IN Thomas Bewick the artist and engraver were combined. He selected the scenes he loved best, and wrought them out on the block in a manner individual to himself. That the engraver nowadays has no time for training and study as an artist may be the fault of no one but himself, and yet there are certain circumstances that force him to keep his position as an interpreter of other men's thoughts. But, if the engraver should wish to interpret his own thoughts, must he leave the profession in which he has been trained and turn to etching or painting? We believe not. His material is capable of expressing everything; every stroke of his graver will answer back from the smooth surface exactly as the hand impresses it, and the nerve-power flowing from the brain to the hand determines its quality. Wood, under the graver, is capable of the finest artistic expression.

During the last few years many methods of wood-engraving have been practiced, and many beautiful effects produced, in seeming defiance of the old methods, until the conclusion is forced upon the mind that the real vitality of any work does not consist in its method, but rather in the hiding of its construction altogether. The artist should forget his hand and his graver entirely, and give his mind fully to the thought to be expressed. Every kind of art-study has already been reproduced on wood. The mind and the hand that can produce quality, can express it with a piece of chalk on a cliff, or with a stick in the sand.

A description of how the engraving on the opposite page was produced involves, to some extent, its history. Camping alone in a New England wood, from the window of a car fitted up with every convenience for painting in oils, engraving on wood, and photographing whatever appealed to the fancy, I overlooked the scene before me and wrought it on my block. This was my first attempt to engrave direct from nature. The subject was photographed on the block in the beginning, but the photographic copy was of no assistance in getting the true values of tone and color. Most engravers use

a strong magnifying-glass, resting the block upon a sand-bag, and also using many gravers,-one kind for tints, one kind for figures, and another for ground, foliage, etc. This engraving was produced almost entirely with one graver, the block being held in the hand. For a part of the time I left the car, and, going out upon the scene itself, worked with the sunlight upon the block. This tends to force the mind away from finish in the mere execution; but there is sure to be a compensation in the greater breadth of the masses by the keeping of the whole under the eye at once, and, by a careful study of the refined portions of the scene at hand, a greater delicacy can be reached than can be found in a shining line under a magnifying-glass. There was necessarily much preparatory material belonging to the work, but nothing as a whole was photographed, nothing that would be recognized as such, and much was cut away of that which was traced at the outset, and other forms were drawn in with the graver as the work progressed. The leading thought was, to be faithful to the great masses and values, simplifying the form as much as possible. To hold the mind up to its first impressions required constant effort, and all the ordinary means employed in getting form and material were of no use whatever. It was a matter of simple feeling and nerve-power held up to their best level till the work was completed.

Hamerton, in his "Graphic Arts," while noticing favorably the work of American engravers, advances the idea that it is too difficult an undertaking to work direct from nature, because of the patience required. This is true only in part. More patience is required to plod away on a drawing that the engraver cares little for, and that he knows has not the life and power that it should have. Nerve-power and speed increase fourfold when the feelings are engaged and one is working on what he loves. It is useless for artists or engravers to copy one another. Let them study and train themselves as much as possible, and they will realize that in neither brush nor graver, but in themselves, in their personality, lies the power.

Elbridge Kingsley.

VOL. XXV.-6.

I.

THE first of the many snow-storms that made memorable the winter of eighteen hundred and seventy-five had just fallen on the smooth roads of New Albion; a slight thaw with a following frost had polished up the sleighing, and two hearty-looking gentlemen, behind a powerful gray horse that needed no urging, were taking their first taste of the winter pastime. They seemed to be enjoying it, for, as they flew past the pedestrians toiling along the sidewalk, their faces shone, and their laughter rang merrily. The one who held the reins was a man of forty, smooth-shaven, but for a narrow, brown side-whisker; with a clear and fair skin, into which the stinging winter air was bringing a healthy crimson tint; a strong chin, a well-chiseled nose and brow, a blue eye, and a kindly smile. You would have guessed that he was a clergyman, and would have missed: he was the cashier and manager of the First National Bank of New Albion. The other was perhaps a little younger, with dark skin, full beard, and bright, black eye; his figure was slight, but well made, and he wore a gray ulster, and a sealskin cap without a visor: a journalist, you would have said, or perhaps an artist, and would have been wrong again; for he was the Rev. Theodore Strong, pastor of the Second Congregational Church in the same thriving town. The cashier, Mr. Franklin, was his parishioner, and had been his college classmate; the old friendship had been the cause of the minister's location in his present pastorate, and was now one of its strong supports. Old Major, the good gray horse, had learned well the way to the parsonage, before which he used often to halt after banking hours; whence the parson, if he was to be had, was whirled away for a breezy hour or two on the country roads. These drives with his old friend were unadulterated recreation. It was a distinct understanding between them that the cares of the bank and the parish were always to be left behind.

