Philadelphia (Repplier)/Chapter 6
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THERE is an especial charm to the modest student of history in contemplating the little beginnings of big things; and most big things, whose bigness is of a lasting and satisfying nature, have started on so small a scale that we can afford to feel familiar with them from their birth. It is only in the present day, and only in this impatient western world, that institutions are expected to spring into existence, as Pallas Athene sprang from the brain of Zeus, vigorous, mature, and fully equipped for achievement. An impression prevails now among energetic people that a university can be finished off-hand, and set running like a locomotive. All we need are the stone walls, the apparatus, and money to pay the professors. It is a mere question of steam. But the wise old monk who said to the magnificent Medici, "Ah! Lorenzo, money does not make masters; masters make money," knew whereof he spoke. Our great, great grandfathers had but little money when they planted the seeds of learning in the infant colonies; but they gave unstintedly from their narrow resources, and were content that future generations should finish their work, and reap the fulness of their harvest. Two young men, one of them a chemist and one a dentist, called together a few friends in their own walk of life, rented a little room over a milliner's shop, placed in it, with infinite pride, a dozen stuffed birds and a jar or two of reptiles, and met there at night to discuss "the operations of nature," pledging themselves wisely to leave politics and religion entirely out of their debates. From this modest beginning, this insignificant society, sprang the Philadelphia Academy of Natural Sciences, the oldest institution of its kind in America, which has borne a part in Arctic expeditions, diffused knowledge over the eastern States, and counted among its members the scholars and scientists of the land.
In another small room in Jone's Alley, a few books, loaned by a club of gentlemen, were kept in three little bookcases for the benefit of members who might wish to consult them, and these three little bookcases cradled the infancy of the Philadelphia Library. The volumes grew so shabby under constant handling that their owners became dissatisfied; and into the fertile brain of Franklin crept the project of a public library which should differ from all other public libraries, inasmuch as its books should be lent to subscribers, and carried home "into the bosom of private families." Much was hoped for the future, but little was exacted from the present, Franklin being wise enough to recognize the principle of growth. Fifty gentlemen willing to pay forty shillings each were sought for anxiously, but, as they were hard to find, half that number were held to be sufficient for a foundation, and when the Library Company saw itself in possession of forty-five pounds, it determined to send to England for books. With a modesty beyond all praise, the members of the Company acknowledged their unfitness to select these precious volumes, and requested James Logan, "a gentleman of universal learning, and the best judge of books in these parts," to make out the necessary list. When the infant library arrived in Philadelphia,—a pedantic and somewhat ponderous infant it proved to be,—the room in Jone's Alley was prepared for its reception; and from there it migrated to an apartment in the State House, and afterwards to Carpenter's Hall. The elate directors met at the house of Nicholas Scull, "who loved books, and sometimes made a few verses," elected a librarian, who only attended twice a week, designed a seal, and passed a resolution, placing their volumes at the disposal of any "civil gentleman" who wished to read them, though only subscribers were permitted to carry them away. A public library, it may be observed, was not then intended to provide young women with an inexhaustible supply of novels.
In 1733, Thomas Penn, second son of William Penn and Hannah Callowhill, visited the colony, and the adroit directors presented him with an address, asking his patronage for an institution which was to make Philadelphia "the future Athens of America." His Excellency was not averse to a little well-timed flattery, and was ready to assist inexpensively in moulding an American Athens. He presented to the Library an air-pump, a microscope, and the promise of a lot of land, which was not definitely secured until twenty-four years later. Other gentlemen imitated his generosity, and donated a cabinet of medals, a collection of Indian fish-hooks, some Chinese slippers, the hand of an Egyptian mummy, and various articles of the kind that museums are now expected to accept from anybody who wishes to be rid of them, but which were particularly undesirable in a library which lacked sufficient space for its books. The volumes remained in Carpenter's Hall until after the Revolution, and were an occasional solace to both the English and American officers, especially when the library-room was used as a hospital. Not a single book, it is said, was lost or mutilated during this period of usurpation, and the soldiers with scrupulous integrity or courtesy paid the customary fee for every work they read.
In 1789 the directors laid the corner-stone of the old library building in Fifth Street, with its curious homely inscription:—
"Be it remembered
In honour of the Philadelphia youth,
(Then chiefly artificers)
That in MDCCXXXI
They cheerfully,
At the instance of Benjamin Franklin,
One of their number,
Instituted the Philadelphia Library;
Which though small at first,
Is become highly valuable and extensively useful;
And which the walls of this edifice
Are now destined to contain and preserve."
