friendship with the adversary, and would prefer complaints of partiality.

What is especially difficult is to remain neutral in a quarrel between two members of a family; for the closer the ties between them, the bitterer the quarrel. But am I to renounce a skillful physician because, in a non-professional matter, he has quarreled with a friend of mine, or to dispense with the advocacy of the barrister whom I prefer because, in another case, he has stringently cross-examined that friend? Life would not be worth living if I could not have a friend except on condition of hating his enemies. We should be reduced to the cynical Greek axiom, "Treat your friend as if he might one day become your enemy, and your enemy as if he might one day become your friend."

Hosea.

"Just going to show them that there's some truth in old saws. I hate short cuts, and if you come with me we'll prove that the longest way round's the shorter way home," with a playfully contemptuous glance at another group, just landed at Snug Harbor, the other group consisting of the father and sisters of the first speaker.

The gentleman under whose guidance I toddled by the devious way here indicated was a well-built, active-looking young man of about twenty-five. In those days red hair was not viewed with the same favor that it is now, and I think I am stating it mildly in remarking that it took considerable merit to outvalue that blemish, as it was universally considered, and that even I, just passing from kilted infancy to the divided skirt of early boyhood, was aware of some compassion therefor. My companion had reddish-yellow hair, but then he took notice of us boys, and talked to us, and romped, not with the easily detected purpose of condescending adultness, but as one who felt himself every inch a boy.

We walked rapidly, so rapidly that when we reached the hall door of my father's house the short-cut party, which we had left to tiptoe over a wooden dike, had not yet arrived. The door was opened for us with the eagerness of strained expectancy, and a lady stood before us, of a beauty which compelled my boy's heart to acknowledge that my companion's reddish hair had

not marred his fortunes, for the lady was his wife.

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I still, after so many years, recall her face pale, with the restful hue of alabaster, features admirably chiseled, with perhaps undue prominence given to the eyes, and a certain hollowness about the orbital cavities, intensified by delicate blue veins seeming to arise from the long-lashed eyelids and to creep furtively to the temples, where they lost themselves in the hair. She was petite, and dressed with the utmost simplicity, even to the hair, as was then the fashion.

On being joined by the separatists, — for so my companion called the remnant of our party, we soon descended to tea, where were already assembled various members of my own family, marshaled by my governess, a lady from, Boston, of the strictest propriety, who also wrote verses. She too had red hair, a highly nervous temperament, and gazed upon the young poet of Cambridge with a rapture known only in those days when Bostonian met Bostonian on alien soil. After a rather prolonged grace, listened to with unconcealed delight by my mother, who was a devout worshiper of Saint John Wesley, the conversation went splashing about the table, as is its wont among the newly returned and their friends. Sundry disasters or rumors of disasters to the American army were discussed, for the all-engrossing topic at that time was the war.

The Mexican war had come. Not a great national uprising like the rebellion, in which almost the entire population, North and South, felt pledged as to the great underlying principles, but a war which involved no principle at all, and which the people of the New England States were wont to regard as aggressive, cruel, and unjustifiable. Already in our rural section- rural although only seven miles from New York city "the drum with its tantarra sounds had come," and swept from our village most of the bad boys, idlers, and floating population. Already the fond mothers of those bad boys were searching the lists of the dead in the New York Herald, and the smallest among us felt that we were making history.

While the latest war news was under consideration, we were startled by the sound of stentorian singing, of the rough, emphatic

seaman's fashion. It proceeded from the "Decatur boys," nephews of the great commodore, and our own next-door neighbors, who, having come to make a call, were singing in the drawing-room overhead while awaiting our appearance. The Minute Gun at Sea, a duet by King from one of the English operas, was familiar in maritime and musical circles.

"Ah!" observed the old clergyman, the father of our hero, "that is a forgotten ceremony; the song has little significance nowadays."

"Why, father," exclaimed James, "don't you remember the minute gun which was fired when we made the voyage together from Portland to Boston? That must be," looking at the ceiling reflectively, some nineteen years ago.”

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How odd it seems for James," remarked the young wife, “to speak of nineteen years ago!" looking fondly at the youthful figure beside her.

