the latter condones all the shortcomings arising from the former. At shorter intervals now we leave village after village behind, and begin to overtake the fat beeves and sheep driven to market,—for it is yet early. Occasionally a shepherd, or at farmer in a small way, is to be seen in the curious old-fashioned smock frock of honey-combed pattern now almost out of date, which has to be lifted over the girths before the wearer can get at his watch or his old leathern purse, both probably heirlooms deeply cherished. This style of dress was considered an element of safety against pickpockets and sharpers in the public fairs half a century ago. One or two more mileposts to pass, the cathedral all the while growing larger and more distinct, and we drive under the Newport Arch, through which the Roman legions entered the city nineteen centuries ago, and which then formed its northern gateway. Part of the old wall which then encircled the capital still remains, in a pasture close by, a hoary monument, desolate and forlorn, against which the cattle rub their horns and browse in comfortable indifference. What a strange procession that would be, which should include a few individuals from the successive centuries, out of the concourse that old archway has frowned upon, what strange jargon in the gradual formation of our language, what costumes, what habits! Few of the citizens take note of that weatherbeaten relic, but Lincoln would not be what she is without it, for it is one of the few monuments of her old-time greatness. The rst words to attract our attention as we enter the city are those of two neighbors greeting each other on the doorsteps of their cottages with questions bearing on the all-important Christmas plum pudding, and the mournful declaration of one that hers ought to have been made a month earlier. Suddenly the sun bursts forth, and there on the brow of the hill just before us the stupendous cathedral, high over all, like some monarch, erect, immovable, shoots its three massive towers into the sky, revealing its fine proportions in the morning light, which sparkles on the windows and weathercocks, and throws out sombre shadows from its buttresses. To narrate the incidents of national importance connected with the history of Lincoln would be a task from which any student might well shrink. In this ancient city is wrapt up a great part of the history of England from earliest times. Roman columns, tessellated pavements, and rare coins, some recently unearthed, bespeak its antiquity. Dark, ominous, and threatening, the old Norman castle on the west side of the cathedral, once a royal demesne, with its embattled walls, its keep, and its Lucy tower, where more than one royal prisoner was detained, marks the scene of many a bloody conflict during the reigns of Stephen and John. Among the walls crop up quaint hood-mouldings and corbels, mullioned windows, old archways filled with wrinkled oaken doors, grotesque heads of kings and devils extruded from mouldering eaves, the whole covered with ivy and cypresstrees, and partly surrounded on the south and west, facing the town below, with tall poplars and pines thickly studded along the embankment, in which the antiquated crows build their nests and rear their young. Up that steep, narrow hill, on which old-fashioed dwellings lean, like palsied people huddled together for warmth, we fancy we see the pilgrims, at least seven centuries ago, dressed in the self-same costumes described in the "Canterbury Tales," wending their way to the shrine of St. Hugh in the minster; while a glance to the east shows us the ruins of the old palace in which King Henry VIII. quarrelled with a cardinal on the legality of divorce. On the opposite hill, Cromwell, with his broad, red face, held the citizens in terror for several days, while in pursuit of the rebel army, tying up his horses in the nave of the minster. In the evening the cathedral looks like one huge lantern, it being lighted up for special service, at which the first part of Handel's "Messiah" is sung by a trained choir of voices selected from all the churches. This is a great event, and the grand old building is packed to excess by the townsfolk and neighboring gentry. There is something subduing in the lofty cathedral, with its "Storied windows richly dight, Casting a dim religious light," its solemn grandeur, its atmosphere; and when its mighty walls echo with the tremendous outburst of triumphant praise in the Hallelujah Chorus, Carlyle's description of standing at the gate of heaven and hearing "the voice of the obedience of angels" would be no exaggerated account. ST. GEORGE OF ENGLAND Not by thy weapon was the dragon Servant of God, though wounded grievously, Wherefore in these late days he draweth nigh No longer fierce and ravening, but vain With gilded scales, and silver, and again He seeks the souls of men, but subtlely, Luring them, covetous, until they lie Won, in the glory of his golden reign. Save us, St. George of England, 'ere we die! Unsheath thy sword and fight for us once more, Smite thou the golden dragon in thy For we fall down before him help- The curse is on us and we may not 66 AROUND OLD Margaret Deland's Old Chester books are like a chamber in an ancient inn, a far off corner of the world discovered by ourselves alone, whose intimacies can ever be vulgarized by unholy intrusions, where living is washed from the dust of over-modernity, becoming simply human, and in whose atmosphere, laden with the fragrance of the flowers whose names are memories, spiritual forces become very real. Mrs. Deland takes us one by one into poor little sanctuaries of souls, troubled and untroubled, and we are * Published by Harper and Brothers. CHESTER" * never led to laugh at the wrong time. Her reverence for life amounts to a perfect taste against which she never oends. This is a moral quality of her own personality, and at the same time, it is an artistic achievement. She ridicules. She is caustic. But her ridicule yields a more gentle courtesy, and her acids are wonderfully sympathetic. The light which her intellectual acumen sheds on the foibles and follies and self-deceits of humanity never fails, at the same time, to color and warm with the whole broad spectrum of love. She is most merciless toward the badness of so-called "good" women, and most bantering in her revelations of the weaknesses of masculine vanity. It is not, however, these individual traits, these separate qualities, that lend to her work a certain distinction, so much as it is her emphasis of conscience and its problems. Although not a New England woman by birth, Mrs. Deland is a New Englander by spiritual inheritance, as well as by domestic adoption. Upon her shoulders seems to have fallen