good and beneficent use of them. Unlike many who are born to great wealth, he was no riotous spendthrift, nor did he use his money in making a gilded fribble of himself, still less in squandering his inheritance in licentious idleness. On the contrary, few men in our luxurious times have shown less disposition to eat the bread of idleness or to corrupt the circles in which they live by the ostentation of extravagant living. Pride of wealth, indeed, was not his, nor have there been many to whom the term plutocrat applies who in their career have invariably shown a higher sense of responsibility in the possession of wealth or a greater desire to use that wealth for honest, productive, and, on occasion, noble purposes. This is the testimony of those who knew the late Mr. Vanderbilt well, and who had excellent opportunities for forming just opinions of him. The lesson of his life in these days is well worth heeding, and especially so at a time when socialism looks with a sour face upon the possessions of those who have, and is impatient at the lot of those who have not. more men of the type of Cornelius Vanderbilt among our capitalists and Croesuses we should hear less of the angry cry of confiscation and a forcible redistribution of property, and have more of the spirit of reasonableness, contentment, and tolerSuch men as he discredit envy and shame those who rail at the inequalities of life and in their hardness deem this the worst, and not the best, of all possible worlds.

ance.

With

The cares and burdens which Mr. Vanderbilt's vast interests imposed upon him, it can hardly be doubted, shortened his lease of life. His death from apoplexy at the comparatively early age of fifty-six indicates the strain which he must have long borne, not only in working most assiduously and conscientiously every day, but in controlling and directing the complex machinery of his immense railway, industrial, and financial concerns. Not the least of his daily labors, we are told, was that of aiding every worthy cause that was brought to his notice, and devising modes by which he might intelligently employ his wealth for the good of his vast army of employees and the benefit of the many charities which he loved to help. In this respect Mr. Vanderbilt's unselfishness was as remarkable as were his tenderheartedness and his zeal in the cause of

good works. The list of his benefactions and his unostentatious kindliness are the best tributes to his memory and form his most fitting eulogy.

Result of the Venezuelan Arbitration

The arbitration tribunal for the settlement of the Venezuela - Guiana boundary, which was appointed in November, 1896, has just made its award, the Commission being unanimous in its findings. The affair has had a lengthened history, even back of the fiery message which President Cleveland sent to Congress in December, 1895, in which he arraigned England for refusing to arbitrate upon the matter in dispute between Venezuela and her South American colony of British Guiana, and insisted upon this country's intervention, claiming that the case was within the spirit of the Monroe doctrine. The difficulty dates back to the third decade of the present century, when the Republic of Venezuela began its existence independent of Spain, and when Berbice, the last of the three Dutch settlements which now form British Guiana, was incorporated with the British colony. England's scruples about submitting the contentious matter to arbitration, it will be remembered, was owing to her unwillingness to shut out from British jurisdiction inhabited settlements, and particularly those where Englishmen had in good faith long resided in the disputed region which Venezuela claimed, to the northwestward of the Schomburgk line. Thanks to the diplomatic efforts of Secretary Olney, the British government consented finally to have the matter at issue arbitrated, the tribunal consisting of five members in all- two representing England, one each representing Venezuela and the United States, the fifth, the umpire, being chosen, in accordance with the agreement, by King Oscar of Sweden. It is the decision of this body that has now been rendered at Paris. The award gives the greater bulk of the region in dispute to Britain, not only beyond the international Schomburgk line, but the country to the west of it, even to the compromise line which England had long ago proposed to Venezuela so as to settle the controversy. In the adjustment of the matter arbitration has had a signal triumph, and peace may now fold her once ruffled wing- thanks to the reasonableness of all parties to the historic dispute.