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Why, I was eight years old even then,” James rejoined, with the ready candor which has no years to clip, nor need to clip them.

We soon, after the unabridged return of thanks, ascended to the parlor, where we met the "Decatur boys ;" and heroes they were in our boyish eyes. True, they were scant of stature, swarthy and unimpressive in appearance, overmuch addicted to the use of a certain weed and to the misuse of certain theological terms. Our Sunday-school superintendent had cautioned us against them, and yet did not they in some way represent our country's maritime supremacy? One was already an officer in the navy, with the added emphasis of a bullet in his leg. They proceeded to tell us the still later Mexican news that there was n't a percussion cap in the Federal army, but, on the other hand, British capital had furnished to our enemies powder warranted not to explode, with other evidences of enlightened neutrality on the part of J. Bull.

I well remember the surprise of the "Decatur boys" on learning that James was an "abolitionist." He had given promise of something better, of broader views, in his graduation poem. Too bad! too bad!

Presently, at a signal from my mother, the double quotidian ceremony of family prayers was announced, and my memory, wandering mistily back to those events, recalls the fervor of the minister, who made

pointed allusions to our rulers; recalls the to us remarkable fact that the Boston ladies declined to kneel upon the well-swept carpet, but contented their genuflections upon a chair; that James, who had, according to his habit, strayed into the open air earlier in the evening, did not come in, but walked up and down the veranda during prayers. He entered at their close, with a faint apology, which the old minister took up, gently saying to my mother, "No, James is n't serious as yet, but he has a good heart, and is the foe of every mortal wrong."

Of

Some time after- I cannot now say whether weeks, or months, or even years our governess called us children together and read from some unfamiliar journal the first number of The Biglow Papers. course we boys thought it delightful,— more, I fear, for its apparent justification of slang, in which we were proficient, than for the noble sentiments contained. When she came to the line,

"You 've a darned long row to hoe," the embarrassment of our worthy martinet gave us great delight, as will the taste of forbidden fruit at most times; but it was not very long before the most idle and frivolous of us learned to appreciate the truth of the old clergyman's apology, "the foe of every mortal wrong."

- Pupil of Madame de Genlis, Louis Philippe in a doorkeeper at the Jacobin Club, Wigwam. republican officer patronized by Danton, exile, teacher in a Swiss school, recognized prince of the blood, king, again in exile, in which he spent altogether twentyone of his seventy-seven years, Louis Philippe had an adventurous life; but not the least romantic and a hitherto unknown episode in it was his doctoring a Cherokee Indian and passing a night in his wigwam. The story has just been told by the Marquis de Flers, the first biographer who has been allowed access to family papers.

Louis Philippe, then Duke of Orleans, left Hamburg on the 24th of September, 1796, for Philadelphia. The French Directory had made his departure from Europe a condition of the release of his brothers, the Duke of Montpensier and the Count of Beaujolais, who had had three and a half years of captivity, amid privations and dangers which doomed them to an early grave. They had attempted, indeed, to escape, but Montpensier, the rope, breaking

is one stone allowed to remain above another, in these days of rebuilding Babel, and of the ingress of trade into streets hitherto devoted to residences. In this access of Gothic and Hunnish energy in pulling down the structures of the past, gangs of swarthy men work incessantly, prying with sharp picks or tugging with ropes at masses of mortar and brick to level them. In thus doing they lay bare opposite and inner walls, with their decorations, fireplaces, and mantels. Little niches of the Lares and Penates come startlingly and unpitiedly into view, if indeed any one stops to regard them at all. Commonly, the passer-by or the neighboring householder does not bless his eyes, smarting and half blinded as they are, with the pulverulent and alkaline atmosphere constantly resulting from the Great American Desert of demolition.