In December, 1790, the books were triumphantly carried to this their first real home. A statue of Franklin, executed in Italy, was presented to the Company by Mr. William Bingham, and placed in a niche over the doorway. Tradition says that this statue cost five hundred guineas, and history records that, before it was ordered, a committee of the directors waited upon the illustrious scholar to learn his wishes in the matter, and reported to Mr. Bingham that Dr. Franklin desired "a gown for his dress, and a Roman head." The figure was accordingly draped in a toga, after the approved fashion of the eighteenth century, of which St. Paul's in London affords us so many delightful examples, and it looks like a benign old gentleman preparing decorously for his morning bath. It still stands over the portal of the new library building erected in Locust Street, in 1880, when the vast accumulation of books demanded a more spacious habitation.
For the few insignificant volumes in the little room in Jone's Alley have increased and multiplied exceedingly. In 1792 the Loganian Library, so called from its founder, James Logan, was added to the collection. In 1869 the bequest of Dr. James Rush placed at the disposal of the Company the beautiful building known as the Ridgway Branch of the Philadelphia Library. In this spacious mansion, stately, remote, and inaccessible, a hundred thousand volumes repose in dignified seclusion. It is a granite mausoleum where knowledge sleeps serenely, unvexed by would-be readers, and the noisy tumult of the world. Far different is the fate of the remaining books which number nearly a hundred thousand more, and which, in the less imposing edifice in Locust Street, are comparatively at the mercy of the crowd. Here, too, may be found a number of interesting historical relics; William Penn's desk, comfortable, commodious, and full of delightful little drawers; his clock, still bravely keeping time; Franklin's clock, which is far more
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Franklin's Clock
ornate and elegant; and the old inscribed corner-stone of the Fifth Street Library, which has been carefully transferred to the new walls. Here, in the words of the devout ornithologist, Alexander Wilson, we may
not altogether ignoring our debt of gratitude to the "artificers" of Philadelphia, who, nearly two centuries ago, planned and plotted, worked and saved, to leave to future generations the little library which, grown into such fair proportions, is an inheritance carrying down to us in every volume the wisdom and the good-will of our ancestors.
It is to Franklin that the Quaker City owes her college as well as her books. Indeed, we can no more escape from Franklin when studying the history of Philadelphia, than we can escape from Michelangelo when studying the treasures of Rome or Florence; and Mark Twain's ribald witticism is as applicable to the one case as to the other. Turn where we will, from the homeliest detail of practical life to the sharp strife of politics, the wild flights of philosophy, the freshly opened field of scientific research; seek where we may for the beginning of everything that is most useful and most highly valued in the Philadelphia of to-day, and we are always confronted by the same ubiquitous figure. It was Franklin who invented the stove which warmed nearly every parlour in the town; Franklin who invented the lightning-rod which protected nearly every farmhouse in the State; Franklin who organized the fire companies; Franklin who started the Philosophical Society; Franklin who obtained from England a fair taxation of the proprietary estates; Franklin who pranked it gayly at the French court, flattered by fair women, and cheered by the sapient mob; and Franklin who, alarmed at the ignorance he saw on every side of him, resolved that the sons of Philadelphia citizens should have some higher education than that afforded them by the admirable but limited training of the Quaker schools.
In 1749, having thought the matter over for several years, he made known his views in a pamphlet entitled "Proposals Relating to the Education of Youth in Pennsylvania." Many of these "proposals," it must be admitted, are of a serenely chimerical order, and suggest the Utopian dreams of Milton, who held that schoolboys should never be permitted to eat their dinners, uncheered by the ravishment of music. For music, indeed, Franklin cared but little; and as for dinners, they were to be of Spartan simplicity in the new establishment. "Poor Richard" was not likely
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to see the college funds wasted in riotous living. But the school should be surrounded by an orchard and many green meadows; the students were to learn how to write "a fair hand swiftly"; to acquire a moderate knowledge of arithmetic, geometry, astronomy, and kindred subjects; and to read Pope, Addison, Tillotson, Algernon Sidney, and a translation of Cato's Letters, by way of acquiring good style and good principles. On Greek and Latin, alas! no time was to be wasted,—it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a self-taught man to recognize the value of the classics,—but the grand underlying principle of the institution was that the students were to study nothing, unless they felt impatient to do so. Even a simple matter like geography was not to be essayed, until a familiarity with past events—how acquired we are not told—had awakened in them a desire to know the position and extent of countries where such events had taken place. Education, which hitherto had meant the goading on of reluctant youth, was now at last to assume its true character,—a free and joyous pursuit of knowledge, of such knowledge, at least, as the Philadelphia lads deemed it incumbent to acquire.
