sentatives of the interests of any section whatsoever. As Her Majesty Queen Victoria said, no man should be disquali fied for appointment on account of race or creed; but it is surely at least equally true that no man should be appointed to executive office merely on account of his race or creed.

In the above remarks I have endeavored to show the sections of the community to which unrest is mainly confined, and I should like to say briefly that the unrest is very limited in area; the classes which might be affected are not wholly affected, but only portions of them. Even among the educated there are many who are in no way affected by the general unrest of the educated classes in the direction I have indicated. Unrest is to be found more among that section of the educated classes which has no stake in the country than among those that have. Not only is unrest limited in extent, but those who would have recourse to anarchy or to violence, or who really aim at anything like the setting aside of the British Government in India, are an infinitesimal portion of those whose minds have awakened and who may be described as sharing to some extent in the unrest. On the other hand, the vast majority is loyal; and recent incidents have shown that some of them are prepared to go any length, even to give their own lives, in defense of the Government they honor and the friends whom they love. There are a few, but very, very few, who are prepared to go any length in violence; and against these it is necessary to be always watchful, and adopt any measures, however drastic, for putting down the crimes at which they aim; for their object is to set up a barrier between

the officers of the Government and the people, and render it impossible for the former frankly and constantly to mingle with the people. When touch with the people ceases on the part of the officers of the Government, when they are unable to extend to the people their confidence and sympathy, it will be time for the British Government in India to cease; for that which has made it possible for that Government to do what has been done in the past to raise and elevate the people has been the mutual good feeling between them, and the intimate acquaintance with the people which the officers of the Government have, as a body, always maintained. In my opinion, the situation in India is far from alarming, and I believe it has greatly improved and will continue to improve, owing to the manner in which crimes of violence have led so many of the people to a true view of the relations which ought to exist between the Government and themselves.

There have been serious and regrettable incidents of late. But it would be foolish to take a pessimistic view of the situation in India. People are mistaken who think that the murders and crimes of violence which have occurred indicate general disloyalty or any general detestation of British authority. They represent that hatred of a ruling power which is common to anarchists all over the world; and they demand the same severe repression. But, by the happy combination of measures of repression with measures of reform, the Government of India has shown to the people its determination to combine justice with courage, and firmness with sympathy; and in this combination will lie, in the future as in the past, the strength of British rule in India.

O

NE of the two classic jokes at the expense of Boston improves with age. It becomes increasingly evident to the observant that Boston is not a city so much as it is "a state of mind.” The latest testimony to this fact is Judge Grant's novel, "The Chippendales" (Scribners). In fact, the book shares the peculiarity of the town. It is not so much a novel as a drench of local color, in which the Subway, the much-protected Common, the Tavern Club, the Bacchante, the Art Museum, King's Chapel, the Commonwealth Avenue babies, and the well-known figures of Cambridge oracles and Boston financiers jostle the latest family scandal and the latest feminine cigarette in Boston. Hawthorne said of the work of Trollope that it was as if some giant had hewn a great lump out of the earth and put it under a glass case with all the inhabitants going about their daily business and not suspecting that they were being made a study of. Judge Grant has certainly hewn off a piece of actual Boston life. Things so fell out, even as he narrates, in the old town during the last twenty years. But the art of Trollope and Hawthorne and Thackeray and the rest of the Immortals of prose fiction was not simply in making a show out of a fragment cut at random from the structure of society; it consisted first and foremost in selecting and adjusting and combining incident and scene and character so that, although circumstances were never, in fact, so compactly and effectively arranged, all should seem as if it must actually so have happened. A finer skill in the rejection and compression of details would have made of "The Chippendales" a greater novel, more significant than actual happenings, and artistically truer than truth.

But to the student of New England Judge Grant's book brings a large collection of cleverly mounted specimens, both of types and conditions. The very lack of passionate intensity in the book, while it disappoints the lover of moving incidents of field and flood, commends it to

the sociologist. The Chippendales embody the old Puritan element in the life of the town; the Averys and their friends, the half-cultivated and socially aspiring newcomers; and Blaisdell, the dominant, money-getting man of State Street, whose control of the market emboldens him to attempt to force a way into the carefully guarded precincts of Boston society. These groups of characters engage in a conflict not of temperaments but of traditions. Melodrama does not lend itself to the situation, but it is not difficult to discern the tragedy which underlies the period when the old order changes, giving place to new.

In the Puritan Commonwealth, as the novelist sees it, the New England conscience plays a prominent part in the scheme of things. It is no respecter of problems. It enforces the rights of the squirrels on the Common, it agonizes over the danger to morals from a gayly dancing nymph in marble, and it makes slaves of its victims by the grim motto, "It is my duty to tell you!" Judge Grant has a keen eye for the absurdities of the indiscriminate application of an inner law. The comment of a Boston woman on a Rembrandt portrait of a Dutch burgher deserves a place in the memory of every visitor to Boston who has encountered self-seriousness, Bostonbred. "Artistically it is satisfying,' said Mrs. Sumner, but ethically I feel a lack! Compare a face like that with Emerson's, for instance. It is deficient in soul!' But they were like that,' responded Priscilla, ' just like that—stolid, fat, unimpressionable, if you will.' Mrs. Sumner nodded. I admit all that. They were like that. But,' she added in her gentle voice, they ought not to have been!'" Since Sir Toby's cakes and ale, there has been no more delightful confusion of points of view. A topsyturvy world in truth, this world of art and morals! The humorist may help to set it right, or rather to set us right, as we wander in it.

