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student and an artist may still encounter some splendid vestiges of mediæval and early modern times. But almost as bad as the destruction of these shrines of great figures in the national archives is the neglect into which many of the buildings have fallen. Villainous trade signs, decay and dirt and modern excrescences in the form of badly designed sheds and stables disfigure some of the most wonderful houses in a part of Paris associated with the literary genius of Mme. de Sévigné and, later, of Victor Hugo. If steps have been taken to turn aside the hand of the destroyer from the Place des Vosges, it is in recognition of the Republican sturdiness of Hugo and the Roundhead tone of "Les Châtiments." In this particular section of the town existed, until quite recently, the exquisite Hôtel du Prévôt, in the Passage Charlemagne. This building belonged to the fourteenth century, and was the official residence of the Councillors of Charles V. Afterwards the King bestowed it upon Provost Aubriot. It had beautiful turrets and an open stairway, and particularly fine windows overlooking a court. Under the shadow of Notre Dame workmen have just completed the destruction of the interesting old Hôtel-Dieu, or, at least, such parts of it as most eloquently speak to us of the past. Again, near the Sorbonne has disappeared another building consecrated to the service of the sick, the old Amphithéâtre de Médecine, with Gothic arches and curious circular theatre.

An unfortunate genius for obliterating the relics of former generations seems to possess the city architects whenever they have to apply an ancient building to modern purposes: Nor has the excavation necessary for the Métropolitain, or Underground, of Paris been accomplished without the loss of picturesque features. Public

transport, of course, is one of the most pressing problems of a great city; at the same time rapidity of transit is dearly bought when it involves the uprooting of past-time glories.

The student who wished to follow step by step the bloody progress of the Revolution in Paris through its bricks and mortar would have the greatest difficulty nowadays. As M. Georges Cain points out in his delightful "Vieux Coins de Paris," transformations of a surprising and apparently unnecessary sort have taken place in such a building as the Conciergerie, where the judges held their horrible deliberations and where the prisoners condemned to the guillotine walked and sat and thought and prayed. Identification of the ancient apartments is no longer possible. Oddly enough we have here to blame the Restoration for obliterating revolutionary landmarks. Nor would you find it easier to locate the sites of other Revolutionary tribunals. The same senseless spirit of change has been upon the builders and tinkerers of the city.

An article of more than usual weight in "La Revue" has accused the Third Republic of its patronage of the mediocre in Art. The writer points with scorn to the official salons, where the official painter, with his mechanical pictures of banquets and presentations, is honored at the expense of and, indeed, as a direct affront to real Art. The anonymous author might have completed his diatribe by inveighing against the contempt for the decency and amenities of life which allows the soiling of the streets and boulevards with the litter of a hundred thousand circulars. Years ago the City Fathers took a pride in the appearance of the city. None was allowed to cast a handbill upon its spotless pavements, to throw newspapers where he would, to cast anything that encumbered him into the gutter. A

fine would have followed such impro-
priety. To-day there is no active reg-
ulation of the sort. The untidy as-
pect of the Parisian thoroughfare
shocks the eye of the Londoner.
he lives under a régime more atten-
tive to the details of the daily munici-
pal toilet. From this it appears that
The Saturday Review.


the mediocrity in government, which finds its daily expression in strikes and the threats of State functionaries, extends to those smaller matters of the cleanliness and good order of the byways and highways of the capital. "Ex pede Herculem...."


The factory hooter proclaimed to the world within its range the fact that six o'clock had arrived. Its deep-throated, stentorian buzz, stifling all other sounds, penetrated into the depths of distant engine-rooms, crept through the rumble of the grinding-mills, and echoed across the water from the heights beyond. Loose papers, held in the hands of the office clerks, responded to the vibration of the air by a faint "tickling," and the invoices on files rattled. Two miles away, in the town, when the wind was right, people set their watches by the swelling note, which at that distance became musical; while close at hand, amid the dust and clatter of the mills, the men of the dayshift heard it as a welcome signal of release.

The entrance of the boiler-room abutted on the narrow quay-side. From the opposite wharf, on the sunniest of days, it showed as a black, cavernous hole in the high, weathered wall, with two or three luminous specks gleaming in its remoter recesses. If the onlooker were sufficiently curious to stroll round the dock-head and enter, his eyes would require a minute or more to accustom themselves to the gloom, and then, in the dusky light of the nude, yellow gas-jets, he would distinguish the shadowy circles of four immense boilers frowning down on him like black, impassive faces, and he would notice that the air was sur

feited with a certain ceaseless, sleepy hiss that carried with it a rather alarming sensation of power held in leash. Before he had time to note much more he would probably find that the blue eyes of Tom Burton were looking into his from a smeared but genial face; and Tom, if the stranger showed an enquiring turn of mind, would most likely give him a handful of cotton-waste and take him round.

