The Modern Languages group is designed for those who wish a literary training based upon the modern rather than upon the ancient languages. The subjects are so arranged that if, at the end of the first year, the student wishes to change his group, he can ordinarily do so with little inconvenience. Certain substitutions are permitted, through which the course of study in the several groups may be to a certain extent modified. As a means of combining liberty of election on the part of the

student with sufficient exercise of authority to prevent discursive and ill-considered work, the group system has proved eminently successful. A young man who has marked tastes, or whose future plans are determined, is enabled to direct his studies toward the ends which he has in view, while at the same time he is secured against the danger of neglecting the fundamental subjects essential to a liberal education. EDWARD H. GRIFFIN. (To be continued.)

BALTIMORE.

L

ET the traveller to this happy valley approach it from either side: from Digby, the land of the cherry and the robin, past the old fort and the ramparts at Annapolis; or, leaving Halifax behind, and speeding through the beautiful region lying between Bedford and Windsor, and thence on, ever in sight of the Basin of Minas, with the frowning headland of Blomidon beyond,— before he realizes it, he is at Wolfville; he has entered the enchanted Land of Evangeline.

If ever a poet told a "plain, unvarnished tale," it was Longfellow when he chronicled the beauties of this region. To the north lies the broad expanse of the Basin of Minas, which, being an arm of the Bay of Fundy, is subject to the mighty rise and fall of tide characteristic of the latter. Eastward stretch the meadows, rich and green, with rows of willows and the old French dykes, still kept in perfect repair; southward the way winds up a slope, between great apple-orchards whose boughs are bent to the earth with the weight of their ripening glory. The road terminates in a barnyard; but hospitality is such here that one never questions, but goes right on. An old stile leads over the wall; and, sitting under a low-crotched appletree, the happy traveller looks out over the sloping orchard land and the sombre pine-trees to the Gaspereau Valley and the rise of land beyond. Overhead the warblers, yellow and brown, flit in and out among the branches, singing the joy that man can only feel. To the right a silver ribbon of river shows between borders of green; and before, and on the right and left, as far as the eye can see, lie rich meadows, between which rise, ever and

again, remaining patches of the "forest primeval" and fields of grain. At intervals the river shows its shining face as it wanders slowly through the valley, as if loth to leave the scenes it loves so well.

Bees and butterflies flit to and fro, and the crow wings his sombre flight across the field of vision. Roses, great cloverheads, "ladies' tresses," and tall stalks of pinky-purple fringed orchids grow by the roadside. Over it all bends a sky of intensest blue, flecked here and there by fleecy and soft gray clouds. Such is the traveller's first impression of the "Acadian Land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas."

And the twilight of this "land of faëry!" When the sun has set behind the North Mountain, the sky is still roseate with the afterglow, the hills grow purple, and Cape Blomidon takes on a bluish tinge as it frowns down into the silvery waters. The trees whisper to each other; and the willows wave and beckon to the mist-maidens who come trailing from the bay the shimmering mantle in which they wrap the sleeping earth. So, bathed in moonlight when the twilight dies, and veiled but not concealed in the fleecy splendor of the vapors, the valley sleeps until the morning dawns, while the wind sings ceaselessly in the tree-tops.

When the morning sun is some hours high, and the banks of clouds lie along the horizon, huddled closely, like sheep driven before the shepherd wind, then let him who would improve his opportunity find the crest of some evergreencovered hill. Here seated in the fragrant shade of a hemlock, he may watch the Cornwallis River slowly filling as the

tide runs up; beyond it and the Basin rise the mountains of Cumberland County, dark and forbidding in aspect. The cricket sings in the grass, and the bird in the tree-top above pours from his little throat a flood of melody which seems to express the ecstasy of living,- and is he not happy? He has a loving mate and a nest full of flourishing nestlings; he has green fields and trees and sunny hours. These blend and form the motif for his song.

Here the sleek-coated, picturesque oxen still bring home the fragrant hay; and as they amble slowly along between the rows of great willows, or stand meekly awaiting their load, they are reminders of the times gone by when Evangeline and Basil and Gabriel dwelt in the "peaceful valley."

Though it be late summer by the calendar, he who is used to the climate of our Middle States on the eastern coast fancies it is June-the June of poets; for the roses are in their glory, and the great luscious raspberries lie cool and sweet under the shade of their thick leaves. Even a lingering strawberry may be found here and there; and along the garden-fences grow masses of wonderfully rich and fragrant sweet peas, in every conceivable variety of coloring.

