a refreshing draft, then came Hunding, to whom Sigmund told his story, thereby revealing himself as his host's foe. Hunding would not fight him in his own home, but challenged him to combat the next day. That night Sigmund and Sieglinde discovered their identity and decided to fly together. At the wedding feast of Hunding and Sieglinde, a mysterious stranger who was none other than the god Votan himself had thrust up to its hilt in the trunk of the tree which supported their dwelling, a sword which he said could only be withdrawn by the bravest of men. Sieglinde proved his right to the sword by drawing it forth with ease. Then the two Valsungs fled out into the night. Votan knew of the inevitable conflict between Hunding and Sieglinde, and he summoned Bernhilde, the Valker, and ordered her to give Sieglinde aid. But Fricka, the wife of Votan, the ever-jealous guardian of the properties, demanded that Sieglinde be killed. Against his will, Votan yielded and commanded Brunhilde to see that Sieglinde lost the combat. Votan also told Brunhilde of the ring, and of the fatal spell. The giant Fafner, in the form of a dragon, guarded this ring. It could only be won by a hero unaided by the gods. Votan thought that he had such a hero in Sieglinde, but Sieglinde was not a free agent since Votan had been the moving spirit in all his actions. Brunhilde then appeared to Sieglinde and told him of his fate. But her heart melted at the despair of the lovers, and when the fight began she protected the hero. Votan thereupon appeared and interposed his spear, causing Sieglinde to be killed. The sword, Nothung, was shivered to many pieces. Brunhilde fled with Sieglinde. For her disobedience, Votan revoked the divinity of Brunhilde. He condemned her to wed the mortal. Who should rouse her from the slumber into which he was about to cast her? The Valker besought him that none but the bravest hero on earth should awaken her. Votan granted her wish, and promised that she should be guarded by magic fire. Votan then kissed Brunhilde and cast her into slumber. He struck his staff on the rocks and summoned Logue, the fire-god. In answer, flames sprang up and surrounded the sleeping Valker maiden. Siegfried, monograph number five in the mentor reading course. In the depths of a mighty forest stood a hut, and there dwelt a brave, strong, handsome youth in company with a mean little dwarf. Every day the dwarf was busy forging the sword. The dwarf was Mima, brother of Albury, the king of the Nibelungs, and the youth was Siegfried, the son of Sieglinde and Sieglinde. After Brunhilde had been cast into slumber by Votan, Mima took upon himself the care of Sieglinde. When she died, he brought her son up to manhood. This was not kind-heartedness on the part of Mima but crafty wisdom. He knew that Siegfried was destined to be a mighty hero, and he hoped that the youth might slay Fafner, the dragon, and recover the ring for the Nibelungs. Sieglinde had entrusted to Mima the pieces of the sword no tongue, and although the dwarf knew that no other weapon would serve for the slaying of Fafner, he also realized that he was unequal to the task of forging the pieces together again. Therefore, he kept trying to make other swords for Siegfried to use, but the youth broke them all. One day Siegfried, angry at Mima's continued failure to make him a suitable sword, rushed out of the cabin in anger. Then a stranger who was none other than Votan himself, in the guise of a wanderer, appeared to Mima, and in a contest of riddles, forced from Mima the confession of his failure, and then revealed to him that no tongue could only be forged anew by one to whom fear was unknown. When Siegfried returned, Mima admitted his inability to forge the sword, and told the youth to try it himself. As Siegfried knew no fear, he was successful. Then Mima told Siegfried that he would lead him to the dragon Fafner. Siegfried, led by Mima, came to the dragon's cave, and in a wood scene of great beauty, sat listening to the song of birds, and replied to them joyously with his horn. Fafner, the dragon, was finally roused by Siegfried's horn, and came out of his cave, breathing threats and fiery blasts. After a mighty battle, Siegfried slew him. Siegfried's hand was scorched by the fiery blood of the dragon, and he placed it to his lips to cool it. On tasting the blood he was able to understand the song of a bird that told him to take possession of both the ring and the helmet, and to be on guard against Mima. Consequently, when the dwarf attempted to give him a poisoned drink, Siegfried killed him. Then the bird told Siegfried of Brunhilda, who could only be wakened from her slumber by one who knew no fear, and who could penetrate the ring of magic fire. Siegfried said that he had never known what fear was, and he followed the bird to where the Valkyre maiden slumbered. In the meantime, in his perplexity, Votan summoned Erda, and sought counsel with her. Could she tell him how to stop the rolling wheel of destruction? But Erda's wisdom could avail him nothing now, and Votan resigned himself to the downfall of the gods. Then he confronted Siegfried on his way to Brunhilda and barred his way with a sphere, to test his courage and strength. Without hesitation, Siegfried cut the spear in two with his sword, and made his way through