THE IDEAL SCHOOL HOUSE. To begin with, says Mrs. Whitman in the May Atlantic, the entrances of a schoolhouse should be made as inviting as those of a home. If there be a yard, no matter how small, it should have, first of all, evergreen trees in it, or some bit of leafage which, winter and sum mer, would bring a message from the woods; it should have flowers, in their season; and vines should be planted wherever possible. Within the school every color should be agreeable and harmonious with all the rest. Ceiling, floor, woodwork, walls, are so to be treated as to make a rational and beautiful whole. In entrance halls, for example, where no studying is done, a fine pleasing red or cheerful yellow is an excellent choice; in bright sunny rooms a dull green is at once the most agreeable color to the eye, and perfect as a background for such objects as casts or photographs. In a room where there is no sunlight, a soft yellow will be found of admirable use. The ceilings should be uniformly of an ivory white tint, which will by reflection conserve light, and will be refined and in key with all other colors. The treatment of wood is a study in itself. Briefly and for practical use wood can be treated in two legitimate ways: either it can be painted with relation to the wall colors, or it can be stained to anticipate the results of time upon wood surface. (Mrs. Henry Whitman in the May Atlantic.) THE FORTY-EIGHT HOUR DAY. The date day, and not the natural day, is the one that has an existence of exactly fortyeight hours. Failure to perceive any difference between the day of the week or month and the natural day or succession of day and night, has been the cause of several egregious blunders by some of the reviewers of my recent article entitled "Forty-eight Hours in a Day." One of them says: "Now the imagination is swift-winged enough to start with the first appearance of the sun on the 180th meridian east of Greenwich, or any other, and by 'circling the earth and keeping pace with the morning hours' prolong the day forty-eight years just as easily as that many hours." It is evident that if one should start from Boston, or, to be more exact, from the 75th meridian, at midnight and travel westward just rapidly enough to reach the 90th meridian by the next midnight, he would lengthen both his natural and date day to twenth-five hours; while if he traveled fast enough to cross the continent and reach the 120th meridian by the time midnight overtook him, he would lengthen both days to twenty-seven hours. Could he by any means make his speed just half that of the sun's apparent daily motion his natural day would be lengthened to fortyeight hours, during which he would travel entirely round the earth, reaching his starting point the second midnight. Tho he would see but one natural day (if in spring or fall of twenty-four hours daytime and twenty-four night), it would not be the same date day all the time. If he crossed America on Monday, he would cross Eurasia on Tuesday. Imagine his speed to be six-seventh's of the sun's, and his natural day is a week long; equal the sun's, and it is infinite, but his date day would change just as often as though he did not travel at all. While the natural day can be lengthened any amount, not so the date day. Its greatest length would be thirty-one hours, or if the start were made from the 90th meridian, thirty hours; if from Greenwich thirtysix hours, but if from the 180th meridian, the greatest possible, or forty-eight hours. few somewhat paradoxical statements of facts evolved in the study of the date day may interest, and will be perfectly clear to the readers of "Forty-eight Hours in a Day." A Most persons, even those who have given no special study to the subject, understand that the day begins and ends with people living east of them before it does with them, and with more western inhabitants later. That there are exceptions to this rule is not, I think, very generally known. While the rule is universally true of the natural day, it is not everywhere true of the date day, for there are people on earth to whom every day comes before it does to others occupying territory a little east of them. The statement is frequently made that by traveling around the earth one way you gain a day, and the opposite way lose one. It is sometimes put in this form: If two men start from Boston at the same time and travel around the earth, one going east and the other west, and complete their journeys the same day, the one who travels eastward will see one day more than the Bostonian who remains at home, and the other one less, or two less than the eastward traveler. If they keep journals of each day's events and reach Boston on Sunday, Dec. 1st, for instance, the eastward traveler will record the event as occurring on Monday, Dec. 2nd, and the other on Saturday, Nov. 30th. This statement is correct so far as the number of natural days that each sees is concerned, and the discrepancy in date days also occurs, if the travelers are Robinson Cru soes. But travelers of to-day read the daily papers, and if they keep journals, make their dates and days of the week correspond with those of the people among whom they travel. Consequently when they reach home dates are correct whichever way they journey. But how do they manage to have dates correspond when one actually experiences during the journey two days more than the other? To answer in brief, at a certain point of their journeys the eastward traveler puts two natural days into one date day, and the westward traveler puts two date days into one natural day, or, as it may happen, loses one day altogether. With the eastward traveler it is perhaps a case of two Sundays coming together. I