Tom stood at the door, having closed his dampers to check the draught (for there was an hour's interval at six o'clock, and the chief snubbed you if he came round and found the steam roaring off), to watch a big coalsteamer coming in to the opposite quay. The strong rays of the summer sun painted a bronze-like sheen on her dark, curving side, and as she emerged from the golden haze of the harbor she took upon herself the airs and graces of a liner. At her not unshapely bows a lessening curl of foam made a speck of pure white; all the rest was color: blue of the harbor, gold of the sky, grays and greens and faint, fine purples of the middle distance, where several indeterminate shapes of vessels took their way along the buoyed chan'nels. Yet with all this color the eyes were rested by regarding the scene, for not a single tint was intrusive or flamboyant; it resembled a delicate pastel drawing, and seemed as though everything had been softened by a curtain

Burton transferred his attention to the unkempt, grimy little mortal as it moved here and there in front of him, picking up stray bits of stick and rubbish, alert for other people's leavings. The boy was happy, it seemed, for he whistled as he wandered; brave blue eyes he owned, too; they shone finely when he faced the sunlight, although his cheeks were pinched.

From the deck of the tramp a stoker -come up for a breather before he started on donkey-engine duty, unloading-also watched the boy, contemplatively. Presently a banana shot over the intervening strip of water and skidded at the youngster's feet. He dodged after it and made short work of devouring it, peering across and laughing, the merry little imp, when he caught sight of the form that leaned carelessly over the rail of the steamer.

"Hungry, sonny?" called the stoker, his face wrinkling into a cheerful, encouraging grin.

"Yas," answered the boy, his eyes glistening.

"Catch, then!"

of fine gauze. The boat slowed until her bows merely marked the apex of an advancing triangle of ripples, and the sinuous reflections of her masts, cord age, and thick, stained funnel became almost as steady as herself. Nearer and nearer she crept, swerving to a spin of her wheel till parallel with her berth, the blackest thing in the picture, except that uncommonly black hole where Tom leaned against a rusty waste-pipe and gazed at her. Already her men had removed the great tarpaulins from her hatches and uncovered the cranes; on the granite coping stood others, neither sailors nor landsmen, blue-jerseyed, waiting for the flung ropes. These flew across, uncoiling in mid-air, and with shouts and hoarse orders were hauled in until the heavy, many-plied cable came dripping ashore. The weighty bights were carried along and made fast; a few feet farther glided the great tramp-steamer, then, with a surly backward swish of her screw, she came to rest.

A little waif, the kind of boy that haunts all waterside localities of large towns, had also watched the arrival from his post on the top of a pile of timber, and now, clambering down, came shambling aimlessly along the quay. His rough, light hair-he wore no cap was fluttered about his eyes by the evening breeze; every now and then he brushed it back with a hasty movement of a dirty little hand. Clothes, in the sense which a well-to-do person assigns to that word, he had none; it would have puzzled a tailor to dissect or to name the conglomeration of shoddy material hanging round the poor little chap. His shoes gaped, and held together with string; his coatsince one must give it some designation-would most certainly never pass on to anyone else after he had discarded it, it almost settled the question by dropping to pieces; his trousers were masterpiece of patchwork. Tom


Over flew another ripe banana. The boy rushed forward to catch it, slipped and fell . . . there was a splash, and a shrill cry. There were two bigger splashes immediately after, and numberless whirls of grime and dirty bubbles, and dark, liquid lanes, marking where the two men had plunged in and the black mud of the bottom been disturbed.

Tom emerged first, then the stoker, and, treading water, they both looked round for the scrap of humanity at whose call, without a moment's conscious thought, they had taken the leap. Something was floating out helplessly past the end of the stone pier, turning slowly in circles with eddies of the receding tide. Both men swam for that pale, pitiful little gleam of yellow hair, and Tom, reaching the boy first, pushed him towards the slippery,

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Bedraggled and panting they were, but their burden looked half dead and very white. He had not been in the water more than a minute, perhaps, but his reserve of life-force was too evidently very scanty. His wet hair shone like clear gold in the deepening rays of the sun, and the water that trickled from his shapeless garments traced bright lines and formed little pools among the coal-dust that lay thickly over the cobbles of the quay. The men looked anxious as they laid him on a bench. Tom kicked open the furnace-doors of one of the boilers, and dragged the bench in front of it, wrapping a sack tenderly round the quiet form. The rich, strong glow of the huge fires beat straight on the boy, making his soaked odds-and-ends steam steadily, betraying, as the men went through the necessary movements to restore him, the pitiful thinness of his arms, the leanness of his poor body. His face, which had shown a false ruddiness in that warm illumination, by and by was tinged with a shade of real color from within, and he opened his eyes. Just then there was a sound of running feet, and a woman, hardfaced, untidy, stood silhouetted in the doorway against the outside radiance.

