Like all greatly-eccentric souls, I presume, he felt his own isolation and want of comprehension of himself by others. One who sat far into the night in communion of soul with him, said: “You are a strange mortal!” “Well,” said he, pathetically, “I have made up my mind there never was but one E. T. Taylor and, so far as I have anything to do with it, there never shall be another.” When we think of his birth, training, and surroundings—the child of the plantation and the graduate of the forecastle—and contrast this with his peculiar powers, his strange career, and above all in rarity his wonderful world-wide mission, it is not too much to say that Father Taylor is without a parallel in American history. “An impulsive, untrained, and erratic genius;” there was a fixed purpose and a continuity of effort, such as is seen in few lives. If extravagant in speech and inconsistent in views, his intensity, vividness, and realism, make all sound like plain common-sense. Haughty and tender, imperious and democratic, grand and simple, splendidly uncultured; a strange, terrible power among men always used for leading, driving, persuading to righteousness. He deserves a paraphrase of a higher tribute than Phillips, the Irish barrister, gave to Napoleon. Such a medley of contradictions and at the same time such individual consistency for right were never before united in the same character. In the solitude of his originality, he was always the same mysterious, incomprehensible self—a man without a model and without a shadow. “When I am dead,” he pleaded, “I do not want to be buried in dirt. But bury me rather in the deep salt sea, where the coral rocks shall be my pillow, and the seaweeds shall be my winding-sheet, and the waves shall sing my requiem forever.” And it was not done. Conventionality triumphed in death over the old eccentric, who had defied it as long as he lived. * * * * * OBSERVE, the fates of men are balanced with wonderfully nice adjustments. The scale of this life, if it sinks, rises there, while if it rises here, it will sink to the ground there. What was here temporary affliction, will be there eternal triumph; what was here temporary triumph, will be there eternal and ever-enduring despair.—_Schiller._ C. L. S. C. WORK. By Rev. J. H. VINCENT, D.D., SUPERINTENDENT OF INSTRUCTION C. L. S. C. May the new year work be promptly begun, faithfully prosecuted, satisfactorily completed! * * * * * October 1 is Memorial Day—the day of the beginning of our college year. The bell at Chautauqua will ring at high noon. Listen for its echoes. * * * * * One member has already nearly finished two of the books since the meetings closed at Chautauqua. He read on the train; he read at the station; he read at the hotel; he read during the odd minutes at home. This is a good example. * * * * *