remember from childhood the bad rhyme, "Next day after never, When two Sundays come together," but had till recently supposed it impossible for a day to follow immediately after another of the same name or date. It is, however, not only possible but a frequent occurrence, and I can conceive of instances in which the knowledge of this fact might be of considerable value to a person. Suppose a lady for whose hand I am suing answers me, "Never, till two Sundays come together." I take her on a tour around the world, traveling eastward, and start from Japan for California at the proper time so that we cross the date line Sunday night; the next day being Sunday also, a part of the divine services will be a wedding, and the rest of our journey a wedding tour. Had we been traveling westward from California to Japan we might have missed Sunday altogether, retiring to our staterooms Saturday night and waking up next morning to find it Monday instead of Sunday. And that frequently happens, though more frequently the forepart of the day (more or less of it) will be Saturday and the latter part Sunday; two date days in one natural day. But it is not necessary to travel either by sea or land in order to have such peculiar experiences with the days of the week. If one's house is only located in the right place he may either repeat any day of the week, omit any day, or distribute the hours of any natural day between two date days, giving to each any fractional part that he chooses. For instance, if desiring more than one-seventh of the time. for Sunday he may live in the western part of his house during the twenty-four hours that it is Sunday there, and then by going into the eastern part enjoy another twenty-four of the same day. Or he may live in the eastern part while it is Sunday in the western and pass into the western just in time to avoid Sunday in the eastern, thus escaping the day altogether. Or he may make his Sunday of any length he desires, not exceeding forty-eight hours. Finally, he may write letters during the forenoon in the western part of his house and date them Jan. 1, 1890, for instance, and by going into his eastern room date his afternoon letters Dec. 31, 1889, the last written bearing the earlier date and yet both correct. These puzzling statements are simple enough when we see clearly the beginning, life, and ending of the day, and the fact that there are always two days upon earth at the same time, the area over which one holds sway continually increasing and that of the other diminishing, each upon the earth for forty-eight hours, and the territory of each separated from that of the other by two meridians, one of which is fixed upon the face of the earth and the other constantly changing, but always reaching from pole to pole on the side of the earth exactly Whenever we cross opposite the mean sun. either of these boundaries we pass from the territory of one day into that of another. The midnight meridian, which is constantly changing its location, sweeping entirely around the earth every twenty-four hours, is always the eastern boundary of the earlier date territory, and the western boundary of the later; and we are all familiar with its passing us at midnight, or better, our passing under it by the rotation of the earth, and being carried into the territory of the later date. But the other boundary of each date's territory may be crossed at any time in the natural day, and in either direction, by our own movement independent of that of the earth, consequently the date changed for us either forward or backward. To those who have thought of the divisions of time only in relation to their own locality, the above statements will appear incorrect. But a little consideration of them in relation to the entire earth, will make clear the fact that the day contains exactly forty-eight hours; and that the week, though seven times as long as the day for any one locality, is,-upon the earth as a whole, -only four times as long; that the year contains 366, or if leap year, 367 times twenty-four hours; and that the old rhyme giving the number of days in each month, if we understand the word day in it to mean twenty-four hours, may be correctly worded as follows: Thirty-one days hath September, Save Feb. for which twenty-nine will do, When we give it one day more. and night on the opposite half. The date, or almanac day, travels the same way and with the same speed, and if it had no place for beginning and ending it would always be the same date. We will commence with the beginning of the first day of the year. Is is the moment of noon Dec. 31st, on the meridian of Greenwich; forenoon over the western hemisphere, and afternoon over the eastern. The mean sun is exactly in the south, and at this moment the first day of the new year is born. Where? Not at Greenwich. The civil day begins at midnight, and it is midnight on the 180th meridian at this moment, and there New Year's day begins. As the sun travels westward from Grenewich across the Atlantic and America, New Year's marches westward across the Pacific and Asia, conquering the earth at That we need to take into account the space relation of the day is evident when dealing with such questions as the following: When it is noon with us, what day is it on the opposite side of the earth? It is of course midnight. One day is ending and another beginning; but is to-day ending or beginning? As the time of day is later for places east of us, it seems to be the close of our day when we reckon in that direction; for instance, when it is noon in New York it is about 5 P. M. in London, 7 P. M. in St. Petersburg, etc. But as it is earlier in the day west of us, as 9 A. M. in San Francisco, 6 A. M. in