The breadth and depth of Franklin's theories did not for one moment interfere with his severely practical plans for the establishment and support of the Academy. The subscription he set on foot for this purpose met with extraordinary success, the number of students increased rapidly, and the trustees acquired for very little money the great barn-like building on Fourth Street that had been erected for the benefit of the Rev. Mr. Whitefield, after he had alienated the affections of his brother clergymen by passing "unwarrantable sentences on men, as if he were the supreme Judge,"—a habit ill calculated to promote charity and good-will. The selection of the Rev. William Smith for provost was due largely to another pamphlet—pamphlets carried wondrous weight in those colonial days—which that ardent young Scotchman had published a year or two before, and in which he gave his views upon the training and education of youth. Dr. Smith's literary methods were not wholly unlike those of our modern social reformers. Instead of dry, logical arguments, he contented himself with a lively description of an imaginary and ideal institution, the "College of Mirania," in which lads were taught, somewhat after the "Harry and Lucy" fashion, everything that mortal man could learn. Physics and fencing, mechanics and agriculture, the philosophy of politics and practical farming,—nothing came amiss to the Miranian youths, and nothing sated their inexhaustible thirst for information. Franklin, who knew most things himself, and saw no reason why other men should not know them too, was enchanted with the pamphlet, and eager to secure the services of its author. The trustees shared his enthusiasm, without his knowledge to excuse it; Smith was summoned from New York to Philadelphia; and—if we may trust the curriculum of the infant college which embraces every art and every science—the theories of Mirania were put as far as possible into practice.
The wisdom of Providence, however, has placed an insurmountable barrier between such theories and their accomplishment, in the steady, wholesome resistance of the average boy, who can be trusted implicitly
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After an old painting
to protect himself from the perils of over-instruction. Girl students are led with dangerous ease over the thorny paths where knowledge stalks unchecked; but the stolid sanity of the boy stays his footsteps in good time, and frequently a little earlier than need be. The lads who thronged with cheerful tumult and confusion into the old collegiate rooms on Fourth Street resembled but indifferently their Miranian models, and learned only as much of the abundance that was offered as it was wise and well for them to know.
It seemed inevitable that the college, though priding itself originally on its purely liberal basis, should gravitate towards the Episcopal and proprietary party. Where should it have turned, if not to its friends and supporters? The Penns, recognizing it as an able ally, gave liberally out of their abundance to its needs; and when Dr. Smith went to England to collect funds, he naturally addressed himself to dignitaries of his own church. The long list of clergymen, bishops, archbishops, and peers who swiftly responded to his appeal, proves the generous interest taken by the English establishment in the little colonial college; and the great universities of England held out helping hands to their small sister over the seas, who was battling against heavy odds for life.
For the Quakers were disposed to look askance upon Mirania, and the learned Dr. Smith, being the most belligerent of men, took infinite pains to arouse their resentment and animosity. After Braddock's defeat had awakened Pennsylvania to a sense of mingled shame and apprehension, he published two pamphlets, charging the Assembly with supine cowardice and neglect of its duties. The Indian massacres, in his opinion, were due wholly to the Quakers and their abominable religion, which left the province at the mercy of savages. It would be well, he gently asserted, to stamp this religion from the face of the earth, and to drive the Quakers from their places of authority,—or, if necessary, cut their throats. These Rienzi-like sentiments from a young man of twenty-nine were hardly calculated to soften the hearts of his opponents; and when he followed them up by enthusiastically supporting the seditious utterances of William Moore, the Assembly exerted its "tyrannous power," and clapped him into jail for libel.
