That was a long time ago. To-day the audacious youth would not get off so easily before any gathering in the "regne of femynye." Still as in Jane Austen's period, "it is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in need of a wife." But the single woman is no longer conversely in need of the "good rich husband." The world has grown cheerfully to accept without smile or hint at a ceremony called "nolo episcopari," our protestations of content. We may flaunt without ridicule our praises of independence void of "followers" or encumbrances, the joys of unhampered freedom. It is so convenient to walk in the middle of the path, to sit directly under the lamp, to reflect on the superior system and firmness with which we could bring up the children of others. And spite of Dante, it is not so bad to "go up and down another's stairs" with no responsibility for rolls of dust accumulating in the corners. We are believed.

Still the children are in one way right. Through some convention of society it is not the thing for us to appear genuinely old, though the married may age as fast as they will. Oh, to have lived in the days of Charlotte Brontë, when one woman could write to another, "At twenty-three you can hardly call yourself young"! In that good time by twenty-five we should have sat restfully down for the remainder of our days, emancipated and relieved.

Not so to-day. On the head of our married sister gray hairs are venerable, badge of acceptable service, but we have to devise new ways to turn our hair inside outside to bring the white on the under side. The married may amble leisurely along the way or stroll quietly in pleasant bypaths; we have to step off brisk and pert to show how much strength and oil there is still left in our poor old bones. The married can survey with complacence a moderate increment of plumpness; but we dare not risk a penny-inthe-slot at the station scales, fearful of mortification in case they begin suddenly to play a tune. It is permitted to

the married to seek the fellowship of wise folk older than themselves, to acquire the mellowness of their more assured repose; we are perforce ambitious for the society of the "old young girls;" we must seek for special familiar some pretty young thing without a gray hair in her head.

Some time ago a newly married friend sent me her bookplate, very unpretentious for a book-plate,-just a little cut of her library. I suppose there were shelves and books in the picture. I remember only two central features, a pug-nosed dog and a cordial fire-place. Here no doubt on snug winter evenings there are two more present with the tutelary dog, carelessly whiling the hours in receptive fire-side chairs. And for all I know, they put their feet up on the fender. With me it is different. I too should like to sit by the register in my boarding house and doze at my ease. But no, I am young, and I must go out and play bridge or something more youthfully inconsequent. Or if the thermometer is way below zero, I stagger half a mile through the drifts in the company of my active friends, the lads of eighteen, to witness a basket-ball game. I am so fond of athletics, like all young people.

And yet what should be in this youth, that we cling to it so tightly? It was a busy time disquieted by heavy problems. So many abstruse speculations, including axioms and platitudes and unimaginable mysteries, had to be settled out of hand, as if the weight of the future depended upon our immediate decision. What are the comparative merits of Shakespeare and Browning? Where is the border between spirit and matter? What is the relation of tragedy to comedy? Is the human will free? I remember that once in college days, as I was lounging with a book, a class-mate suddenly leaned over my shoulder and began, "Say, I never happened to ask you, but do you consider life worth living?" She felt that she must know before night. I had a glib answer in a minute, and we dealt ably with the matter. I should not feel equal to it now.

Then there was the worse responsibility of youth's privilege, the persuasion that we must make the most of our choice susceptibilities before the torpor of middle age should dull our keenness. We had to be so exquisite and so sensitive, to thrill our utmost with all fine subtleties and nice emotion. A young girl once confided to me her impatience that she could not go immediately to Europe while she still had left some bit of sensibility, some remaining shred of æsthetic appreciation. And we were all like her, as eager to miss no slight vibration of experience as was the man who could never learn how to shiver.

Well, we have had our experience, and it has brought a freedom at which we should once have shuddered. We have been to Europe in the good times so short a while ago, and spent happy hours not alone in the Alps or in galleries, but in the shops, absorbed in bargaining for coral pins. In our off moments of musical levity we may dare to prefer "Tipperary" on the hurdy-gurdy to the Götterdämmerung. We may read an occasional silly novel without scruple lest we shorten thereby "the stature of our souls." We may venture sometimes to be interested in dinner, be frankly pleased with asparagus. A fat and slippered middle age is a very comfortable thing, I'm told.

Could we not then dare by a bold originality to accept the relief of avowed old-maidenhood, to find solace in the enfranchisement which comes with gray hairs and plumpness and the good custom of mature fellowship? Why suffer the patronage of pity when we are so consciously able to pity in our turn the anxious follies of the more radiant age. As for me, my own way appears more clear at last. I have half a mind to free myself from the thraldom of my youth. I have pretty nearly decided to be thirty-five. If I could be eighteen again, I could not accept the condition any more profoundly, or settle eternal questions in time to catch an earlier train. Even the children, with all their sympathy, would not advise us to cherish illusions. And when I finally discard my juvenile nimbleness for the

mild comatose pleasures of middle life, I shall take as excuse enough the wise words of a small boy.

We had been reading together the old legend of Hawthorne's, in which a doctor who has discovered the water of life invites a few aged friends to share a private demonstration of its powers. They drink long draughts and are temporarily restored to youth; but, becoming too frisky, tip over the beaker and allow the precious liquor to flow away. When we had finished, I asked my little friend for his interpretation of the story. Children dislike generalities, and for a long time I hinted and coaxed in vain. Finally a light dawned in his eyes. The words were slow in coming, but at last he stammered, "Why, I think it means that even if you should become young again, you'd be just as foolish as ever." He was a polite little fellow and meant no offence. With the indefinite use of the pronoun "you" in the speech of the rising generation I was quite familiar. But I had my lesson.

TH

CODDLING MURDER

HE newspapers of the adjoining cities used to indulge a few years ago in a recurrent jest that the sure way to longevity was to go to Chicago and commit murder. The charge was only too true, for the immunity of Chicago's criminals was notorious throughout the country. The deplorable conditions that occasioned the witticism still exist there unchanged. The average number of homicides in the city district is still far over 200 a year, and shows no sign of falling off. But Chicago is not alone in this matter and, bad as her record is, she is not appreciably worse than the rest of the country. There is no section that should dare to cast the first stone. St. Louis with less than one-third of Chicago's population reported 92 homicides for 1913. For last year, New York city had 299, a rate five times as great as that of London; 10,000 murders, it is estimated, are committed in this country every year, more than the aggregate for any other ten civilized nations, excluding Russia. In the United States as a whole, we are told that crimes of this nature have increased over 60% in the last three decades. Naturally the statistics on the subject are on some points incomplete or conflicting, but after making all allowances for inaccuracies, the most cursory examination will bring out two startling facts. First, America has more homicides per capita than any other country in the world; second, the proportion is increasing.

These facts are fairly well agreed upon, but on their cause there exists a wide divergence of opinion. Critics are not wanting to complain that, as a people, we are naturally lawless and prone to violence, and that no other results could be expected. This explanation, for which the exaggerated accounts of mob outrages are largely responsible, does not appear to us to be correct. To com