She is the most petted, flattered, and indulged of creatures, taking her as a class. Max O'Rell used to say that, could he choose his rôle, it would be that of an American woman. He considered that she gave less and received more than any human being on the face of the earth. No doubt he suspected her of happiness. But he saw only superficially. As a matter of fact, no women in the world are so restless, so dissatisfied with their relations to the world, and so impatient of their responsibilities - where those responsibilities are of a domestic characteras American women. The contented wife is an anomaly. The reason appears to be that the American woman has not the right degree of liberty. She has too much—and too little. She accepts her position as a non-producer in the household, expects her housework and her sewing to be done for her, is given liberty to go where she pleases and to do what she pleases, and then is annoyed if now and then the hardworked husband, irritated at this situation, for which he himself is largely responsible, vents upon her, unjustly, his dissatisfaction with the unbalanced state of affairs. Meantime the woman, college-bred, a buyer of books, a club woman, a musician, goes from knowledge to knowledge, refines and cultivates her mind and her taste till she discovers herself to be lonely in such a rarified atmosphere, and makes bitter complaint because her husband has not followed her to these pleasing heights.

A man is considered pusillanimous who looks down upon the wife of his youth because by some chance she has not grown intellectually, as he has; and if he leaves her, pleading uncongeniality, she is much commiserated and he is held in contempt. But unfortunately society is foolishly sentimental over the woman who, outgrowing her husband in refinement and mental grasp, finds herself with an unresponsive companion and seeks other society than his.

Is not this signally unfair? If the husband is so regarded, is not the wife in honor bound to cling to the man to whom she has made her

one

marriage vows, even though he may not be intellectually sympathetic? America, having passed its first stage of civilization and subdued the wild, is now on its knees before culture. It has apotheosized education. It makes the serious mistake of estimating individuals by their book-learning. It is well to remember that there may be many points of congeniality between persons who are far apart in their bookish knowledge and in the fineness of their taste. Marriage is a sacrament, not a lyceum for the debating of abstract questions. The relationship is one suggested by instinct, which ought to be sustained and endured from a sense of duty. This duty is not alone to the persons involved in the contract. It is to the State to society. Even where emotional distress might impel one to be false to marriage, inherent dignity constrains one to remain a good citizen. This point of view is of course one which would be entertained only by educated women,—women who understand political as well as domestic economy. But since it is the women of this class who now show that uncontrollable restlessness which is disturbing the whole nation, and which is, in truth, indirectly responsible for many new ventures upon the part of the United States, it is proper to address these remarks to them.

The American woman has grown very wilful, very extravagant, intensely aspiring individually, and exceedingly vain. Her vivacity, her beauty and capability, her bravado and her ingenuity, make her indeed powerful. She is mistress in this country. But does she rule wisely? Does she give full credit and appreciation to her hard-driven slaves, the men,-the hardest-working men in all the world, the most prodigal and generous? Is not her attitude toward them becoming supercilious, and this in spite of the fact that she refuses to perform her fundamental duty as a woman? For it is remarkable that in spite of all her newly acquired knowledge of philosophy and the glib manner in which she voices it, the American woman among the upper classes refuses to recognize the primordial law of her being, will not admit what her prime function is or in what manner she is most useful to the State.

In short, she refuses to bear children. She has theories about the child born under perfect conditions, and she never attains these conditions. (Her theories, it may be suggested, are wrong, for the human soul is always and ultimately a mystery, and some of the finest of human creatures have been born under conditions that hygiene and religion, philosophy

and common sense would pronounce unfortunate.)

Now a man and woman may be distinctly uncongenial, and yet find an exhaustless source of happiness and an endless fund of conversation in their children. Though they have natures with a divergent trend, yet they will unite in working for the children; though they have different ideas of amusement, yet they will each find delight in giving pleasure to the children. They will forget themselves and become absorbed in their little ones. Personal psychology will no longer be of absorbing interest; they will prefer the foolish wisdom of the boys and girls. These adorable inanities will entertain them more than the drama or tnan poetry or music. Selfishness in the parent attains so fine a quality that it becomes a virtue. Nor is the feeling of the man the same toward the mother of his children that it was toward his bride. She appears to him sanctified by her sufferings and her ceaseless self-denial. He overlooks her faults. He can even forgive her for not being beautiful. A strong pride of a primordial sort comes to him, and the light vanity of the lover is supplanted by the much deeper passion, pride of family, involving, as this does, a wealth of idealism.