This was a serious drawback to the prosperity of the college, but a magnificent opportunity for the warlike and oratorical provost. He made the most of it! The day of his trial was one of profound and delightful excitement. Dr. Smith in heroic periods defied the Assembly, refused to retract his statements, demanded a writ of habeas corpus, and swore that he would appeal to the crown. Storms of applause greeted him from his friends; but the unmoved Assembly remanded him to prison, where he remained, at some inconvenience to himself and others, for eleven weeks. The trustees of the college ordered that his classes should attend him there at their usual hours, and the enthusiastic students had the supreme felicity of swarming into the jail, and manifesting the exuberance of their zeal. It was a trifle demoralizing perhaps, and hardly conducive to the calm acquisition of knowledge; nothing of the kind had ever happened in Mirania; but for pure enjoyment it surpassed any diversion offered to the Miranian youths.
The provost wrote joyously to the Bishop of London that his cell was crowded with visitors from morning to night, and that he transacted there all the important business of the college. In fact, those who suffer persecution for justice' sake do not always have to wait for another world in which to meet with their reward. They are apt to get a large instalment of it here. Love and fame stand at the martyr's door. An interesting young woman gave her heart to the captive scholar, and promptly married him. When released from prison for the second time, for he had been rearrested after his first discharge, he sailed for England, and was received with that sympathy and admiration which every nation is so swift to manifest for another nation's ill-used patriots. The Church recognized in him a champion of the faith whom the tyrannous Quakers had signally failed to subdue. Oxford and Aberdeen granted him degrees. London gave him dinners and applause. His appeal to the Privy Council met with supreme success. The Assembly was censured for its unconstitutional disregard of a subject's rights and privileges, and, when Dr. Smith returned to Philadelphia, it was as a justified and triumphant man. The episode had sadly disturbed the serenity and the utility of the college; but it brought unqualified satisfaction to the provost, and heartened him for fresh crusades.
It was a period of strange hostilities. The vain attempt to abolish the proprietorship left the province sullen and disturbed. The coming of the Revolution threw its mighty shadow over the hearts of men, and they wrangled bitterly, filled with mistrust and anger. In the first meetings held by prominent citizens of Philadelphia to express sympathy for poor locked-up Boston, we find the college provost emphatically asserting the indefeasible right of the colonies to vote their own supplies,—a right which they would never abandon. His seemed a voice destined to uphold the cause of freedom, and help an injured people to rebel; but the overwhelming speed with which rebellion, once set going, advanced, disconcerted him, as it did many older and wiser men. The college, moreover, was closely bound to England by ties of creed, by gratitude for favours given, and by that reverent admiration which every little, but right-thinking, school feels for the great universities, which stand crowned by the scholarship of the past, rich with the inheritance of the centuries. It was a loyal college ever; loyal to its own traditions, but more loyal still to the claims of the commonwealth which were stronger than any tradition. The stormy years of revolutionary war were ill adapted for the advancement of education; but the triumph of the Constitutionalists should have meant protection and safety for Philadelphia's scholars. This was what Franklin strove in vain to insure by a clause in the new Constitution, providing that all schools and all churches should be left in undisturbed possession of their privileges. What really happened is almost too scandalous to be told. The Assembly, composed now of extremists under the leadership of Reed, professed to doubt the patriotism of an institution which had never failed in respect and obedience to the national government, and which had for its trustees men like Robert Morris and James Wilson, who had signed the Declaration of Independence, and striven unceasingly for the freedom and the honour of their land. In 1779 the college charter was declared void, the Faculty was dissolved after the parliamentary fashion of Cromwell, and the property was handed over to new trustees, with directions to found a brand-new alma mater, which was to be modestly entitled, "The University of the State of Pennsylvania."
It was an act of spoliation, without excuse and without redress. Its immediate result was the collapse of education in Philadelphia. The old college, deprived of charter, roof-tree, and funds, refused to die peaceably when requested, but struggled on, crippled and well-nigh useless. Its provost, whose heroic pluck would never allow him to know when he was beaten, retired to Maryland, only to plan fresh campaigns for the future. The new "University" found its honours heavy to bear, and its task impossible of performance. The magnificent title mocked the feebleness of its intellect, the inadequacy of its work. Poor minion of fortune, it could not even rely upon its own friends. After nine years, the Assembly which had bidden it live, took from it all means of livelihood. The act of 1779 was pronounced "repugnant to justice, and a violation of the Constitution of the Commonwealth." The property was handed ruthlessly back to its rightful owner, the old College of Philadelphia, and Provost Smith, victorious and elate, took his place at the head of the institution.
