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were hoarse. It seems a most spontaneous burst of loyalty—and the English crowds are not generally emotional.—I heard one or two people in the crowd, after joining heartily in the "God Save the King," finish with "God bless him."

Thursday, June 29th.

To-day was the closing ceremony, the Thanksgiving service at St. Paul's. "Service of National Thanksgiving to Almighty God for the Coronation of Their Majesties, King George the 5th and Queen Mary," was written on the big red card which gave admission to the cathedral. We had had some difficulty in getting seats, had applied too late, but fortunately Mrs Burns knew the archdeacon very well, and he sent her two cards. We started early, as every one said there would be a great crowd, and drove straight down almost without a halt between two red lines of soldiers and policemen to the cathedral. The seats all along the route were filled with people. As we got near the church the crowd was very compact. There were not many people yet inside, as we were two hours before the time; but we did well to go early, for even then, as the seats were not numbered, we could not get the first places, near the central aisle along which the procession was to pass. By degrees the enormous building filled up, and it was interesting to see quite another set of people, aldermen and sheriffs and mayors, and every description of city personage, and their wives, some big, portly, prosperous dames, wearing very bright colors, many feathers on their hats, and large diamond ear-rings and brooches. All the official city men wore a gown or cloak of some kind; some had gold chains. The effect was very good, but, of course, entirely different from the brilliant, wonderful assemblage at Westminster Abbey. There were seats reserved for the ministers and the corps diplomatique near the choir, and the uniforms and colored ribbons stood out well from the rather soberly dressed general crowd. Two high-backed arm-chairs in the choir facing the altar were evidently reserved for the King and Queen.

A splendid procession of clergy in gala vestments of every possible color, and preceded by the Lord Mayor carrying a sword, marched down to the great door to meet the sovereigns. All the princes and princesses

arrived a little before the King and Queen, and were shown to their seats quite simply by church and court officials. Almost all the foreign princes and missions had gone. All day Wednesday there were departures and leave-takings at Victoria Station.

The King and Queen looked very well when they appeared. The bishop of London walked on the King's right, the dean of St. Paul's on the Queen's left; Princess Mary and the Prince of Wales directly behind, the procession of officials closing up around them. As soon as the King and Queen had taken their seats there was a sort of fanfare or trumpet call, and then began the most magnificent "God Save the King" I have ever heard; the organ, choir (a famous one), military music, and the whole assembly standing bareheaded and singing. There were waves of sound. The old walls seemed to vibrate. I said, half aloud, to myself, "How beautiful,” and an old man in a black gown, a verger or official of some sort, who was standing behind me, his face quite alight with enthusiasm, and with tears in his eyes, said to me, “It is indeed beautiful, madam; you will never hear anything grander than that, if you live to be a hundred."

It seems the dean of St. Paul's, quite a recent appointment, was very much upset by all the preparations and the quantity of people writing asking for cards, when everything, even in the farthest part of the church, where one could see nothing, had been given. He told one of his friends that if he had understood what it meant organizing a coronation thanksgiving service, he didn't think he could have accepted his position, and that no man in England could say more fervently than he did, "Long live the King!"

The fêtes are over and most beautiful they have been; the King and Queen most loyally and enthusiastically received everywhere; not a shadow apparently on the brilliant pictures, and very few people thinking of the past. It is the most extraordinary case of "Le Roi est mort, vive le Roi" I have ever known, and I suppose it is right, but one can't help having a melancholy feeling about those who have disappeared; but that certainly is not in the air.

There were special sermons preached in every church in London the Sunday after the coronation. I heard one which I admired very much, but the purport of it was

that no one was indispensable. There was always some one to take up the work which had been left unfinished; every man was bound to do his best as long as he lived, and use, for the general good, whatever intelligence or force of character was given to him; but when he died it was finished, absolutely no influence remained, his work was carried on by his successor, and when it was a sovereign, and a young sovereign,

it was his duty to look forward-never backward. I don't think I agree. I can't think that the teachings and examples of a full, honorable life don't leave some trace; but the congregation were quite with the preacher. And when we left the church, with "God Save the King" played on the organ, every one in the church singing, I think the only king that was in the people's hearts was King George the V.