the flames to the summit of the mountain, where he found Brunhilda sleeping on a rock under a fir tree. Siegfried gazed at the slumbering maiden in amazement. Then, removing Brunhilda's helmet, he woke her with a kiss. At first she shrank in terror from her fate, then recognizing Siegfried as the son of Siegmund, and as the bravest hero in the world, whose coming she had herself foretold, she confessed her love for him, and yielded in ecstasy to his embrace. Degutta Damarung, monograph number six in the mentor reading course. While Siegfried and Brunhilda were happy together, Siegfried must needs go forth to seek further adventures. He gave Brunhilda the ring as a pledge of fidelity, and she presented him with her shield and her horse, Grana. Siegfried journeyed along the Rhine to the palace of the Gibichungs, Gunther and his sister Guthruna. Hagen, their half-brother, the son of Albarith, lived there with them. Albarith had imposed upon Hagen the task of regaining the ring. Therefore, unseeing Siegfried, he began to plot. Guthruna, his suggestion, gave the hero a magic drink which made him love her, and forget Brunhilda. So, when Gunther expressed his desire for a wife, Siegfried promised him the Valkyr, Brunhilda, claiming as a reward the hand of Guthruna. In the meantime, Brunhilda, awaiting the return of Siegfried, was visited by another Valkyr, Voltrauta, who begged her to give up the fatal ring to the Rhine maidens, and so save the gods from destruction. But this Brunhilda refused to do, counting Siegfried's love a greater treasure than her lost divinity. Siegfried then appeared to her in the form of Gunther, which he had assumed by means of the magic helmet. He forced the ring from her and commanded her to accept Gunther as her husband. Brunhilda was taken by her new husband to the palace of the Ghibishungs. When she arrived there and saw Siegfried with Guthruna, she at once accused him of having betrayed both herself and Gunther. The crafty Hagen then promised Brunhilda and Gunther to avenge them on Siegfried. The hunting party was arranged, and during it Siegfried, who had become separated from the others, was met by the three Rhine maidens who entreated him to give back the ring. He refused. Even when they told him that his refusal would mean that he should die that day. Then the others of the party came up, and during the meal Hagen gave Siegfried a magic potion, under the influence of which memory returned to him, and he told the story of Mima the dragon and the forest bird. As he was in the midst of his tale, two ravens flew out of the thicket behind him, and he turned to look at them. Hagen immediately speared him in the back, the only vulnerable spot in his body. Brunhilda had made the hero invulnerable with this exception, for she knew that in battle he would never turn his back to the enemy. Siegfried fell dying. His last words, a passionate greeting to Brunhilda, whom now he recalled with rapture as his beloved wife. His body was placed on his shield, and slowly the funeral procession marched back to the castle. At the hall Hagen claimed the ring, and when Gunther opposed him, Hagen killed him. But when he attempted to snatch the ring from Siegfried's finger, the hand of the dead hero rose in awful warning. Brunhilda then appeared, knowing the truth at last, and proclaimed Siegfried the victim of tragic fate. A funeral pyre was raised, on which the body of Siegfried was laid. Brunhilda tenderly drew the ring from his finger and cast it into the Rhine. She threw a torch under the funeral pyre, and as the flames rose she grasped her faithful steed grana by the main, and charged with him into the flames. The waters of the Rhine then rose and flooded the castle of Gunther. Hagen was dragged beneath the waters, all was submerged. And above the general catastrophe, Valhalla was consumed. The twilight of the gods had come. The old order changes, yielding place to the new. By Henry T. Fink, Music Editor of the New York Evening Post, author of Life of Richard Wagner, and many other works. In the leading operatic centers, the four music dramas constituting Richard Wagner's Ring of the Nibelung are often performed separately, but once a year, sometimes twice. They are all given within a week or two, in proper order, Rheingold, Valkorre, Siegfried, and Götter Damerung, as a special Nibelung cycle, and such a cycle is looked on by the highest class of music lovers as a great festival, and is followed with concentrated attention in all its wonderful details. Wagner himself gave his Ring, as it is often called for short, the subtitle Brünnenfestspiel, or Stage Festival Play. It was in the summer of 1876 that he first gave it to the world in a specially constructed theater in Bayreuth, Bavaria, and he did this in accordance with a plan conceived by him as a necessity more than a quarter of a century before. To understand why he regarded such a festival as a necessity, we must know something about the operatic situation at the time when he composed this colossal and revolutionary work. The originators of Italian opera who lived in Florence three centuries ago held that the play, or libretto, in an opera was as important as the music, in their eagerness to make it possible for the hearer to understand every word of the text, they banished all flowing melody