We need not fear to assert and to insist that were American women to have more children their discontent would largely disappear. What is more, it would be for the undeniable good of this country if the cultivated women would consent to do their share of child-bearing, and not leave the greater part of this task to the Russian Jews and the poor Italian immigrants. As it is, in addition to all her other troubles, this country is at the necessity of forever lifting the bulk of the population up from low sources, and endlessly propagating the seeds of patriotism in hard ground; for it is the foreigners who give the work to the census-taker.

It is a great pain to an American woman to hear women spoken of slightingly as of small account in the affairs of the world, and particularly is this a pain when the man making the uncomplimentary remark is an American. But if a woman chances to work much in stores or offices she will be chagrined not a few times by hearing such heresy. Let her question the man who is so unmanly as to depreciate half of God's creation, and in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred she will find that he is a man married to a childless wife,- a wife who boards, who plays with parrots or spaniels, or who lives in her bicycle suit. The whole truth of the matter is that the man does not quite see her raison d'être.

Women will maintain, perhaps, that this point of view is mediæval. They will say that to live one's life is the prime function of man or woman; that to think, to love, to aspire, to labor for immortality are enough. But these arguments do not convince because they do not include an obedience to the whole law. They fail to take cognizance of the law of reproduction, most cele

brated in religions ancient and modern, most essential to all philosophy, the very nucleus of society. Individuality has sacred claims, but neither man nor woman can be separated from the great chain of creation. They are part and parcel of the bundle of life. The immortal writers of Scripture would not have been satisfied with the claim that the individual is a law unto himself and his own excuse for being, and that the continuation of himself in his children was a matter of personal preference. William Shakespeare would not have been content with such arguments, nor would they appear sufficient to the man or woman unspoiled by a false civilization. Moreover it is seldom possible to divorce the masculine half of creation from the basic principles. It recurs to them persistently. The women who write great books; who paint fine pictures or are brilliant actresses or skilled physicians; who are mayors of towns and Unitarian preachers or safe consulting attorneys,are not so dear to men as those who, in sheltered homes, listen for the home-coming of little feet. Nor are tney so happy. All of this is quite old-fashioned, of course, quite out of keeping with much of the popular sentiment.

And, most emphatically, what is said does not apply to the women whose misfortune it is to be denied the great sweetness of motherhood. But they have their compensations in countless opportunities for the exercise of the maternal love within their hearts. Nor does one intend to deprecate the work of women in the arts, the professions, and the handicrafts. Every woman knows her own capabilities, her own duties,— and good work is always its own justification. But the happy women are the women who listen for the home-coming of little feet!

☆

The Congress of Colored Women held in Chicago last month was unique in that it was the first national congress having for its purpose the organization and elevation of the women of the colored race. Attending it were women of exceptional ability and force of character, not to mention a number who excelled at extempore oratory. The newspapers treated the gathering with respect, but with tempered enthusiasm, which under existing conditions was perhaps the kindest thing that could be done. Warm praise might have aroused resentment in the breasts of those who look with selfish alarm and indignation upon every sign of advancement among our Afro-Americans. The motto of the organization is: "Lifting as we climb," and a nobler sentiment more tersely expressed it would be difficult to imagine. Much climbing and lifting will indeed be their heavy task, and the spirit may well sink appalled before it. For what genius, what courage, what aspiration or honesty of purpose, what truthfulness or devotion, will win from frenzied prejudice a word of appreciation? God, who is just, may reward the patience and