.THE POINT OF VIEW ·

IT

T was about half-past three on a late November afternoon, bright, crisp, but with a lingering touch of Indian summer in the air. "What perfect foot-ball weather!" I exclaimed. It was foot-ball weather to be sure. Another season had reached its culmination and that very Saturday, even as I spoke, all over the United States from Yale and Harvard down to the tiniest rival fresh-water colleges, the selected representaitves of young America were preparing to spring at the throats of their traditional natural enemies.

Much Ado

"Happy, happy youths," thought I; "devoted, aspiring, free from vexatious introspection!" In my imagination I could picture them waiting in the field house, the Varsity squad, stern, impassive, their teeth set to keep controlled the inner emotional tumult; and before them the head coach with flashing eyes, with waving arms, haranguing, inciting, imploring, insulting, screaming for the blood of the enemy like Marat before the National Convention.

Now it is always warming to be able to connect one's self with anything like a worldmovement, and I had my moment of pardonable inflation as I thought that some ten years ago on the historic gridiron (not yet a checker

board) I too, though a lesser star, battled side by side with Titans. Ah, but the glow was fading! Times have changed since the glorious old days when frontal attack was the height of strategy; when we drove into the line with sole-leather head harnesses. Then the public cheered, the press belauded, even college presidents in their addresses paid us ineptly amateurish compliments, and no one even hinted that the game was rough; but now the world is cold and reactionary academicians miscall the game of heroes in terms which even a spellbinder would refrain from applying to a corporation. I thought again of those ardent Varsity squads, but this time sadly. Like the poet Gray contemplating the young Etonians, I shuddered at the "Fury Passions" implanted by a barbarous pastime in their breasts, sure to bear terrible fruit: Vain Ostentation, Hard Brutality, Savage Guile, Ruthless Ambition-to say nothing of Wrenched Joints and Broken Constitutions! There was no hope for them; that I was sure of. Had I not read attentively the "Foot-ball Problem" column in the Educator's Gazette?

"But how about my own generation?" I queried. If the modern game with all its emasculating regulations is still debasing, what of our unregenerate old diversion? Ten years! It is no lifetime, but character should begin to

show itself in the decade between twenty and thirty. Is the doom which we thoughtlessly contracted for already upon us?

I jumped up and waved my arms in Swedish exercises, took deep breaths, thumped my chest. Physically, I seemed to be holding out. Of the subtler moral disintegration I could not tell. One never can be sure of one's own incorporeal part: judging that of others is simpler, I tried to recall my team mates as I had seen them at our last reunion. Were they showing the predicted paralyzation of conscience, ascendency of the brute instincts? First to my mind came Jackson-Tubby Jack son, the Theolog. Many a time have I seen his leviathan body wading steadily forward through the small fry of ineffectual tacklers, while the bleachers yelled, "Rip 'em up! Tear 'em up!" but the last time I met him he was wearing the uncleft collar of the army of meekness, and I understand that he is doing great things with a mission parish. Yensen, our big blond centre, has become assistant professor of chemistry somewhere in the Middle West. One of the guards is a mining engineer, working too hard to be either very good or very bad; the other has inherited money and leads an idle but innocuous life. Sawed-off Donahue, he whose vicious shoe-top tackles brought down the huge two-hundred-pounders, is editor of the women's page of a Sunday paper. Hayne, a doctor now, may be a very bad man for all I know, but none of his patients seem to have discovered it. Perkins is a lawyer. I have never heard of his "kneeing" the wind out of an unfavorable judge; and John Baxter the flamingheaded full-back, who commanded a degree of adulation beyond the competition of a matador or a matinee idol, in whose ears were always ringing shouts of "Baxter! Baxter! A long one for Baxter!" "Baxter made the touchdown, hip, hip!" "Bully boy, Bax!" who could not cross the campus without being cheered, or walk along the street without attracting a train of admiring news-boys, what has become of Baxter? It has been written: "Perhaps most dangerous to the foot-ball star is the inordinate applause of his fellows. How can he be content with the slow progress that awaits the graduate in sound business or professional life? Will he not continue to crave the plaudits of the multitude?" To that question Baxter's case is not a bad answer. He has not chosen to be a demagogue, nor yet a pugilist; he has settled peaceably into truck-farming; his hobby is the perfection of a new species of musk-melon.