Nature has dealt lavishly with this region. The vicinity of Cape Blomidon is rich in exquisite agates and fine amethyst

crystals; and from the fresh-water mussels some fine pearls are procured. The same streams which furnish these supply also the material for an angler's paradise. In their depths lurk the speckled trout which are abundant until July, and even then may be successfully angled for; while the Gaspereau River affords good salmon-fishing until September. A variety of small game also abounds, although a gun seems out of place in the absolute peace which reigns over the landscape.

But it rains even upon the most fortunate of tourists; and, domiciled here, one is apt to enjoy even rain. It is not like the cold, cheerless downpour of winter. Summer rain dances upon the roof and down on the leaves with a joyous sound; and the water gushes from the rainspouts under the windows with a silvery little laugh that is "eerie" and elfish in its music.

The only "modern improvement » here is electricity. Telephones are everywhere; and electric lights glow like giant fireflies under the willows. They add materially to the beauty of the scene at night, and their slender wires are invisible in the foliage by day.

A visit to the land of Evangeline were incomplete without an acquaintance with the "Last of the Acadians," a tall, slim, brown-eyed gentleman who lives with his pretty wife in the heart of the little town. He is the only descendant of those

I

T MAY be objected to this subject that it is premature,- that there is no American type. It may be suggested that, several hundreds of years hence, if our Republic lasts that long, it will be more apropos to talk of what Americans have grown to be. Most probably, not very far in the future, emigration from Europe and other countries will be cut off. The constant mixing of nationalities now going on will cease. Then there will naturally be evolved a purely American type of man.

It is not worth while denying all this, but the process of evolution has been in action already for several centuries. It will go on, of course, but we who are here

food, and all fashions of clothing. There is no zone that is not represented in the United States from Maine to Florida, from Alaska to Texas.

Properly there should be an asterisk at the end of that last sentence, and a footnote should mention some islands—some in the Atlantic, some in the Pacific Ocean; but the fight between the Expansionists and the Antis is still on. The islands may or may not become American. In all this extent of country, in all this variety of climate, with the necessary differences in ways of life, there are scattered, up, down, and across, all sorts and conditions of men drawn from all sorts and conditions of other parts of the world.

At the steamer landing we meet the Frenchman, the connoisseur of cookery. He makes his bow with his heels in the correct position while he deplores the fact that nothing on this side of the water can ever hope to equal la belle Paris.

The Italian lands at the next pier. He is not very tall, and he carries himself in such a manner as to seem shorter than he is. He is brown, low-browed, long-haired, low-voiced, soft-eyed,—and his little boy looks just like him.

The German greets us in a few stumbling, newly learned English words as he fills and lights his meerschaum and unloads from his pockets his well-worn Goethe, Schiller, Klopstock, and Shakespeare.

The Irishman smokes, too, but his pipe is not a meerschaum. He lumbers down the gang-plank, declaring himself "agin the gov'nment;" but he shoulders his shovel just the same, picks up his dinnerpail, and goes to work.

That is what each and all come for,work, and the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. The incomers are found in flocks and herds in cities. They are found tending flocks and herds on the long levels of the prairies and the wide plateaus and fruitful mesas of the West.

The Frenchman, while always recalling Paris and all "the pleasant land of France" with a sigh, finds his services appreciated and remunerated in a substantial way beyond anything he could have dreamed of in his own country. He learns the ways of his new habitation and expands himself to them. His children forget their father's tongue. They are liberally provided for in the matters of food, clothing, and edu.cation. Their habits are not the habits

of their forefathers. They breathe a stronger air; a restless spirit of endeavor animates them. They are growing Ameri

cans.

The Italian, in this cooler, more invigorating atmosphere, lifts himself to taller stature and attains a fairer complexion. For the first time in his life he sees, but only partially comprehends, the true measure of a man. His son will know more about it, and his grandson will not be a third edition of himself as his son was a second.

The German, when he understands that he has plenty of room, inflates his big chest, blows a cloud about his head, and with it blows away much of his heaviness of thought, speech, and action. He finds that he can study his favorite authors with more self-respect, as well as with the approval of his neighbors, if he removes his night-cap, takes a bath, and trims his ragged hair, beard, and mustache.

The Englishman, though on his native heath he was possessed of a firm faith in the divinity of the Lord's anointed, is very comfortable here in the assurance that Jack is as good as his master if he behaves as well in the every-day affairs of life.