in favor of a dry recitative, halfway between speech and song, one of them actually boasting of their noble contempt for melody. This naturally led to a reaction, which went so far to the side of melody that finally nobody listened except when the prima donna or the tenor sang a brilliant aria, the play being entirely ignored. Efforts to curb the singers and restore the play to honor were made by several composers, the most important of them being Gluck, 1714 to 1787. So thoroughly was he imbued with the importance of the play in an opera that he once wrote, Before I begin to work I try to forget above all things that I am a musician. Yet in his operas too the arias remain the principal points of interest, as they do in the operas of his successors, Rossini, Bellini, Donizetti, Mozart, Weber. Moreover, and this is the most important point, in Gluck's operas, as Wagner himself pointed out in 1850, aria, recitative and ballet, each complete in itself, stands as unconnected side by side as they did before him, and still do, almost always to the present day. It was this defect of the opera, this incoherence of its parts, that Wagner set himself the task of remedying. The result was the music drama, the artwork of the future, as exemplified in the Ring of the Nibelung, as well as in Tristan and Isaldi, the Meistersinger and Parsifal, different from ordinary operas. These seven music dramas differ radically in their structure from what had been known for centuries as operas. Operas are made up of set numbers, that is, solo arias, duos, ensembles for three or four voices, besides choruses, instrumental pieces and dances. Wagner also himself wrote some operas, the Faeries, Rianzi, the Flying Dutchman, Tanheuze and Woengrin, in all of which there are set numbers, which are played in Sanguansen, do not recur. Beginning with the Flying Dutchman however, we have, besides the set numbers, which do not recur, others which do recur, and these are the far-famed motifs, in German, Leitmotiv, usually called leading motives or guiding themes. A leading motive may be defined as a characteristic melody or succession of chords, like the majestic strains of the Valhall music, the heavy clumsy musical tread of the giants, or the virile heroic motifs of Siegfried, which is sounded by the orchestra whenever in the course of a drama the personage or the dramatic idea with which it is associated comes forward or is referred to in the text. Today Wagner's early operas seem simple to all, but the German audiences that first heard them more than sixty years ago found them hard nuts to crack. His Rianzi, being in the flashy Meyerbier style, much admired at the time, one great favour, although it is the poorest of his works. His next work, The Flying Dutchman, was so novel in style that the audiences did not know what to make of it. Tan Hoesa was still more Wagnerian, while his Woengrin seemed so far beyond the possibility of public approval that he could not get it accepted for performance, even in Dresden where he was conductor. This was only one illustration of the hard set conditions of the operatic situation. Wagner had so many reasons for dissatisfaction that he joined the revolutionary uprising in 1849. This uprising was soon crushed, and Wagner, with the aid of Liszt, escaped to Switzerland, the greatest asylum of political fugitives. Twelve years elapsed before he was allowed to return to Germany. For six years he did not compose another opera, devoting his time instead to writing essays, in which he tried to explain the aim of his artwork of the future. Nobody paid any attention to these essays. The consequence was that, as he wrote to Liszt, I lead here entirely a dream life, if I awake it is to suffer. He suffered because, among other things, he heard from many sources that the performances of his operas given in German cities were so bad that it was hard to understand how anyone could possibly enjoy them. A Musician's Dream If these comparatively simple operas were so badly sung and played, what would happen to the more advanced and ultra-Vagnerian work which now began to ripen in his brain, the four music dramas constituting the ring? Their performance, he realized, would be impossible in the opera houses of Berlin, Dresden, Leipzig, and other cities, as managed and manned at that time. He had to fall back on his dream life, and he dreamt a wonderful dream, a dream of Beirut, of a specially built theater with singers and players selected by himself for their correct performance of his next work. This dream was not realized until twenty-six years later. The next work was at first intended to be a music drama complete in itself to be called Siegfried's Death. On thinking the matter over, however, Wagner concluded that the poem was too full of matter for one play. Consequently he wrote Young Siegfried, to precede and prepare for Siegfried's Death, the name of which was changed to Gaterdammerung or Dusk of the Gods. Then for the same reason he wrote Divalcura, to precede Siegfried, and finally Reingold as a prelude to the other three. While the poems were thus written in inverse order, the plot of the whole cycle had been in his mind and written down before he wrote any of the verses, and the music, of course, was composed in proper order beginning in 1853 with the Reingold. Wagner