There remains, of course, abundant time for the "low-browed cunning and ferocity of the savage" to manifest itself in each of us; but when I had finished running over the list of my brothers-in-brutality, I found it hard to believe in the seriousness of that risk. Foot-ball itself did not seem such a very tragic matter: the current discussion of foot-ball began to appear just a little bit ridiculous.

If we admit that the undergraduate sobbing over a lost game, displays an infatuated misconception of real values, what shall we say of his mature preceptor who, in the quiet of the study, pens hysterical jeremiads for the Educator's Gazette? For that matter, what shall we say of the other party? We can hardly expect reasoned balance from the undergraduate, but that familiar ornament of mass meetings, that disparager of instruction, eulogist of "College Life," the "Loyal Old Alumnus," may fairly be held to a standard of sanity. Yet stripped of refulgent generalities, the specific advantages he attributes to his favorite sport as a preparation for life are not impressive. Strength and health equal to that bestowed by a four years' course of foot-ball can be obtained with less than half the exertion and at no bodily risk whatever, by any well-planned system of exercise. Pluck and persistency are really not the results of the game itself, but of the players' devotion to it, and might better be developed, as they easily can be with the same concentration of interest, in connection with pursuits of actual intrinsic value. The foot-ball graduate is not likely to be a coward-that is true, and there is no denying that moral rectitude is usually easier for the man who does not shudder at the thought of enduring pain. But after all, this is a civilized country, and violence comes seldom into the life of the average citizen. One turns from the advocates as from the prosecutors with a weary sense that megalomania is the most prevalent of contemporary diseases.

Foot-ball, and foot-ball mania, are over and done with very early, too early one might think, to have any permanent life influence; and like many other collegiate things, they do not easily bear being pulled up by the roots from the earth of campus and athletic field; they wither when transplanted in the great busy world. Nine times out of ten, as you run across college graduates in after life, you cannot distinguish between the former athletic star and his classmate who read the original poem on Commencement day: both are equally commonplace.

Encore

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I reflect on this mystery every time I come to myself at the end of a concert-the excellent, satisfactory end which a good concert knows how to achieve and which is as much a part of the programme as the symphony and hear people murmuring on every hand, "Oh! wasn't that beautiful? Oh! don't you wish that we could hear it right over again, straight through from the beginning?" Nor is it a matter of hearing only which I experience; I myself give utterance freely: "Yes, indeed; if we only could," with such a fervor of assent that I deceive myself as well as every one else.

Why do I do this? Why do we all so delude ourselves? We know perfectly well that it is one of the great laws of life that immediate repetition spoils almost any pleasure, that nothing would really afflict us more than to hear that concert "right over again, straight through from the beginning." Yet observe us. Erect in our seats, we wave our handkerchiefs, clap our hands, storm the weary musicians with an applause which is not all gratitude but which demands further favors at once.

It is interesting to observe the deportment of these same musicians under stress of our importunity. They all know that encores are a mistake-trust them for that. Sometimes they hold to the knowledge serenely, bowing and bowing (since they are human, they doubtless enjoy the tribute of applause enough to pay for the fatigue which it entails on them), but steadfastly refusing the least note of concession to the multitude. That is fine; I approve it, even though I may be splitting my gloves with entreaty. Sometimes, worn out, they capitulate, shrugging their shoulders and smiling with an air of mingled disgust and toleration which is very funny, and, returning to their instruments, play-not a genuine encore, but something else, not down on the programme. That is not very bad, though it never is very good. It creates a subdued confusion of people comparing notes all over the house "That's Chopin"; "oh, no, it's that charming little thing of Grieg's; don't you recognize it?"-and it has an air of dispatch and duty which injures it somewhat. But the genuine encore, the repetition of the last all too fondly admired concert number, is the great and deplorable insult to art and common-sense. It

is hard to see how a musician can bring himself to commit such a crime. No one enjoys it. The strains, which ravished five minutes ago, cloy now, or irritate, or simply bore; a joy, which might have remained as a dear memory, is eclipsed and extinguished. Folly of men! The angels must weep at the beautiful things which we spoil for ourselves.