But not for long. There could be no stability anywhere amid such hopeless elements of disorder. As the strife of factions ran higher and higher, scholarship sank lower and lower. The college and the university stood side by side, weakened and well-nigh weaponless. They could do nothing worth the doing apart, and it was hoped they might accomplish something together. With the consent of the Legislature, a union was effected in 1791; the simple old name was abandoned in favour of the more aspiring designation; and the trustees were impartially selected from every contesting clique and party the city could afford, in the hope, as Mr. Sydney Fisher aptly expresses it, "that the more dissimilar and disunited they were, the more they would work in harmony." Dr. Smith disappeared forever from the collegiate halls, and education departed with him. Mirania was no more, and, in her place, an enfeebled school, calling itself a university, struggled for existence, and graduated a pitiful handful of students every year. Only the medical department, established in 1765, was strong enough to resist the dismal influence of the times; and through the unceasing efforts of Dr. Shippen, Dr. Rush, Dr. Wistar, and other physicians of distinction, advanced steadily step by step to the splendid future that awaited it. In medicine and surgery Philadelphia always claimed preëminence, and her doctors to-day need look back upon no period of their history with shame in their hearts for its dishonourable inactivity. But it was not until after the Civil War that the University began slowly to raise its downcast head, that head now held aloft in conscious and justifiable elation. In 1871, one of Franklin's early "Proposals" was realized in part by the erection of the new college buildings in West Philadelphia; where, if no green meadows and fruitful orchards win the students from their books, and no river rolls invitingly under collegiate windows, there is at least a campus and a little breathing space, turf under foot, and blue sky overhead. In these buildings, which from year to year have received important additions, the college which has passed through so many vicissitudes, so many changes of scene and fortune, has at last fulfilled the proudest hopes of those who first sped her on her way for the help and enlightenment of posterity.
Six years before the ever famous "Proposals" saw the light of day, another and very different scheme of education was being slowly shaped into action by the resistless energy of Franklin. In 1743 he conceived the admirable idea of forming a society "for promoting useful knowledge among the British plantations in America," or, in other words, for connecting the aspiring science of the New World with the supercilious science of the Old. The members of this society were naturally chosen from the "Junto," a club organized by Franklin "for mutual improvement," when he was but twenty-one years old. The Junto was a serious club, not given to youthful frivolities, still less to youthful indiscretions. It met, indeed, in a tavern; but the members asked each other difficult questions, such as "Is there any essential difference between the electric fluid and elementary fire?" or "What becomes of the water constantly flowing into the Mediterranean?" and took a sincere pleasure in endeavouring to answer them. In fact, they solemnly promised, on admission, not only to love truth for truth's sake, but to receive it impartially themselves, and to communicate it industriously to others.
Here was exactly the material needed by Franklin for the formation of a Philosophical Society. Young men who diverted themselves in this exemplary manner were surely born to be philosophers. Nevertheless, the old Junto did not, as is commonly supposed, melt
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at once into the new organization. It held together as a club until 1766, when it became the formidable "American Society for promoting and propagating Useful Knowledge;" and it was not until three years later that the Philosophical Society and the American Society united their forces, and became one. Franklin was elected the first president of the combined fraternities, and held that position until his death. Richard Penn, the most affable of the proprietors, consented to act as patron. The Quaker Assembly looked with favour upon philosophers who proposed to push their investigations into practical matters, and who, in the intervals of discussing the best form of government, or the secret of happiness, were not above a care for smoky chimneys, and a farmer-like regard for manures. In fact, "the useful science of agriculture" occupied a great deal of their leisure and attention. Franklin's enthusiasm for rice equalled Napoleon's for beets, or Edmund Burke's for carrots. Thomas Jefferson, who was at one time president of the philosophers as well as of the United States, designed a model plough, almost as good in its way as Franklin's model stove. The Assembly generously voted a thousand pounds to assist the Society in planting mulberry trees for the benefit of silkworms, which were to be invited to emigrate to the New World and feed on them.