not only wrote the poems of all his stage works, but he was a great dramatic poet. The full value of his poems, however, can be appreciated only in connection with the music, just as the music makes its deepest appeal in connection with the poem and the action. Yet his music alone is compelling enough for Wagner concerts at which the music is played without the words are among the most popular of concerts. What we should especially bear in mind is that the music in ordinary operas is simply associated with the dramatic poem or libretto, whereas in the ring the two are identified, or as Wagner once expressed it. In the music drama, the poem and the music are like two pairs of lips in a kiss, each giving two and taking from the other. To practical persons Wagner's life in Switzerland must seem deplorable. He spent six years writing theoretical essays, sales of which hardly paid for his paper and ink. Then he began to write and compose his cycle of four Nibelung dramas which he felt sure would never bring him in a penny, even if he succeeded, which he doubted in never getting them performed. But Wagner was not a practical man. He was a genius. He could no more help creating the ring of the Nibelung than a volcano can help erupting when the time comes. He finished Rheingold. He finished Divalgur. He began secret and got as far as the middle of it when he was compelled to stop because of lack of funds. The royalties from his operas, which since his death have knit his heirs over a million dollars, were at that time trifling. List and his other friends helped him, but all his efforts to help himself failed. For rehearsing and conducting the London Philharmonic concerts during the season of four months he got one thousand dollars, or half what in recent times Jean Duresque used to earn four hours by singing one of the Wagner rolls. He finally concluded that in order to finish the ring he must write a separate opera that might be performed at once and bring him in some money. The result was Tristan and Isaldi. But this was as far ahead of the times as the ring, and no opera house attempted it till six years after its completion in 1859. King Ludwig to the rescue. In despair he next composed the Meister Singer. This, being a comic opera and full of pleasing melody, would, he felt sure, turn the tide. It did so. But before this occurred important things happened. Encouraged by the success of a series of concerts he had given in Russia, he spent his money recklessly in Vienna, and borrowed more, at usurious rates, because he had been invited for another tour in Russia. Through no fault of his own this came to naught, and he had to fly from Vienna to escape a debtor's prison. First he went to Switzerland, then to Stuttgart. In a moment of despair he had bought a pistol to end his life. But better counsel prevailed, and he decided to hide in the Swabian Alps, there to complete the score of his comic opera. The wagon had already been ordered, and he was packing his trunk, when a card was brought up with the name of Baron Fistenmeister, court secretary of the king of Bavaria. Ludwig II had but recently ascended the throne of Bavaria. He was very young, and very enthusiastic over Wagner's operas. He knew that the great composer needed help, but one of his first actions was to send his secretary to find him. He was promptly brought to Munich, where he was enabled to live in luxury at the king's expense. Not only were his operas staged at once, but also two of his music dramas, Chiestand and Isolde and Die Meistersinger. He now returned to his Siegfried, which with tears in his eyes he had abandoned in the middle of the second act. His plan was to complete this and got to Damerung, then have the whole ring staged in a new theatre to be specially constructed in Munich. The king cordially approved this plan, but the courtiers and the populace, jealous of the great composer, because of the influence he had on the king, made such a row over it that Wagner left the city to complete his work elsewhere, by Reut in the first festival. The inhabitants of Munich have had reason to regret their action in opposing the plans of their king and Wagner. Since Wagner's death in 1883, a score or more of festivals have been held at Bayer Reut, bringing millions of profit to that Bavarian town, all of which the Munichers might have had. Bayer Reut was chosen partly because it was within the realm of Wagner's royal friend, partly because of its picturesque surroundings, and partly because of its seclusion. Special inducements had been offered him to build the Nibelung Theater at the famous Summer Resort Baden-Baden, but he did not wish to produce his great and revolutionary work before audiences of mere pleasure seekers. He had spent a quarter of a century in creating an entirely new German artwork, free from all foreign elements and operatic fripperies, and he wanted to submit it to serious music lovers, who would be sufficiently interested to take a trip to remote Bayer Reut. Edison, the wizard inventor, who never spared himself in work, said not long ago that genius was one percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent perspiration. Wagner's ring is certainly a miracle of inspiration, yet when one reads of how much hard work he bestowed on its production, after the infinite