goodness, the courage and chastity, of a colored woman but how will American society reward it? With ostracism, with indifference and halfamused contempt! The time has come at last when among the colored people in our land are some good writers, and what a subject they have at hand in the tragedy of their own people! What better psychological study could an artist desire than the heart of the colored man or woman tortured with the neglect and the easy-going scorn which the dominant race shows toward them? Nor is this feeling of habitual contempt a question of locality, for the North is as pitiless as the South. For if, in the South, the negro is brutally executed without benefit of judge or jury when he is suspected of a crime, in the North he is treated with an inconsideration so persistent and unfriendly that it must be a constant affront. As a servitor he is approved of. He may even be endured as a hero or a martyr. But there seems to be no middle ground. He is not allowed to be one of ourselves. He is not invited to become a member of a white church or of a white club, nor a worker on equal terms with a white man. No colored woman, however intelligent, benevolent, beautiful, or capable, is invited to the reception of a white woman. The black and the white are never seen upon the street together.

What can these brave colored women hope for? Are they working and thinking for posterity? Is it a long-range optimism which arms them and supplies them with courage? Fortunately they have many fine compensations for their sufferings and chagrins. They are naturally a joyful race, and while education has saddened them to an extent, and set a slower pace for their feet, still they love music and good-fellowship; still they enjoy nature, appreciate a good story, and have learned to find comfort in good literature and in abstract study. The most generous-minded among them have a field of labor at hand in the work of inspiring their race to higher living, to philosophic endurance, and to hope in the ultimate sense of justice in man. And the women have the consolation of their little ones, who are, it must be confessed, quite the most enchanting of all babies.

It is gratifying to see that one of the most conservative magazines in the country, pursuing a broad policy, has not only admitted to its columns recently a number of serious articles bearing upon the negroes and friendly to them, but it has also published two excellent stories by colored men. It would be still more gratifying to see a piece of fiction by a colored woman in its excellent pages.

The processes of civilization are more or less painful at best. Take, for example, the Alaskan Indians. Time was when they were comparatively free from disease, when they fished

and hunted with a consciousness of plenty and with perfect freedom; when they saw only their own kind and were ignorant of the pain of being dominated by another race. Their beautiful boats, graceful as the gondolas of Venice, floated over the familiar waters; before their houses arose their carved genealogical trees of wood or slate. They made for themselves the manner of furnishing that best suited their taste; decorated their instruments of toil; told their immemorial legends; and went their own ways, which, save for the institution of slavery among them, were not bad ways. The Chris

tians came and dealt out budgets of civilization. Incidentally they introduced various diseases, persistent and loathsome in their character; they subjugated the people and bereft them of their self-esteem by reducing them to the status of a conquered nation and making them feel it every hour. As time went on they were taught to think poorly of their own manufactures, and were instructed in the art of making ugly houses after the patterns suggested by Americans; their beautiful boats were supplanted by common canoes; their totems were taken down from before their doors; they were taught the iniquities of cheap patent dyes, and their blankets and baskets no longer showed the exquisite tints of the native stains; and they were taught how to make poor furniture of an American pattern. All of the sentiment was taken from their lives, all of the symbolism obliterated. The old legends were denominated superstitions. Their rites and ceremonies were discounted, even forbidden, and ours were substituted. The consequence is that these tribes no longer retain their distinguishing features. They are un-raced. Their talents go to waste. The story-tellers are silent. The prophets no longer prophesy. The old customs are sinking into desuetude. Yet it is impossible to make Americans of these people, for they have not the necessary intelligence nor, indeed, the inherent morals. Interesting, happy savages they undoubtedly were at one time. But they are the poorest excuse for civilized creatures that can well be imagined. And they are unhappy, bitter, distrustful, and therefore treacherous. For what is left to a weak, dull, and defrauded man save his treachery? Truly the process of civilization is sad. It is going to be heart-breaking in the Philippines.