If the Boston standard of art is some

times unique, her social requirement is also her own. A definition of "Society," in the American sense of the word, has never been easy. Said a certain notorious editor on the witness-stand, "Society consists of those people whose tastes lead them to join together in social functions." But even with so circular a definition, what shall we say of the veto power against those whose tastes lead them where they are not welcomed by others of like preferences? Nowhere does this question present more complicated and amusing phases than in the Boston which Judge Grant depicts. He sets forth the situation in his best manner. One of its characteristic features is that the height of social ambition is no lofty mountain peak. The bitter cup that an Englishwoman would drink at her failure to be presented at Court is pressed to lips Bostonian by the exclusion of an aspiring daughter from the Friday evening Dancing Class! Here is the day of small things! "Is it true," asked a Beacon Hill mother of the principal of a Boston school, “that you are to have a student from Des Moines this year?" "Yes," replied the teacher. “Oh, then I can't send you my daughter. I shouldn't like her to get to know a girl from Des Moines!" The social status thus early fixed has crystallized into a sort of sublimated village community. One curious custom marking out the Brahmin caste is the constant use of Christian names among the elect. It is a ceremonial—a witness of initiation into sacred mysteries. Even a mature woman may blushingly achieve it. "May I not," said Mrs. Sumner to Miss Avery, " may I not call you Priscilla ? We have met so frequently at my sister's-you are such an old friend of my son's-and I have observed that you are interesting yourself in the things in which we are interested." "I wish you would, Mrs. Sumner," said Priscilla and, behold, she was conscious of being admitted to Boston's inner circle!

The Bostonian characteristic which Judge Grant studies with anxious vision and makes the dominant quality of his hero-almost his destruction, too-is the critical, censorious, hesitating spirit-the constant repression of impulse by discrimination-the Hamlet temper, "the scruple of thinking too precisely on the

event." In Judge Grant's not too choice phrase, “Boston is liable to wabble on the spur of the moment." Better, in the summing up of his own shortcomings by Henry Sumner himself, "I am the last person Miss Avery would like to see Mayor of Boston. She would think of me as perpetually picking flaws." Out of this Puritan trait have been made the Mugwump, the Anti-Imperialist, the Harvard Admirer-of-Nothing, whose enthusiasm finds expression in no word more eloquent than "Really, it's not half bad!” He is not an altogether agreeable person to live with, this cool-blooded, serious youth, learned in the proprieties, conscientiously considerate of whether he can afford to marry, yet ready to sacrifice a great fortune to an idea. But he is worth studying, and Judge Grant has spared no pains in his picture of him.

"The Chippendales" emphasizes a profound psychological truth in its treatment of this Puritan type, and points the way by which its strength and even its weakness may be utilized for the service of the modern nation. What shall be done for or with the men who have a conscience instead of a heart, and a critical faculty where the intuitive one ought to be? Boston may easily be "worked up to a fury over nothing;" it may assume as its chief responsibility" to pick flaws"-the smaller the more important. But there is a sovereign remedy for this mind of the destroyer, this carping spirit which constructs nothing and tears down everything. Judge Grant exclaims, and his critics may well echo his cry, "A Cause! a Cause! Wanted! a burning Cause!"

One looks back over the bright moments when Boston has helped write real history, and reads by them her lesson for the future. Lexington and Concord, Brook Farm and Transcendentalism too, the Anti-Slavery agitation and the Civil War, were movements strong enough to waken the sleeping Puritan heart, enlighten the autocratic Puritan conscience, and "fuse doubt in the crucible of fiery action." To-day he who runs may read the folly of dependence on "a legendary virtue carved upon the fathers' graves." But the call of the present is a still, small voice compared with the cries which have roused the Puritan in the past. It

1 May

of her little children are ignorant and stunted. Her slums are haunted by disease and vice. Corruption vaunts itself in high places and virtue sits idle in the seat of the scornful. "The Chippendales" will have done a noble task if it hastens the day when the Bostonian, old and new, brings his zeal, his conscience, his devotion, to the service of his city.

"More likely," she grumbled, "to some forgotten fence corner where you will break the buggy when you try to turn around!"

"Pleasant Green!" I breathed joyously, trying to inspire my companion with my enthusiasm. "The very place we were

looking for, Nan!"

'Of course it won't live up to its name," contended my companion in arms.