"Botany, medicine, mineralogy, chemistry, mining, mechanics, arts, trades, manufactures, geography, and topography," also appear on the list of subjects to be studied and discussed; yet, even under this severe pressure of erudition, the genial philosophers found time to give themselves, and occasionally their neighbours, very good dinners, and to turn their minds to the consideration of those practical details which philosophy is wont to ignore, but upon which the comfort of colonial life was largely dependent. This was in keeping with Franklin's character, and avowed inclinations. "No other writer," says Mr. MacMaster, "has pointed out so clearly the way to obtain the greatest amount of comfort out of life;" and the old panegyrist who penned this glowing tribute,—
would have been nearer the mark if he had written the last line,—
To increase the comfort and prosperity, as well as the scholarship of the province, was the laudable ambition of the Philosophical Society. Its members, drawn from every creed and every rank of life, present a curious medley of colonial pundits. David Rittenhouse, the astronomer, who succeeded Franklin as president; ex-governor Hamilton, the distinguished leader of the proprietary party; and Brother Jabetz, Prior of the Ephrata cloister, who was wont to walk eighty miles, it is said, to attend the meetings, and whose tall spare figure in flowing robe, girt by a hempen cord, added a charming element of picturesqueness, as well as a flavour of asceticism which seemed just what the philosophers required. It was this unworldly monk who, after the Revolution, translated the Declaration of Independence into seven languages, and proved himself of great service to the State in reading diplomatic correspondence. Tradition says that for all this work he never demanded, and alas! never received a penny of pay from a too thrifty government. The Prior, however often he may have walked the eighty miles, had neglected to learn one important lesson from the lips of Franklin, who would have taught him plainly that the labourer is worthy of his hire.
The first momentous task undertaken by the Philosophical Society was the scientific observation of the transit of Venus, in 1769. This was an enterprise requiring a large expenditure of money, as well as the closest care and calculation; but it was the looked-for opportunity for the colonial scientists to associate themselves with the scientists of Europe, and to add their quota to the accurate information of the world. Observatories were erected in Philadelphia, in Norristown, and at Cape Henlopen. The Assembly voted one hundred pounds for the purchase of a telescope. Thomas Penn sent a second admirable telescope from England. The day of the transit, June third, was one of unbroken clearness and brilliancy, nature having abandoned her usual perversity for this ever memorable occasion; and the observations taken were so completely successful that Dr. Maskelyne, the astronomer royal, pronounced them enthusiastically to be an honour to Pennsylvania, and to all the learned gentlemen whose indefatigable exertions had accomplished this splendid result.
With the approach of war, the zeal of the philosophers for scientific research grew visibly less. It was not a time for study; and during three tumultuous years the Society never held a single meeting. Its members were mostly occupied in making history, and had scant leisure for the calm pursuit of agriculture or astronomy. On the fifth of March, 1779, they reassembled to gather up the broken threads of their past work; and a year later they were granted their first charter, and a lot of ground adjoining the State House on which to build a hall. In 1787 this hall was completed, and still stands undesecrated, save in a few details, by modern renovations. Here on their dusty shelves are the ancient volumes which Franklin and Rittenhouse handled; here are many curious relics of the Society's vigorous youth, and of days so long past we have well-nigh forgotten the lessons that they taught us. In one of these beautiful rooms Washington was painted by the three Peales, and the historic mantel-shelf which forms the background of the portrait has now, alas! been dug from the wall, and banished as lumber to the cellar. When La Fayette returned to America, the Philosophical Society entertained him under its own roof-tree, and Mr. Charles Ingersoll delivered an address of such flattering eloquence that it would have abashed Napoleon, and made Cæsar blush beneath his civic wreath, though, to the insatiable vanity of the genial Frenchman, it was probably no more than a bare recognition of his merits.
Among the philosophers may be found long lists of distinguished names, both European and American. Noah Webster, Washington Irving, George Bancroft, Dr. Holmes, James Russell Lowell, Louis Agassiz, and Joseph Leidy were members. Even women are not altogether lacking from the rolls. Mrs. Somerville, Mrs. Agassiz, and Mrs. Seiler were elected as valued members; and also that very different exponent of feminine scholarship, rich in knowledge and in many experiences, the Princess Daschkof. The Empress was not pleased at her favourite's acceptance of the proffered honour. Catherine the Second never liked Benjamin Franklin, and had scant tolerance for his philosophy. She refused coldly to receive him, and refused to give any reason for her denial. It was not for the ruler of all the Russias to cheapen her deeds with reasons. "I do not care for him," was the only opinion she ever vouchsafed. The same imperial and comprehensive criticism was passed by Elizabeth of England upon John Knox, when she forbade him English soil.