turn his knowledge to a good account.  Last summer he preached a sermon at Wheathedge, on female education.  He told us about female education among the Greeks, and the Romans, and the Hebrews, and the Persians, and the Egyptians—­though not much about it in America of to-day.  But it was a learned discourse—­at least I suppose so.  Three weeks after, I met the President of the Board of Trustees of the Polltown Female Seminary, I mentioned incidentally that I was spending the summer at Wheathedge.

“You have got a strong man up there somewhere,” said he, “that Dr. Argure, of Newtown.  He delivered an address before our seminary last week on female education; full of learning sir, full of learning.  We put him right on our Board of Trustees.  Next year I think we shall make him President.”

A month or so after I found in the weekly Watch Tower an editorial,—­indeed I think there were three in successive numbers—­on female education.  They had a familiar sound, and happening to meet the editor, I spoke of them.

“Yes,” said he “they are by Dr. Argure.  A very learned man that sir.  Does an immense amount of work too.  He is one of our editorial contributors as perhaps you see, and an able man, very learned sir.  Those are very original and able articles sir.”

This fall I took up the Adriatic Magazine, and there what should my eye fall on but an article on female education.  I did not read it; but the papers assured their readers that it was a learned and exhaustive discussion on the whole subject by that scholarly and erudite writer, Dr. Argure.  And having heard this asserted so often, I began to think that it certainly must be true.  And then in January I received a pamphlet on female education by Dr. Argure.  It was addressed to the Board of Education, and demanded a higher course of training for woman, and was a learned and exhaustive discussion of the whole subject from the days of Moses down.

“An able man that Dr. Argure,” said Mr. Wheaton to me the other day referring to that same pamphlet.

“Yes, I think he is,” I could not help saying.  “I think he can stir more puddings with one pudding stick than any other man I know.”

Still he stirs them pretty well.  And if he can do it I do not know that there is any objection.

But if I do not believe in Dr. Argure quite as fully as some less sceptical members of his congregation do, Deacon Goodsole believes in him most implicitly.  Deacon Goodsole is a believer—­not I mean in anything in particular, but generally.  He likes to believe; he enjoys it; he does it, not on evidence, but on general principles.  The deacons of the stories are all crabbed, gnarled, and cross-grained.  They are the terrors of the little boys, and the thorn in the flesh to the minister.  But Deacon Goodsole is the most cheery, bright, and genial of men.  He is like a streak of sunshine.  He sensibly radiates the prayer-meeting, which would be rather