"It shall justify its name," I grumbled. "We are riding along the Road of Heart's Desire, and I'm not going to pull up at the Inn of Disappointment simply because you say 'Whoa.'"

.After driving an uneventful hour, w spied an old brick house with a silhouett walk of tall box trees. Venturing in ask the way, I peeped in through diamond-paned windows at the door-s and saw an old tall clock guarded high-back chair. The calm-faced old who answered my timid lifting of the knocker didn't "rightly know the d to Pleasant Green, but was cert stage bridge was fifteen miles awa "Pleasant Green is backing av unflattering haste at our appr explained guiltily to my compa ing her red-haired wrath. mile nearer when we passed t an hour ago."

Down in Virginia, where Time is not, where being alive has usurped the place of being well-to-do, the farmer builds his fences or rails alone, arranged at an angle that sometimes by chance is held together a long time; but mostly not by chance alone, but by the creeping poison ivy that comes unbidden in these neglected spots, and, holding the weather-worn rails gently up in its brown, hairy arms, decks them in spring with tenderest green and in autumn with a falling mantle of gold. In these idle corners the blackberry grows undisturbed by the plow. In spite of its catlike scratches, knowing it their friend, here come the birds in springtime. With heads full of architectural plans and with many feminine flutterings, they set about making of this wayside hotel a home echoing with maternal solicitations and merry with the songs of children.

"In that case we

rection.

66

a

Tady

orass

stance

the

Vay with

oach," I nion, fearNe were a

hat old man

might arrive with

I'm not surprised

at your ideal's

gled by-road, we had overtaken an old

negro on

we questioned:

habit with them."

"Not mine alone," I pleaded; "all of the Ideal family are of a very retiring nature."

We had not made good time, for on the banks were bunches of wild strawberries, and Peggy loved to graze on roadside grass; but now we left off such lingering ways, and in the late afternoon, as I was about to acknowledge a hopeless quest, we came down a mountain side just as the sun was peeping into the western windows of a little town.

"Pleasant Green," I cried, triumphantly, "fenced around by the mountains from all the winds of the world!"

Descending, we crossed the stage bridge on the outskirts of the village, and came upon a preacher in a long black coat, topped off by a Mexican sombrero. He was minding his flock and whitewashing his fence at intervals. He paused and looked at us in a ruminative way as we rattled along the little street.

The white houses on either side had withdrawn in seemly fashion deep into their cool green yards. Flat gray stones formed an intermittent pavement on each side, the wild white violets, still snowflaked with bloom, disputing at each step the right of way with them.

Peggy did not pause until at the top of a little rise we came to a shady old locust tree, from one of whose branches swayed a swinging sign telling us, on a blue background, that we had reached the old "Two Roads" Tavern.

A man on a porch of the red brick house untilted his chair from its highly dangerous angle. From his leisurely air we right' judged him the husband of a landlady. Calling a little boy to take our horse, he welcomed us with easy but not enthusiastic hospitality, and after remarking in an offhand way that some one would show us a room, he retilted his chair with a careful exactness, and resumed his arduous task of listening for the supper bell.

From the opposite porch a young lady at the rival hotel had observed our approach, and, coming over, did the honors of the house, to my companion's amusement, with grace; taking us to our rooms, and “hollerin'" to a little colored girl in the back yard to "Tote these ladies up a bucket of fresh water, Cindy," she left us,

remarking, "I'll be back after supper, when you are ready to see company."

When the wind came cool from the hills, we walked around the little town. Discovering that there were no sights to be seen, we returned in due thankfulness to the tavern-there to help our host in an amateurish way with his listening, and, when our work was ended successfully, went with him down into a brick-floored basement dining-room.

Then and there we acknowledged him a wise man. (There is always a vast amount of worldly wisdom stored up in the inner man of the husband of a landlady. He has accomplished so much by marriage.) For the fried chicken and hot rolls of his wife's making were as perfect of their type as he of his.

In due time we found his wife to represent her type perfectly also. She had translucent, unsteady hands; her brown hair, parted meekly above her blue-veined forehead, touched just the next note in the scale of the character that had formed in early youth “an ideal love match" and accepted the consequences!

Supper over, we again followed our host-his usual sedate walk having quickened into a string-halted canter at the thought that some one might usurp his throne of grace before he could drop into it and relax his tired muscles. We sat down on the steps, and the traveling dentist (our only fellow-lodger), who came once a year to spend a well-remembered week at Pleasant Geen, joined us.

After the dishes were washed, our landlady's young daughter, who had recently emerged from the pretty roundness of yellow, curly-haired childhood into the painfully conscious estate of fifteen, drifted out to treat with grave indignity the felicitations of the dentist. Had I my desire, I would be a hangman by profession rather than a dentist, because then the people I have killed would be buried, and not roaming around waiting to receive my mild jokes with a stern and spiteful silence.

Meanwhile, the supper things being put away, the landlady herself, in a weary gray calico, came out and quietly crouched down on the steps.

The very recently married daughter and her sturdy young husband came up the little street, he with a wooden water