An Alaskan hut is not the worst place in the world,- far from it. Its interior consists of a square floor of earth, flanked on all sides by two wide ledges rising one above the other like a terrace. On the lower one rest the cooking, weaving, and fishing utensils, the knives and needles, pots and pans. On the upper ledge, with much display of wonderfully woven blankets, are the beds. In the centre of the room glows the fire, the smoke groping its way out of a hole in the roof. After the day's work is done and the stomachs of both people and dogs are full, the family gathers around the fire. Facing the

door sits the father, next him the mother; on one hand the sons, and on the other the daughters, even to the third and fourth generation, it may be. Beyond these are the servants or slaves. Each has his place and takes it as a matter of course. Without, in the darkness, the dogs clutter about the door and howl. The mysterious and implacable sea keeps up its thunder. The snow-capped mountains, with their illimitable glaciers, lie just beyond. The shafts of the Northern Lights dart through the sky, like the harpoons of a titan, with incredible celerity. Is it strange that, amid scenes so wild and fearful, superstitions also wild and fearful spring into existence? Or can one be surprised that in an unlettered country the story-tellers are of mighty power and tell tales that affright the children till they scramble to the safe shelter of their mother's arms? When the family sings in strange broken yet rhythmical measures, the dogs howl louder than before, and the women sway their squat bodies back and forth unceasingly, keeping their hands occupied meanwhile at their tasks of weaving or braiding. The men carve their spoons or cut curious figures from the black slate. The suitor for the hand of one of the daughters enters slyly and takes a seat with the sons. No protest is made. The father and mother go on with their little tasks, the young girls giggle after the fashion of girls the world over. And the suitor, thus unrepulsed, contents himself, thinking his case won. The oldest among them chants some old folk-song, and the father rises. It is the signal for good-nights. The ashes are spread over the fire, and by the light of a few fishes' tails, dried for the lighting, the family goes to bed, forgetful of crashing bergs, of the mysterious aurora, of the mountains where the snow lies forever and alway. So is home made anywhere that the spirit of home exists.

In respect that every article within the Alaskan home - before it is corrupted with Americanism is consistent, significant, and made by the hands of those who dwell within, it is superior to the homes of more civilized races. For the carving on our silver means nothing in particular, and certainly has no hidden story in it of the exploits of our men or the lives of our women. The curtains that we hang at our doors, and the rugs we spread on our floors, were made by total strangers; and if by chance there is some symbolism in their intricate figures, ten to one we are ignorant of its meaning. Our implements of work were purchased at the nearest hardware shop. They have not been handed down from father to son or from mother

to daughter. Moreover, in the Alaskan home the working implements are at hand where they can be reached, not hidden away in some remote corner of the house upon the assumption that the family is an idle one when it is nothing of the sort. Ruskin or Morris would have found much to approve of in the homes of these barbarians; much that is fine in its sentiment and honest in its demonstration, and everything calculated to preserve the history and the traditions of the family. But we who dash into a furnishing store, buy beds from Grand Rapids, rugs from Thibet, taborettes from Constantinople, portières from Bagdad, lamps from Birmingham, clocks from Connecticut, pictures from everywhere, and litter over the whole with Arizona water-jugs, Egyptian curios, Zula assegais, plaster casts, posters, old and new china and bric-a-brac,- how do we express ourselves? Why, not at all! Our homes are a hodge-podge without dignity or serenity. We may congratulate ourselves upon having a cosmopolitan taste, and take pleasure in leading our friends from a Moorish dining-room to a Japanese tea-room, and from a French drawing-room to a Flemish library, but the effect of the whole upon the mind is most disquieting. The visitor feels discontented and can hardly tell why. He is bored at the task laid upon him of examining these curious things from far countries, and he thinks, with affection, of some simple sitting-room of which he knows, where the furniture is all frankly and consistently American and does not obtrude itself before the persons who own it, but consents to keep in the background and to merely convenience those who, being tired, wish to sit down, or, being dull, desire to look at a waterscape or a good etching, or, being musical, wish to play on the piano, or, being industrious, wish to sew or read or write at a capacious desk.

Not until we learn really to express ourselves in our houses and in the furnishings will we have homes in the finer sense of the word. Not till then can we affirm that we are making a fine art of living.