western Alaska, etc., when we reach the same place from that direction it seems to be the beginning of the day. Both can not be true, and which is, depends on our own longitude. This leads us to the fact that there are two days upon the earth at the same time. Now another question: On what part of the earth is it to-day at the present moment, and what day is it on the rest of the earth, yes Dec. 31 terday or to-morrow? It is always one or the other, for no day exists upon the earth for as much as one second of time without the company of either its predecessor or successor. For instance, if we live on the 75th meridian west of Greenwich, when it is noon with us it is some time of the same day on nineteentwenty-fourths of the earth, but it is to-morrow on five-twenty-fourths. When it is 5 A. M. with us, it is yesterday on one-twelfth of the earth. When it is 7 A. M. the same day prevails over the entire earth, but only for a length of time infinitely less than a second. Seven A. M. on the 75th meridian west of Greenwich is the moment in which the previous day expires and the succeeding one is born, and the middle moment of the duration of the present day. Let us proceed to a brief study of the time and place of the beginning of the day, its life and death, then apply, each for himself, the facts in the solution of above or similar questions. We readily perceive that the natural day travels around the earth with the sun, and never ends; it being day or day-time continuously on the half of the earth toward the sun, Midnight at Greenwich 6 A.M. at Greenwich the rate of one twenty-fourth part every hour. By the time the sun reaches the Mississippi valley it is evening of the last day of the year in England, but Jan. 1st holds sway over onefourth of the earth; that lying between the 90th meridian east of Greenwich and the 180th. Six hours later, when the sun has traveled half way around the earth and is over the 180th meridian, New Year's has reached Greenwich and sways one-half the earth. In another six hours the bells of the Mississippi valley are ringing in the new year, but it has been on earth eighteen hours. And in six more, the sun is again over the meridian of Greenwich, and New Year's exists for a single moment over the entire earth. But Mother Earth does not stop her waltzing, nor Old Sol his westward journey, and the second day of January puts in his appearance where the first did twenty-four hours before, and immediately commences chasing his elder brother around the earth at the rate of more than a thousand miles an hour, the chase continuing for exactly twenty-four hours, during which the portion of the earth under the sway of Jan. Ist is continually decreasing and that of the second increasing. Another method of presenting the same facts may be considered better. Think of the days past and future as threads, each wound hours. Of course the same explanation applies to the month, year, or century. We will close this article with a rule based upon above explanations, which some may prefer for determining the date upon different parts of the earth: Time being given for any place, determine where the midnight meridian is, and the portion of the earth lying eastward of it, as far as the 180th, has the later date, and that the westward to the same limit the earlier. -F, H. Bailey, Boston. upon its own spool, and of sufficient length to reach, when unwound, around the earth at the equator. The spools are kept at the 180th meridian. Those bearing past dates having been used, future dates waiting the time, and always two in use at once. When it is noon at Greenwich on the 31st of December, the spool bearing that date is empty and its thread girdles the earth. Beside it, rotating about the same axis [the 180th meridian], is the spool dated Jan. Ist, and at that moment some power capable of traveling a thousand miles an hour seizes the end of the thread and flies westward; the thread unwinds; the other spool rotates at the same velocity, but is winding up the thread of Dec. 31st, dragging it around the earth, the free end keeping exactly even with the advancing end of Jan. Ist. Each thread is exactly twenty-four hours unwinding and the same winding up again, and the portion of the earth lying north and south of the unwound part of each thread bears its date; consequently each date exists upon the earth for forty-eight hours, or a little more than two complete rotations of the earth upon its axis. It is evident that the thread of any day has been unwinding seventeen hours when it reaches the 75th meridian west of Greenwich, that it is twenty-four hours dragging itself THE SCHOOL ROOM. NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE, 1804-1864. His Life. He was the only son in a family of three children. His father, a sea captain, died when Nathaniel was four years old. His mother, a sensitive woman of fine natural gifts, shut herself in the house for thirty years after the death of her husband. He was of retiring and melancholy nature, and up to fourteen years of age lived in Salem with his mother, reading poetry and Walter Scott's novels, which inspired him to invent strange, wild stories. After a year in Raymond, Me., where he led an outdoor life, the family returned to Salem, from whence he went to Bowdoin college, from which he graduated in the same class with Longfellow. He longed to become an author, but his first writings. were not successful, and he styled himself "the obscurest man of letters in America." He was a great reader, and is said to have read all the books in the Salem athenæum library in the twelve years after graduation. Later he took part in the famous Brook Farm experiment, his experience in which was