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least felt, and we strolled along a fine promenade for full two-thirds of the ship's length; the other way, we crouched in a mournful stern-cabin, two ladders down from the light of the sun, and we huddled together on deck with yet another deck above us. But the chief horror to escape is a second-cabin piano, which makes for coarse hilarity and rough-and-tumble acquaintanceship. Capital fun are those nightly impromptu vaudeville programmes, with Scottish ballads by Highland girls, English ditties and recitations by Cornish or Kentish working-lads, and jocular impersonations by barnstorming actors and music-hall vocalists; but I think they have need now and then of a fairly rigorous censoring. Without a piano you fare much better; indeed, you fare exceedingly well. A little taste for sociology will lend a fine zest to your ocean transit, for here at your elbow are the best of Wyckoff's "workers," and for ten long days you can keep them busy unbosoming their inmost souls. You will find them mightily ap proachable, particularly if you take along a tempting pair of ship's glasses; yet they hold their distance surprisingly. You may keep what isolation you desire, if perchance you desire to keep any at all. The second-cabin people on the Boston Cunarders are mainly English, Scotch, and Irish mill-operatives-hyphenated Americans going back for a "holiday" with the old folks at home; but now and then you may meet a party of young collegians; sometimes an impecunious preacher or painter or musician or college instructor; quite frequently a group of New England schoolma'ams, with novels and rugs and spectacles. Yet the grandest resource is the steerage.

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While you must not mingle with those splendid Fifth Avenue sea-kings, the first-cabin passengers, you are cheerily welcomed by the very humblest. They cannot come you, but you may go to them; and many a pleasant hour have I passed, leaning over the ship's bow with Patsy Rafferty and Judy O'Grady, and watching the porpoises racing by day, or the soft phosphorescence by night. Life's dearest luxuries cost least; here is a whole new world of humanity laid open, the while you are saving a half of your ocean fare; and when you step ashore at the Liverpool landing-stage, you will find you have

saved still more, for your steward is made proud with a shilling. Meanwhile, just think what extortionate fees those firstcabin folk are bestowing!

Humility is a gentle, agreeable virtue. Besides, there's money in it. Touring by rail, you will modestly choose the thirdclass carriage. You will book for a penny a mile, which is the English way of saying that you pay two cents a mile for your ticket. From Liverpool by Chester, Birmingham, the Shakespeare country, Oxford, and Windsor to London; from London by the cathedral cities-Ely, Peterboro', Lincoln, York, and Durham— to Edinburgh; from Edinburgh by coach and steamer and rail, amongst the bens and lochs of the highlands, to Glasgow ; from Glasgow by lovely Carlisle and the English lake district back to Liverpool— my tickets for the whole journey cost me twenty-five dollars. Nor is cheapness the sole merit of third-class travel. When the guard slams the door, he shuts you in at close quarters with nine highly communicative representatives of Merrie England. You listen to their chatter, you ask them questions, you set them expounding the life and the ways of their country, and they respond to sympathetic interest with a very engaging solicitude, lest your journey fail to teach you the best you might learn. Scarlet poppies line the slopes of the railway cuts, dainty rose-clambered cottages flit by, you hurry like Tennyson's brook "by twenty thorps, a little town, and a half a hundred bridges," coursing through Britain, personally conducted by the Britons. Here are all sorts of people -at one extreme a cultured Oxonian, at the other the simple peasant folk. Or it may be they talk of America. Having witnessed Colonel Cody's vivid representations of Yankee life, they ask to see your "shooting-iron;" they argue that Lincoln is still President of the United States; they inquire whether "Conneckticut" is in "Tchicaggo;" they wonder whether you know their uncle who drives a street-car in Rio Janeiro-thereby establishing the truth of Charles Dudley Warner's assertion that in England ignorance of America is one of the branches taught in the public schools.

Quite proportional to the cheapness of travel by day is the cheapness of going to bed when the day is done. Taverns, coffee

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houses, temperance hotels, and charming little inns afford real comfort at a cost of from twenty-five cents to half a dollar. If two share a room, the charge for each is reduced. And it is the part of prudence to pay in advance. In that way you fail to receive the bill of the hostelry, with its name, "Golden Cloud," "Legs of Man," King Charles in the Oak," "Blue Bell," or "Red Lion," enscrolled at the top; but you escape the long column of petty charges beneath it, hearing nothing of "boots," "fires," "candles," or 66 service." So, once your lodging is paid for, you proceed to the "commercial room.' Good-evening, gentlemen," you say as you enter, and a dozen jolly Englishmen look up and return your greeting. Times have little changed since Geoffrey Chaucer wrote of the Tabard Inn and its group of pilgrims,