When the Irishman finds himself no longer under the necessity of putting the pig in the parlor, he takes off his hat to the government. His shovel has been employed as well as his wits. The latter never would have come to the surface beneficially anywhere save in America. Pat has but a slight brogue as he bargains for a piano for his daughter and advises her to take care of her complexion and be the prettiest thing in the drawing-room when she goes over to be presented to the Queen next year.

These men, one and all, grow out of much of their tyranny in regard to their wives and daughters. Not one of them is called the master of the house-simply because he is not.

These new people may live in the North or the South, the East or the West. Most of them learn new trades after coming here. They build our houses that run up into the clouds, and that their "betters » in the old homes across the sea do not believe exist. They pave our streets and sweep them. They sell coal and kindlingwood and ice from basements. They police our cities and fill our offices. They lay railroads that run over the country

like Titanic spider-webs. They sell fruits, flowers, and all sorts of common, unpoetical provisions, from push-carts, street stands, or narrow store-rooms. They measure prints and silks at the tables of our big department stores. They teach us the correct pronunciation of the names of their native towns and villages while they learn and adopt our idioms and tricks of speech.

The American-born child of foreign parents is put into our public schools. In some countries on the other side they are called national schools, and are regarded with contempt by the gentry and the wealthy tradesmen who can afford something else. In these public schools the young American finds the first great leveller. There is no chance, no reason for favor excepting that to be gained by behavior or superior native capacity. In these schools all alike are taught the short history of the country. There may be, occasionally, a hint of tradition in regard to some person or family; but traditions less than half a thousand years old are not sufficiently musty to be interesting. They lack the bloom of time, the moth-rot, and the mildew of years to make them respectable. It is too easy to find out the whole truth about them. They are as nauseating as lukewarm, weak tea with skimmed milk in it.

It is well enough to know of one's ancestors. To be cognizant of one's grandfather is a liberal education. To be able to see one's great-grandfather in the limelight occasionally is almost too good to believe; but if these worthies did not come to America like Sir Galahad, or Ponce de Leon, or even Lafayette, what difference can it make to their extremely commonplace descendants? Is it worth while to organize societies, to call ourselves knights and ladies of the pickaxe or the soup-ladle, because of our own imaginings? School children are too literal; they believe in their text-books too firmly to accept oral traditions. It is only when they are older, when the desire comes for vainglory over one's neighbors, that the stories of past family greatness come to the surface.

The boy who is carefully trained at home as well as at school puts aside tradition with the simple question: "But is this really the truth?" Another boy, as well versed in his text-books, but perhaps not so carefully trained at home, fires out

a contemptuous, exclamatory interrogative: "W'at you givin' us?" American children are trained in the bracing air of fact and utility. Generally parents are too busy to watch for signs and omens and prophetic dreams. They even fail, in some instances, to remember the family ghost which they left on the other side, and which, over there, was the occasionally visible link between themselves and the departed glory of wealth and station.

The American-born child of foreign parents has a more hopeful start in life than the older American. His people know what they left on the other side. They know what they came here for. The children grow up in this self-gratulatory atmosphere. This is one reason why so many of this class are successful here in their endeavors for wealth and position. They are continually being told what they have escaped and what may be attained by being Americans. Sometimes the children understand far beyond their lessons. A ten-year-old American was celebrating the Fourth of July in the usual way with the noise and stench of burning powder. His English-born father stormed: "Oh, blawst this bloomin' 'umbug of noise an' dirt an' waste of good money!"

The youngster replied:

"Course, Pop, you don't like it, 'cause this's the day we Yankees licked you Johnny Bulls.»

This is the start for Americanism that the newcomer has. The native whose forbears have been here for from one to three hundred years is the real product of the country. He it is who must answer the objections of foreign critics as to his education, his religion, his politics, his philosophy, his literature, his art, his general trend of action. When he is told by the painstaking German that his education is superficial, he replies,-be he twenty years old or eighty,-"My education is not finished. I am not wound up like a periodical clock, warranted to run a certain time on certain lines. I'm still absorbing all that comes in my way. We're never too old to learn in America."

It has been said by an English critic that our philosophers are nothing but crazypatch workers; that they have no full and completely-built system. Why should our touch-and-go thinkers plod over the ground that has been hard beaten since Plato's day? Our philosophers are suggestive. They lead people to think for