pains he had taken in creating it, one feels tempted to say that Edison did not exaggerate. Monumental proof of Wagner's indefatigable industry is afforded by two volumes, one containing his business letters, the other, his letters to the artists during the preparations for the Bayer Reut Festivals of 1876 and 1882, over both of which he presided personally. He spent a whole summer visiting all the German opera houses, and picking out the artists most suitable for each of the forty-nine solo parts in the ring. With most of these, he co-responded personally, and also went over their parts with them before the rehearsals on the stage. The orchestra was made up with the same attention to individual merit, while the scenic features were genuine works of art. The Nibelung Festival of 1876 was a most important event in the history of music. Among those who attended it were two emperors, William I of Germany and Don Pedro of Brazil, King Ludwig II, the Grand Dukes of Weimar, Bodin and Mecklenburg, together with many other representatives of the European aristocracy, while among those who represented the musical nobility were Liszt, Krieg and Saint-Saint. On all these was on the ordinary mortals assembled. The ring made an indelible impression. Conquest of Europe and America. That there were shortcomings, it is needless to say, for everything was so new and difficult to the artists. Nor were the funds sufficient to enable Wagner to realize all his intentions. The cost of seats, $75 for the four performances, which were thrice repeated, kept many enthusiasts from attending, and the result was a deficit of $37,500. This deficit, while it was a cruel blow to Wagner, was for the world a blessing in disguise, for it made it impossible for him to carry out his plan of reserving the future performances of the Nibelungs Ring for Bayreuth alone. There were no available funds, so King Ludwig, who had contributed $50,000 toward the expenses of the Nibelungs Scenery, got the privilege of producing the whole ring in Munich. Other cities soon followed, and so great was the success that Wagner permitted Angelo Neumann, manager of the Liebsich Opera, to organize a traveling Wagner theatre for producing the ring throughout the cities of Germany, as well as in Italy and other countries. These performances were fortunately given under the conductorship of Anton Seidel, who had been Wagner's secretary for several years, and concerning whom Wagner wrote, no other conductor knows as he does the proper tempi, changes of pace, of my music, or how the action on the stage must be suited to the music. Seidel learned these things from me. He will conduct the Nibelungen better for you than anyone else. American performances. Fortunately also it was the same Anton Seidel who conducted the first performance of the Ring in America, beginning with Siegfried in 1887. Divalcure had previously been produced under Leopold Damrosch. The success in these cases was immediate for the metropolitan opera house, had imported the leading Wagnerian singers from Germany. The ground had been well prepared. Theodore Thomas had labored many years to educate the public up to Wagner, his activity culminating in the great Wagner Festival of 1884, for which he imported three of the leading Bayreuth singers, Materna, Winckelmann, and Skaria. That same season, Wagner's operas and music dramas began to lead the others at the Metropolitan, and among the singers who helped to popularize his works were Lully Lehmann, Marion Brent, Milka Tarnina, Albert Nieman, Heinrich Vogel, Max Alvary, Theodore Reichmann, Emil Fischer, most of whom had studied with Wagner, besides somewhat later John and Edward Duretzka, Olive Fremstad, Johanna Gatsky, and the Americans, Lillian Nordica, Emma Eames, Louise Homer, and Geraldine Ferrar. The first of the Nibelung operas heard in New York was Divalcure. It was sung at the Academy of Music eight months after the Festival of Bayreuth, but the performance was in every way inadequate. In a way it was fortunate for the Wagner cause that Abbey and Growl lost $250,000, giving operas in Italian and French during the first season of 1883 through 84, the Metropolitan Opera House just built at a cost of $1,732,978. That failure induced the directors to try German opera, and for seven years it ruled supreme, but the German singers, great as they were in their own sphere, could not, with a few exceptions, notably Lully Lehmann, do justice to Italian and French works. The eager desire to hear those again under more favorable conditions led to a temporary cessation of German opera, but it so happened that one of the famous singers engaged for French and Italian opera was the great tenor Jean de Resc, who gradually became an ardent Wagnerite, eager to appear in the Nibelung operas. He induced the management to re-engage Seidel and some of the best German singers, and once more Wagner flourished side by side with Verdi in Meyerbeer, Gunod, and Bizette. Wagner now leads in the number of performances followed by Puccini and Verdi. Singers of every nationality now seek to appear in the Wagner operas, and an ambition of the great conductors, including the Italian Toscanini, is to interpret the Nibelung's ring of which Liszt wrote, It overtops and commands our whole art epic as Mont Blanc does our mountains.