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Then you have till eleven o'clock to make those men tell you about England. It is best on such occasions to keep one's nationality a little obscure. To that end it will pay you to make yourself as English as you can wear the costume, speak the language. The former is easy. Englishmen spot us by our American hats and our "paper-soled" shoes; also by the cut of our clothes, though the chief Judas of our betrayal is the tongue, not the cloth. Yet, by continual contact with the English, you soon enough drop your Yankeeisms, and you fall quite unconsciously into the lilting sing-song of British speech. To be sure, you are far from perfect, but there are so many different accents and dialects in England that a miserable approximation of any one of them will simply lead an Englishman to set you down as from some distant region of the island. And, while putting on the Johnny Bull removes a certain barrier between you and your fellow-pilgrims, it saves you many a dollar. There are two prices in England, one for the Englishman, another for Americans. It is the summit of folly to quarter one's self in the favorite American resorts. My friends kindly prepared

me a little morocco-covered note-book (with an alphabet notched in its gilded edges) containing lists of hostelries they recommended. I found that note-book

infinitely helpful. It told me just what places I might most profitably avoid.

Tourists are hungry fellows, and meals by no means unimportant. You will pay, as a rule, seventy-five cents a day for good things to eat. Of course you may board at your inn, but not infrequently the easiest way is to stop for a bite at the nearest place in the midst of your sightseeing. Sometimes, particularly in big cities, it pays to take "private lodgings," and to have your morning and evening meals served in your room. You order what you want, and the purchases are made for you, a fee is exacted for cooking, and at the end of the week you receive an itemized bill. This arrangement really costs less than any other. Besides, it contains an element of sweet charity. You have the mellow satisfaction of knowing that your landlady and her entire household are fattening themselves upon the meats and drinks in your larder. But meanwhile what care you? Let them steal all they will, you delight in a menu of your own making, and the whole thing is so comfortable and so inexpensive that, extortion admitted, you blush to complain. Furthermore, you have had a chance peep now and then upon English home lifenot at a high level, to be sure, but nevertheless hugely entertaining.

It is astonishing, too, how little one pays out for petty incidentals. The tiny lads who run beside you, pointing shame at your dusty shoes, will polish those shoes for a fee of two cents; add two cents more and they hop with glee. Shaving, in country shops (where you sit in a straightback chair with your chin pointing toward the zenith and a block of wood stuck under your devoted head) costs two cents; in city shops, fitted with "American' chairs, it costs from six to twelve cents. Tram-car fare is graduated according to the distance, thus very commonly reducing your outlay. Items of personal service are quite ridiculously reasonable. York my faithful umbrella turned inside out in a storm. The umbrella-mender had to take it all apart and put it together again. His charge was fifteen cents! And even your pleasures come cheap. I

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went in the "rush" at the Covent Garden Theater, won a seat in an exceeding tall gallery, and heard Calvé and the De Reszkes in "Carmen" for sixty-two cents.

At "Madame Patti's Morning Concert," which began at three in the afternoon and never let up till six, I bought a fairly good seat for seventy-five cents. Patti sang to us six times; Mr. Santley, Ben Davies, Alice Gomez, and the famous Welsh Choir also contributed to the programme-to say nothing of two marvelous 'cello solos by Jean Gerardy. In art galleries you will take advantage of "free days," which is really the wisest course, for in that way you avoid the countless art students who post their easels in front of your favorite Rembrandts and Veroneses and fill the air with turpentine fumes.

"Economy," says Anthony Hope, "is going without something you want to-day so that to-morrow you can afford something you probably won't want." Ah, but what if every dollar saved means another day abroad? And what if every added day means the priceless acquisition of things never to be dimmed or lost or forgotten? Think! Here is the setting of

English history, the background of English poetry and fiction, the charmed atmosphere of English national life. Here are the castles, minsters, ivied towers, and old battle-plains where our own remoter destinies were wrought out, along with the immediate destinies of our British forefathers. Nor is this all. At Edinburgh, at Glasgow, and at London the art of all Europe is waiting to win you to the love of pure beauty. And for this immeasurable total of enjoyment, rest, change, and genuine personal culture, you pay but two hundred dollars! You could scarcely have remained at home for twelve weeks at any lighter cost. It is, therefore, with a sense of profound and very grateful satisfaction that you turn once more to the "great gray sea," which seems now to be singing or chanting those musical lines of Kipling:

It's over, then, come over,
For the bee has quit the clover,
And your English summer's done.