Of late my window overlooked such a scene of senseless destruction. May I not be indulged in my choice of adjective, and also in the admission that the grimy and bustling picture beneath my eyes possessed for me no least human or transcendental interest so far as it related itself to the promotion of trade, possible architectural betterment, or urban progress in general? Cui bono? The good which I saw done would have been decidedly incidental in the great world's view, had it even met the great world's cognition. The special providence enacted in the human creature's behalf was, I must confess, comparable to the advantage a flock of sparrows might derive, suddenly alighting and helping themselves from the waste of an unswept threshingfloor. The figure of a flock of sparrows, however, hardly serves to suggest the strenuous, almost fierce activity of certain participants in the street scene below. These were a bevy of Italian peasant women gathering wood out of the rubbish resulting from the pulling down of the block opposite. Never ravens worked more patiently or wolves more hungrily at the stripping of a carcass than did these lean, dark women at the breaking up and tearing apart

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awkward lengths of nailed board and plank, in lieu of hammer or hatchet using bricks from the rubbish heap. So keenly I felt how the dust irritated even their coarse hands, already chapped with the cold, and now bruised, if not bleeding, however stoically disregarded in the breathless industry of the moment. When each of these women had made up a bundle of boards and ragged splinters, lashed together with ropes brought for the purpose, the stronger and more dexterous helped the less experienced or weaker to lift the load and settle it upon her head. This done, and balancing masses whose horizontal length may have been nearly twice their own stature, they gallantly marched away. No, they did not march; rather they assumed a half-running, half-gliding pace which entirely preserved the poise of the load, and which was necessitated by it, and somehow suggested the gentle gait of a horse broken for the feminine saddle. longed to throw up my window and cry approval. Such good nature, such coöperation, such pathetic content in the harvesting of ruin's poor bounty in the great city! And yet, as I stood watching them, there came upon me a certain sentimentally flavored dissatisfaction both on their account and my own. This grew out of my suspecting that they might be the selfsame women whom, earringed and bright-kerchiefed, I had seen in the early summer dusk wandering through the walks of Washington Square, their dark-eyed babies in their the very same I had seen gazing with grave, dreamy contemplation at the squat statue of Garibaldi, a few springs ago erected in the midst of the square. But this was the ground of my romantic discontent that these daughters of Italy should be dark and hungry hoverers in an alien and a sordid city; that I too should be here instead of lying sub tegmine fagi in the land of Virgil, and perhaps watching these same silent sibylline creatures, not far away, gathering fagots of the fallen branches of the beech.

arms,

ONE of the interests of England, to those who care to look below the surface, is in the associations of ancient life and times which cling about it everywhere. There is not the poorest little country village or the most prosaic factory town but, if you will take the trouble to root up its records, touches incidents and changes of ownership and the fortunes of human life which carry you back with a curious interest along the centuries.

The very names of places and streets are often full of history. You come upon "Lazarus Lane." Now it may be only a plain little street of long rows of cheap brick dwellings, but that name tells of a time, long centuries ago, when somewhere in the neighborhood stood the lazar - house, or leper - house, where the lepers of the little town were herded together, away from the other dwellings. Or here is a street called the "Friary," or "Blackfriars,” or some other kind of "friars," -Gray, White, or what not; mere shops and houses now, but if you should search about in the old yards and entries, it is likely enough that here and there you would come upon some patch of dark stone walling, grimy with age, or perhaps a fragment of an old arch that long ago belonged to the monastery which surely stood there.

You have, indeed, to be upon your guard against mistakes in such local etymology, arising from the original name having been corrupted into something similar, and yet perhaps entirely differ

ent in meaning. Thus the "Deansgate which you find in various north of England towns does not recall an old city gate by which the dean used to enter, or, as some would have it, by which the Danes made their attack. "Gate," in the north of England, is simply "way," and "deans" should properly be "denes: " the way along some old "dene" or "den,"

some deep valley or ravine which may be entirely filled up now, but which surely was once there.

Perhaps the best illustration of such a growth of false meaning on to an old name is one that I came across when I was busy over the revision of Baines's History of Lancashire. I wanted to know whether there were any traces left of the old Roman road which once ran near to Wigan. Having written to a friend resident there to make inquiry, I received the astounding information that there certainly was one most interesting trace of the Roman occupation, inasmuch as a certain highway was still called, and had been from time immemorial, "Seneca Lane," no doubt in memory of the celebrated philosopher. This was too much, however; but it was only after a good deal of inquiry that I found the real explanation, which turned out to be that this was an old way to a certain " seven-acre" or "s'en-acre field.

Better, however, than any of these general illustrations of the interest which attaches to old names and places will be the study of some single township; and