"No shop, now, old fellow!" Franklin had said when he came for his friend the first time; "religion and business ought to be mixed sometimes, no doubt; but, for you and me, just now, rest is both business and religion."

To such a respite the hard-worked parson

was nothing loth, and the hours thus spent were full of the keenest delight. All anxieties being resolutely left behind, the minds of both friends were free to take in every fresh phase of roadside beauty, every new glory of sky or river or meadow. Other common pleasures they had in books and studies beyond the range of their work, of which they communed with much invigorating conversation; while, as each was a good story-teller, and sure to pick up a budget of mirthful anecdote, their discourse was plentifully spiced with fun.

It must not be inferred that the banker always refused to consult with the pastor about the parish work; on the contrary, he was his most trusted and judicious counselor; it was only that these hours of recreation were sacredly guarded from the intrusion of professional anxieties.

On this December afternoon the talk had ranged widely as usual, and had kept clear, as usual, of all work-day topics, when, suddenly, Mr. Strong, in a tone half apologetic, broke out:

"'Ware, Walt! I'm coming perilously near to the Second Parish in my next remark — as near as Bradford."

"Twenty miles! Rather dangerous! Well, go ahead; but see that you keep your distance."

"The matter is this: Johns, of the East Church, in that metropolis, is trying to start a Congregational club, into which he wants to gather all of that ilk in this region,-representatives, at any rate, of all the principal churches; he has written me to come up to help him incubate the project. Shall I go ?

"Yes, go, and 'sit on it' hard."

"You are explicit, as usual. Now, tell me why. Don't you like Congregational clubs?" "Never tried one. But clubs are generally wooden things. What is it proposed to do with this one?"

"Oh, there is to be a supper, of course, once a month; and a paper read by somebody after supper, and a discussion of the paper, and a general powwow after the discussion."

"Just so. Stuff, talk,—that's a club. But what special topics do you think this one will be most apt to light on?"

"Denominational topics, largely, of course: how to consolidate our churches; how to increase the esprit du corps; how to promote our various benevolent enterprises."

"Certainly. It is part of a movement to stiffen the last syllable of that sesquipedalian sectarian substantive, Congregationalism.' I do not like the name at all, and the sting in its tail, which it is now proposed to sharpen and harden, is the part I like least."

"There you go again," laughed the parson. "It's a downright insult when a man with such a horse as Major insists on riding a hobby."

"Oh, well," continued the banker, "there's nothing particularly sinful in this indulgence that the Bradford Congregationalists propose, doubtless the fellows who like to run things will enjoy it much, but I doubt if the outcome is valuable. There will be some increase of good-fellowship, and much burning of incense under the nose of the idol of the tribe. The more perfect the success of the club shall be, the further off will be the practical cooperation to which we must come at last." "There is truth in what you say," answered the parson; "and I own that I am coming more and more to your way of thinking about such matters. But, when two ride a hobby, one must ride behind, and I am not yet quite so fierce a foe of the sects as you are."

For a few moments there was silence, broken only by the click of Major's hoofs upon the icy road, and the sough of the wind through the pine-forest by the side of which they were driving.

"Look here, Theo," the banker at length continued, "couldn't we do a better thing?" "Several things, no doubt. But what, for instance?"

"Couldn't we organize a Christian League Club here in New Albion ?"

Softly, softly, sir; you are breaking over bounds."

"I know I am; but you began it." "And what was said, a few minutes ago, about clubs?"

"I remember; but there are clubs and clubs. This need not be a wooden oneindeed, it couldn't be; it would have to be made on a very pliable pattern."

Show us how."