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The moment is the one weak spot in Time's armor.

Solitude is freedom for self; society, freedom from self.

Facts are merely points along the trail of transitory truth.

We beautify our lives like our buildings, on the side men see them, but leave them ugly where they show toward heaven.

Art retains its hold only by changing its form. "Sing unto the Lord a new song." The spirit lives only by ceaseless change of expression.

People are "partial" to us not only when they praise but when they blame. Let us attend to partial judgments of neither kind, but only to our own whole judgment of ourselves.

Let us be cosmopolitans of time as well as of space. Men whose thoughts and ways are those of the ages. Men moved To travel is not the privilege of the rich, by the future, the present, and the past. but of the imaginative.

Leave room in your mind for the thoughts to come up to breathe.

Particulars have no interest beyond establishing the principle.

Conscience is the particular and personal word of universal wisdom.

God is always more beautiful than his most beautiful manifestation.

A sense of failure is as much a mark of rising ideal as of failing performance.

Normal men.

Had you your veriest desire, the world in its essential relations to you would still be the same, and happiness still have to be sought in the same things which are even now at your elbow.

Every one of any spiritual resource comes early to an understanding with the universe and God. This understanding is the fundamental faith which remains firm and unshaken through all superficial variations of mere creed. On it rests all true religion.

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I

The Moral Side of Golf

By the Rev. S. D. McConnell, D.D.

Rector of Holy Trinity Church, Brooklyn.

THINK it was the late Professor Romanes—if it was not he, it was some one else who made some interesting experiments upon what he was pleased to call the mathematical faculty of some of the lower animals. The question which he was trying to determine was whether or not they possessed such a rudimentary sense of numbers as could have, a few million years later on, developed into the genius of a Newton or a Laplace. By some very ingenious experiments in corn-fields and kennels and sties, he became convinced that a crow could count up to three, a dog to five, and a pig to six. A perplexing element in his experiments was that the animals always seemed able to count to a higher number when under observation than when left to themselves. I was reminded of this curious achievement of the modern scientific method the other day when I "took on" a gentleman who, like myself, had gone to the links alone. I had known him only casually, but so far favorably. He belonged to one of those professions which are commonly spoken of as learned." Indeed, I may state outright that he is a Judge of a Superior Court. His moral standing was unimpeachable. His reputation in the community vouched for that. But his curious deficiency in the sense of number struck me strangely. Beyond six he simply could not count-unless some observer was overlooking his strokes. Left to himself, he showed a strange tendency to revert to the habits of his feathered or bristled original. I related the incident to a scientific friend, who, as it appeared to me, treated it with less seriousness than it deserved, dismissing it airily with the somewhat offensive dictum that "none but imbeciles play golf, anyway"! This estimate of his was an error. Imbeciles do not play golf. They talk golf. They buy clubs and costumes and fling divots, but an inexorable nature of things presently eliminates them from the field. Either that, or the educational influence of the game so stimulates their intellectual fac

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ulties that they become able to play, and, by an equal step, become able to count their strokes, even up to double numbers if need so be.

As to the moral side of golf, which, I bethink me, is the title of this paper, I have been assured again and again that it has no moral side. I was warned that it led to extravagance; it was a notorious Sabbath-breaker; it was the very genius of profanity; my wife would become a widow and my children fatherless. Had my friends been familiar with the Psalter, they would no doubt have added that "my bishopric should another take." In this last adjuration they would have been wrong, not knowing that it had been already taken. Nevertheless and notwithstanding, I became a golf-player-at least I became fond of the game. Has my moral nature taken any hurt thereby?

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This question of the moral aspect of amusements is an interesting one. It measures the distance we have traveled. The Puritan would have made short work of it. They who proscribed bear-baiting, "not because it hurt the bear, but because it pleased the people," would find much. ground for fasting if they lived now. is not so long since we were a people who knew not the meaning of amusement. Our forebears prayed and cleared the ground, leveled the hills and bridged the rivers, fought Indians and discussed theology, talked politics and went to law. But they never played. When the country had been to a degree subdued, and the people had begun to grow rich, they still felt a curious shamefacedness about taking pleasure. The genial evening dances of a Continental village or the long summer evening games of an English hamlet were never transplanted to this soil. The inherited gospel of America has been a gospel of work.

Fathers kept their boys at work for work's own sake. The autobiographies of self-made Americans record with gratitude that in their youth they had no time to play. Until baseball came in, within

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