the mantle of the older prophets and to her is committed much of the task of carrying on the tradition of New England ideality. Note the titles of her books-does not each of them bring to mind the posing of moral problems, the probing of consciences, the stripping of illusions? "The Hands of Esau," "Good for the Soul," "Dr. Lavender's People," "Helena Ritchie," "The Common Way," "The Iron Woman," "The Voice," "The Way to Peace," "Where the Laborers Are Few," "Old Chester Tales," and now this latest volume, "Around Old Chester" are they not taking up something of the work that Hawthorne laid down? Mrs. Deland ridicules the vagaries of conscience, and at the same time champions its supremacy; se lays bare illusions strengthen, not to destroy, the ideality of life, and that, I take it, is the New England flavor. In an ultimate grouping, Mrs. Deland, the Pennsylvanian, will, in any ultimate classification of American literature, be included in the New England school, just as certainly as Titian, Tyrolean bred, is none the less a Venetian. Indeed, I believe that many, if not most, of Mrs. Deland's readers believe "Old Chester" to be somewhere in New England in spite of and social activities of the most advanced type. to It is difficult to live in New Eng its local color and geographic and historic landmarks. If a man were to close his eyes and follow subjective leadings, in shelving his books, he would find himself placing "Around Old Chester,” in a contented niche beside "The House of Seven Gables," and he would never feel that the arrangement jarred his literary sensibilities. Having thus placed Margaret Deland definitely in the New England school, let us next inquire where she stands in relation to modern movements. As a woman writer, we naturally inquire into her attitude toward modern feminism. Mrs. Deland regards the feministic movement as a symptom of something more vital than itselfa symptom of the unrest produced by a century of materialistic development. I do not gather that she is particularly partisan in her feeling on the issue of woman suffrage. She regards it, I think, as somewhat unessential, and dangerous, not so much in itself, as because of that of which it is a symptom, to her mind. Mrs. Deland is too penetrating a moralist to be deceived by the superficial goodnesses of her own sex. No one better than she "sees through" women. She appreciates the selfishness and mental and moral littleness of the average "good" woman, and is not enormously impressed with the social benefit of throwing this additional element into the arithmetic of voting. I think that I may safely say that while Mrs. Deland does not in any sense rank as a conservative, there is more that she deplores in feminism than there is that she admires. On the other hand, Mrs. Deland is herself an ardent worker for women with women. She lends her influence freely and broadly to movements of the day, and gives much of her precious time to civic land, and not become something of a mystic. It is in the air. Only the most hopeless materialism can stand out against it. But in connecting the word mysticism with the name of Margaret Deland, one must qualify. I see no European mysticism in her work-not unless one calls Plato European. The hard common sense of New England is a poor soil for either Mediaeval or Maeterlinckian mysticism. Nevertheless, I believe (without warrant. I admit) that to Margaret Deland love is capable of a spelling with an illuminated initial and every true love story is a missal. Religion, also, is to her a world of which dogmas are either symbols or nothing at all. In other words, in our modern thought, she is one of those who are hastening the swing of the pendulum away from the barren materialism of the last century. But all this is a digression. We began to speak of a new volume, "Around Old Chester," published by Harper Brothers, and containing seven of Mrs. Deland's shorter stories. And yet what we would like to say of this book is to be gathered from the more general remarks above. "Around Old Chester," renews our acquaintance with Old Chester people, including Dr. Lavender, and recreates the charming atmosphere. of that haven of rest. I cannot think of a more delightful holiday remembrance. The Romantic Adventures of an Enthusiastic Young Pessimist By ROWLAND THOMAS Chapter XVIII (Continued) ried no rebuke, "I could not rent that house any more than I could sell it." "Believe me," I assured him, "I do not so lack understanding as not to realize that under ordinary conditions that must be the case. But I am sure that you will not fail in consideration for my own self-respect. Look for a moment at my position here. Since the hour I landed in Felicidad I have been the recipient of your bounty. You have fed and lodged me; you have looked out for my boatmen-" "But how," Don Feliciano asked, smiling again, "is the fact that you have been my guest for a few days. connected with what you call your self-respect?" "There are natural limits to guesthood," said I. "A perpetual guest is no better than a disguised parasite. One's self-respect requires that one should make some return for even kindnesses, if one is able." "And have you not made me a return?" "Then," said he, triumphantly, "the problem is solved. We can both forget all about it." He was so pleased with this discovery that I could not press the matter further along that line. "Suppose," I suggested, "that we agree on what the rent should be. I will send the sum to Father Isidro for his poor, if he will take it of a heretic and worse. That will, indeed, solve the problem for both of us." Don Feliciano's eyes held their mischievous twinkle, as he looked. at me. "I'm afraid it won't," he said. "Why?" I asked in disappoint ment. "Because," said he, "poor Padre Isidro has no poor. I think it often worries him, unfortunate man." "Perhaps he hardly expected," I said rather dryly, "to find himself given the curacy of Utopia." "It is almost Utopia, I think sometimes," said Don Feliciano. Suddenly his smile was very grave. "It is a wonderful world we live in," he said. "All my life I have been learning more and more what a wonderful world it is we live in. Every year the rains come in their season. We plant the cane and corn and tobacco and rice, and they grow. They grow," he repeated softly. "That is the most wonderful thing of all, of course. We plant them, and tend them a little, but they grow. They have life in them. And the cocoas and bananas and oranges grow without even our little tending, and a thousand things in the forest. The sea is full of fish, and the shores of shell-fish, and they are all ours to take, and there is enough. for every one. Shelter and food and clothing are waiting to be taken. It |