"O, my Gawd!" she cried, seeing them bending over the listless form. "O, my Gawd! is he dead?" And she reeled to a heap of coal in the corner, sat there, plaining, repeating her exclamation, wringing her miserable hands. The two men took but little notice of her, striving to fan the tiny, flickering

life-flame into a steadier burning. Tom's tea-can had been placed in a corner of the furnace close to the door; in two minutes its contents were nearly boiling; the hot liquid revived the boy, and he came round quickly...

Tom picked up the queer little shape in his strong, hairy arms, and turned to the woman.


"Now then, missis, you'd better take him home quick, an' keep him warm," he said, gruffly, for he did not like the look of her. "Wait a minute." gave his burden to the other man, and picking up a dry sack, slashed with his pocket-knife a large hole through its bottom, holding it and turning it for a minute in front of the roaring fires. Then, slipping it deftly over the head of the boy, who looked on wonderingly, he pressed the warm, coarse folds comfortably round the dank, drowsy figure. "Now, mum, can you carry him?"

Apparently she could not, for even as she stood waiting she swayed ominously, her eyes staring, her lips muttering unintelligible words. So the boy was set upon his feet, a quaint, sad little spectacle, to take the woman's hand. The two men stood at the doorway watching, comprehending dimly a trag edy of life that might be worse than the averted tragedy of death. She led him off. Her words came back to them thickly and indistinctly as she jerked him along by the wrist.

"Ah, you little devil, youboy began to cry quietly.

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Tom and the stoker of the tramp exchanged understanding glances, and stood for a while talking, frowning, following with their eyes the two who shuffled along in the sunshine. The snarling syllables gradually became unrecognizable as words.

A bell jangled in the boiler-house behind. Tom disappeared in the gloom to slice his fires, to open his dampersfor it was seven o'clock-and to change his steaming overalls; while his com

panion, glancing thoughtfully at the red sails of a trawler that was running out on the freshening wind, lit a short, shabby pipe. Presently he turned, facing inwards, hands in pockets.


"Hello!" answered Tom, pausing and looking up in the act of clearing out the The Academy.

clinkers, bathed in the fierce heat. "Better 've let the kid drown, p'raps." "Shouldn't wonder," shouted Tom, slicing away vigorously. The other, with a brief nod, sauntered round the edge of the silent dock-head back to his ship.


The recent curious reminiscences of Mr. John D. Rockefeller has set some people asking a natural question. The great Trust millionaire, the Napoleonic financier, who was long the moving spirit and controlling brain of that remarkable concern the Standard Oil Company, is revealed in these pages in an unexpected light. He appears as a kindly, good-natured, and exceedingly religious person. His religion is his strong point, next to his domestic morals. He came of the old New England Puritan stock, and apparently be carried through life quite unchanged the rigorous principles of private ethics and the simple Calvinistic faith which he imbibed in the nursery and the schoolroom. In private indeed, he seems to be an amiable man, affectionate, simple in his tastes, temperate in his habits, extraordinarily generous, and unimpeachably upright. When one looks at Mr. John D. Rockefeller's picture of himself on his own estate, quietly amusing himself with golf and tree-planting, endowing churches, founding colleges, and helping the poor, one finds it a little difficult to turn to that other picture of the money-making machine which ploughed through American finance and industry with a ruthless unity of purpose, carrying ruin and devastation in its train. The man who in his country home could not pass a beggar without relieving his wants, in his of

fice must have reduced many thousands to beggary without giving them a thought. Whatever may be urged in defence of the operations of the Standard Oil Company, no one can say that they worked in the spirit of Christian ethics, or that Mr. John D. Rockefeller himself acted up to the tenets of a creed which bade him take no thought for the morrow, and find. his treasure in incorruptible things. Like many other successful business men in the United States, he apparently kept his commercial and private morality in watertight compartments, and it puzzles some observers to understand how he managed to perform the operation. In other words, how can a deeply religious man occupy himself during his hours of activity in manner which is often irreligious and sometimes anti-religious?


The truth, perhaps, is that religious and ethical conceptions exercise less influence upon conduct than is commonly attributed to them. Life is not so much a science as an art, a matter of practice, temperament, knowledge, and training. Men have excelled in that art, as they have in others, with all religions and with none. In any practical operation-say the driving of a motor car or the command of an army-everyone must recognize that the practitioner's conception of the universe is of less importance than his skill and expertness in his business.

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