afterwards used in the "Blithedale Romance." After his marriage he lived three years at the historic Manse in Concord, and here wrote "Mosses from an Old Manse." In 1846 he became surveyor in the Salem custom house, so attractively described in the introduction to the "Scarlet Letter," began at this period. Losing his position three years later he moved about from place to place, writing "The House of Seven Gables," "The Wonder Book," "Blithedale Romance" and "Twice Told Tales." In 1853 he was made Consul at Liverpool, and gathered material for "English Note-books" and "Our Old Home," during his service of four years. In the two years of European travel which followed, mostly in Italy, he gathered the material for the "Italian Note Books" and "The Marble Faun." Returning Now let us apply the facts relative to the day to a longer period of time, -as the week. The following diagram will illustrate the coexistence of its days and its length of eight times twenty-four hours. Sun. M. Tu. W. Th. F. S. Each line represents a day of the week, the last half or twenty-four hours of each existing contemporaneously with the first half of the following day. The week itself overlaps both the previous and succeeding weeks twenty-four to Concord in 1860, during a trip to the White Mountains, he died suddenly during sleep, May 19, 1864. He left three children. Anna the eldest, prepared the manuscript of "Septimius Felten" for publication. Rose, an artist and author, married George Parsons Lathrop and Julian, his only son, has made himself distinguished as an author. Longfellow's Tribute. How beautiful it was, that one bright day Though all its splendor could not chase away The lovely town was white with apple bloom, Dark shadows were on their aerial looms, Across the meadows, by the gray old manse, I was as one who wanders in a trance, The faces of familiar friends seemed strange, And yet the words they uttered seemed to change For the one face I looked for was not there, The one low voice was mute. Only an unseen presence filled the air, Now I look back, and meadow, manse and stream I only see a dream within a dream- I only hear, above his place of rest The infinite longings of a troubled breast, There in seclusion and remote from men Which at its topmost speed let fall the pen, Ah! who shall lift that wand of magic power; The unfinished window in Aladdin's tower The Elements of His Art. At intervals since Hawthorne's death all the writings he left behind him have been published, one after another-his private letters, the note books he kept irregularly in America and Europe, and the several efforts he made to shape the story he finally left unfinished when he died. But the publication of these things never intended for the public has not interfered with his fame. Though they did not add to it they did not detract from it. They took us in some measure into his workshop, but they could not reveal the secret of his art; that died with him. They showed that his English was always pure and clear, and that his style was always simple and noble. They revealed little or nothing of real value for an estimate of the author tho they served to confirm the belief that he brooded long over his tales and his romances, shaping each to the inward moral it was to declare, and perfecting each slowly until it had attained in every detail the symmetry which would satisfy his own most exacting taste. Many have marveled that Hawthorne should have been able to write romances here in this new country of ours, which seems to lack all that others have considered needful for romance, but to a seer of his insight this was no difficult matter. Hawthorne was able to find romance not in external trappings but deep down in the soul of man himself. Beside this power of entering into the recesses of the human heart, he had not only a vigorous imagination, not only great ingenuity in inventing incident, not only the gift of the story-telling faculty in a high degree, but also a profound respect for the art of narrative; and these qualities all combined to make him the most accomplished artist in fiction that America has yet produced.-Matthew's American Literature. His Three Greatest Books. Of the four romances "The Scarlet Letter" stands at the head in intensity, subtile analysis of human passion, and minute dissection of the workings of guilty human hearts. Its back ground and atmosphere were taken with wonderful accuracy from early New England days, its theme is the blasting power of a single sin. "The Scarlet Letter" is, without doubt, the most artistic creation that America has given to literature. "The House of Seven Gables," while not so intense as "The Scarlet Letter," is, nevertheless, a somber story of sin and its punishment. Its background is old Salem, its theme, in Hawthorne's own words, is how "the wrong doing of one generation lives into the successive ones, and, divesting itself of every advantage, becomes a pure and uncontrollable mischief." The romance has almost the three unities of the Greek drama. The time, although centuries are involved, is in reality but a few weeks; the story only once leaves the venerable house of the seven gables, and then it hastens back again, "like an owl bewildered in the daylight, and hastens back to its hollow tree;" its action is the embodiment of unity. The Marble Faun" is the only one of his creations that has a foreign background and atmosphere. Its theme is the transforming power of a single sin. The romance is more mystical and vague than the others; the characters, in the words of Motley, "are shadowy, weird, fantastic, Hawthornesque shapes, flitting through the golden gloom which is the atmosphere of the book;" the narrative is often |