"The thing has no shape in my own mind yet; but why shouldn't we strike for a little practical Christian union in this town? We have enough of the sentimental sort, and bad enough it is. The union meetings of the week of prayer always bring out the prayermeeting rounders,-men who have no standing in their own churches nor among their fellow-citizens; men like old Bill Snodgrass, who can reel off cant by the fathom, and whose word, in any business transaction, is as good as his bond only because neither of them is worth a row of pins. There never is a union

"Dr. Sampson told me the story himself. You know that Tom has taken a special dislike to the Doctor, and betrays it in all his prayers. The other night, in the prayermeeting, he said in his jerky way: 'O Lord, grant that our temp'r'l food may not be so skerse and poor as the spiritooal food pervided for us; for ef it is, we sh'll all be in the poor-house within six months.'” Franklin laughed.

"Tom outdid himself that time. Think of letting such a creature loose in a prayermeeting! But that is the sort of person that revels in union meetings. At home he can be suppressed, at least in part; but a joint service of the churches gives him vent. So that, practically, our attempt at Christian union consists mainly in meeting together a few times a year, to be rasped and disgusted by these persons who put themselves forward as the representatives of our common Protestantism. Now, I wonder whether some plan could not be devised by which the real people in our churches could be brought into working union, and the floodtrash kept out."

"Yes, that's the question. But you don't seem to get ahead very fast in answering it."

"Patience, patience, young man! We'll work this thing out, but it will take time. The fact is, New Albion is an excellent place to start such an experiment. The relations between the churches are amicable; there has been no unnecessary multiplication of religious societies as yet; there are no churches here that ought to be killed, except one or two colored churches; the population is intelligent, the ministers are all good friends; the thing can be done."

"Thank you! I wish devoutly that something of the sort could be brought about, and I will do my best to devise a feasible way of accomplishing it. But it must be managed cautiously. Don't flush your game!"

Old Major had arrived at the parsonage, and the parson dismounted, with a promise to give the matter of which they had been talking early and full attention.

II.

THE problem which we have seen the banker and the parson getting ready to attack is a knotty and an urgent one. How to bring the Christian churches of our country into practical unity: this is a question round about which a great deal of talk has been going on, but to the careful consideration of which but few minds have been turned. All the discussion has vibrated between two points: the desirableness of a spiritual fellowship among denominations, and the feasibility of an organic union of the denominations. A great multitude agree in saying that the sects ought to dwell together in unity,-that is to say, that the ministers ought to exchange pulpits, and that members ought to pass freely by letter from one church to another, and that Christians ought to meet now and then in union meetings, and say pleasant things in their prayers and speeches about one another, and sing together,

"Blest be the tie that binds,"

and so on. So much of Christian union as this nearly everybody believes in. The more strenuous sectarians stick at some of these points, but not very persistently; to refuse this much involves some measure of opprobrium. But there are many who insist that, while Christian union may have this extent, it can have no more; that it is vain, and, indeed, rather sacrilegious to ask for anything beyond this. Others declare that this sentimental union is of no value; that what we want and must have is organic union, a consolidation of all the sects into one church, so that Protestantism shall stand over against Romanism, compact and united, all under one central government, moving with wellordered and harmonious march to the conquest of the world. These two conceptions have divided between them the debaters about Christian unity; and it must be owned that each side brings against the other arguments that are well-nigh unanswerable. The believers in what is called spiritual unity insist that the organic unity asked for is impossible;

the believers in organic unity declare that spiritual unity, as it now exists, is of very little consequence.

Some abatement of these extreme views must, indeed, be made on both sides. The measure of unity to which the churches have already attained is by no means to be despised: their relations are vastly better than they were forty years ago, when Presbyterians or Congregationalists had no more dealings with Methodists or Baptists than the Jews once had with the Samaritans, when keen contempt and bitter abuse were common currency among the sects. It is not a slight, but an important gain, that Christians of all names are able now to meet together on friendly terms in social worship. On the other side, it is too much to say that the dream of the church existing as one compact body can never be realized. Stranger things than that have come to pass. The truth lies about midway between these disputants. The spiritual unity to which we have attained, though not worthless, is ridiculously inadequate to the present needs of the Church; and the organic unity for which we are exhorted to labor, though it may not be impossible, is yet a long way off. Is there not, somewhere between the emotional fellowship of the present and the organized ecclesiasticism of the future, a measure of coöperation that is both desirable and attainable? This was the problem to which the practical mind of Mr. Walter Franklin had turned. He was a man, as his pastor well knew, who had a way of bringing things to pass; and Mr. Strong was not therefore surprised, at the close of the next Sunday evening's service, to be joined at the church-door by his friend, with an ominous gleam of speculation in his eyes.