The same perversity holds true in the reading of books. One suddenly comes upon a great passage, a splendid paragraph. What an experience! It takes the breath, dazzles the understanding. One lets oneself go with the sweep of the lines, one catches the glow of the thought and thrills to the beauty of its fit expression, one glories, rejoices; then one reaches the end of the page and pauses, lifting or closing the eyes. Now that very pause is the fine flower of the poet's utterance; it is expressly designed to convey transcendent things to the reader. But wisdom and self-control are needed to hold the vision true. If the reader says to himself, "That's a noble passage; I must read it over again"; and if he suits his action to the word, the great work is undone. All the glow and power escape from the lines when they are closely scrutinized, the hovering significance fades, the beauty resolves itself into mere rhyme and metre. The only way to retain the glory of a splendid page is to push on, resolutely forbearing to cast so much as one glance behind.

In the matter of the seasons, too, how foolish people are! I happen to have a summer home in the northern part of New England, where the spring comes very late. I am apt to return to it early in May, and always have the experience of finding myself set back two or three weeks in the year's development. I do not like this. It disconcerts me, gives me a rude jog which is not in harmony with the smooth lapse of time. But never yet have I failed to be congratulated by somebody when I have taken my northward departure: "You lucky person to have the spring all over again!" As if I wanted spring over again! What! to have made all that progress, achieved all that serene unfolding, flowered and ripened to that extent, and then to be brought up short and haled back to bleak and snowy beginnings once more-how discouraging! It is true that the early spring is the most exquisite phase of the year, that the beauty of early summer cannot compare with it, but my spirit has had the poignant rapture once, and is now set to the tune of repose and maturity. A thrill repeated in the wrong place hurts.

That use of the word rapture reminds me of Browning's thrush. But I wonder if the poet, being pinned down to a final conviction, would have consistently defended the wisdom of his bird. Poets say so many things in so many different moods. Anyway, what kind of a thrush was it that sang his song twice over? Not the thrush that lives in my woods; he never repeats himself. It is undoubtedly true that he utters the same notes very many times in the course of one woodland afternoon; but he combines them so differently that he always seems to be saying something entirely new. Even when he recurs to a whole strain, it is with no effect of repetition, but swinging around to it through such a sequence of modulations and changes of key that it falls on the ear with a fresh suggestion. He is a wise thrush.

There is another poet, William Blake, one of whose stanzas I find myself quoting so often that I think I must regard it as expressing a very profound philosophy of life:

"He who bends to himself a Joy
Does the winged life destroy;
But he who kisses the joy as it flies,
Lives in eternity's sunrise."

It is the last line that captivates me. Only four words. Yet one can reflect on them endlessly, drawing wisdom and comfort and strength from them; one can set sail on them, use them as wings, direct them to any vast purpose one will; there is no exhaustion in them.

They contain nothing less than the whole of man's immortality. Eternity's sunrise! Thus we stand always at the beginning of new things, the old put away behind us, not forgotten, but merged in general clouds of glory. Thus there are always fresh chances before us, strange and surprising enough sometimes, but all the better for that. Thus we are always young in one aspect, old and experienced though we may sanely desire that life shall make us on the whole.

Good life! After all, we are trying to reckon without our host in this discussion-our host or our warder, our teacher, our guide, just as we choose to name it. Life is a great deal wiser than we are, and it sees to it that the great concerns of our experience are guarded from our meddlesome fingers. It does not precisely limit us to one prayer in a lifetime, one mountain rapture, one friendly contact of soul with soul, one ardor of work. That would be hard lines truly. The unique delight would scarcely be worth the subsequent price of emptiness and longing which we should have to pay for it. But, in a hundred thousand prayers, no two strike out the same path to heaven; no familiar mountain ever touches the spirit twice in the same way. Trivial issues we may play with, trivial encores we may achieve if we will be so perverse; but the real things come and go as they will, and we cannot control them at all. It is probably not too much to say that no man has ever repeated a great experience.

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