"Pretty well used up to-night, Theo ?" he queried. The Romans knew how to convey more delicately the hope of a negative answer.

"Not at all," said the minister, who never knew on Sunday night how tired he was. "Fresh as a lark. Come home with me, and we'll have it out."

"Have what out?"

"That matter that you're eager to talk about. You have done bravely in keeping away till the Sunday work was over, and I haven't the heart to put you off any longer. Come on."

"Seems to me I have detected a few delicate allusions to it in sermons and prayers to-day. Your mind's as full of it as mine is, dissembler! And I am only going over with you to find out your plans."

"Well," said the parson, as he let his friend in at the door of the parsonage, "it has been

"You are perfectly right, and you may count on me. We will be on hand Tuesday evening. Good-night!"

"Capital!" exclaimed Franklin. "The church sociable is one of the strongholds of sectarian exclusiveness; if we can capture that and turn its guns upon the enemy, one great point will be gained."

"There is no need of despising the church sociable," replied the minister. "It serves a good purpose, and is no more accountable than the Church itself for 'sectarian exclusiveness.' Human nature is to blame for that, not the Church, nor the sociable."

"But I am not talking about remote causes," persisted the banker. "What I see is this: the church sociables in most of our villages and large towns cut up society into cliques. Active and zealous church-members find but little time for the cultivation of social relations beyond the bounds of their own parishes. I have heard it said, more than once, by intelligent citizens, that there is not much general social intercourse among the best people of this town, and that the fault lies at the doors of the churches. The First Church people are a set by themselves, and so are the Second Church people, and the Episcopalians, and the Baptists, and all the rest. The devotion of the church-members to their own societies hinders the development of a broad social life."

"That is true," answered Strong, "and there is something here to regret, beyond question. Nevertheless, there are compensations, which you, Walter Franklin, must not overlook. If the churches have somewhat hindered the cultivated classes outside of the large cities from consorting together, they have also helped to bring together the cultivated and the uncultivated classes, and that is one of the things that most need to be done. They have substituted vertical lines of division in society for horizontal ones. Bad as the church cliques are, they are not so bad

It was a merry company that followed Mr. Strong into the parlors of the First Church; and though they were received at first with polite bewilderment, it was not long before hospitality and good-fellowship asserted themselves in the heartiest fashion. The hosts exerted themselves to entertain their guests, voted the innovation a delightful one, and promised to return the visit. This was the beginning of a series of fraternizations among the churches of New Albion; none were neglected; the Adventists, who worshipped in Central Hall, and the two colored churches, were surprised in their turn by visiting delegations from the other churches that dropped in at their prayer-meetings, and stopped afterward to shake hands, and to say a few pleasant words. So far as it could be done socially, the ecclesiastical entente cordiale was fairly established in this prosperous town.

All this was so much of the nature of a recreation, that the banker and his friend excepted it from the list of forbidden subjects, and often chanted the praises of Christian fraternity to the music of Major's sleigh-bells.

"It is all excellent, so far as it goes," said the banker one day in January; "but I want to see the thing put on a business basis. The improvement in the social relations of the churches is a great gain; it signifies vastly more to have the people meet in this friendly way, and show each other neighborly courtesies, than to have them talk the cant of Christian union now and then in a prayermeeting-but it is not enough. We want some method by which this fraternity shall have a distinct and influential expression."

"Exactly," answered the parson; "we have been getting up steam; now we want to utilize our power. How shall we do it?"

"I thought you were managing the business," replied Franklin; "but, since you ask the question, I'll give you my idea. Let us have a little party at my house some evening, including the ministers and about three of the best members of each church, and see what comes of it."

"How shall the three best members of each church be chosen ?"

"We must choose them ourselves. We know this community well enough to pick our men."

The preparation of this list was not, however, an easy matter, as the banker and his