he is that there are some times so perfect that to dream of 'improving' them is an impertinence. Such are these heaven-sent days when from morning until dark one may lie under the trees that shade some cinquefoil-covered bank, and watch their branches against the sky.

They tell me that all ills have their compensations. I sincerely hope it may be so. To me, at any rate, long days spent underneath the trees have, in some sort, made up for much weariness of mind and body. It is wonderful how different trees, perfectly familiar from porch or window, look when you come to them for rest. It is the difference between a friend's face as one sees it every day, indifferent, preoccupied, stern, and the same face bending over you when you are ill or sad.

There is a something peculiarly caressing about a pear tree in early autumn when the full-formed fruit is mellowing and taking on a richer coloring. Lounging beneath its downward curving boughs of a sunny afternoon, one receives a gracious suggestion of Pomona, the ruddy-cheeked and strongarmed, stooping so close that the autumnal perfume of her garments stirs the senses headily. Under such a tree, on such an afternoon, might John Keats have felt out his poem, 'To Autumn,' whilst old dreams of peace floated through his drowsy brain.

I claim connoisseurship in these matters, and much experience has made me somewhat precious as to the aërial background for my various trees. For naked beeches, the misty azure of an afternoon in Indian summer; for Lombardy poplars, a leaden sky and a black line of slow-flying crows; but for the wild-cherry, a day of high winds driving

tumbled masses of cloud through sapphire heights. There is an inexpressible austerity in those sparse leaves of the wild-cherry, all blown in the same direction: so at midnight, while the multitude of pilgrims slept below, may the Stylite on his pillar have stretched out yearning hands toward God: such intensity of longing breathes in the passionate

Te peto, te colo, te flagro, te volo, canto, saluto, of the Monk of Cluny. And, gazing upward through the intervals of the scant foliage of this tree, I have seen the bright sky shining through, as Roman Catholic mystics have fancied they saw the Host glow through the sheer linen of the corporal.

But, before all, last of all, beautiful always, the oak! Whether its branches show green against a dark-blue sky,gold where the sunlight touches them,

whether its leaves show magenta in the light of the setting sun, or black and silver in the moonlight, there is no tree of them all to compare with it. All a summer's day you may lie stretched beneath it, so strong and so friendly, not to you only, but to all the little lives that swarm about its roots. All kinds of busy creatures, ants, spiders, daddylong-legs, beloved of your childhood, go scurrying over you on this errand and that, as unafraid, almost, as if you were dead. A feeling of kinship comes to you: a knowledge that all this life in oak and grass and insect, and the good dog lying at your feet, is but a little part of the ageless flux and reflux: soothingly as a cool hand on an aching head, there comes to you the realization that soon, fears, hates, and loves forgotten, your tired body shall rest under the trees all the days and all the nights.

I

WHEN, as a child, I learned the Westminster Catechism by heart I found the Ten Commandments easy to remember. There was something straightforward in these prohibitions. Once started in the right direction one could hardly stray from the path. But I stumbled over the question, 'What are the reasons annexed to the First Commandment?'

That a commandment should be committed to memory seemed just. I was prepared to submit to the severest tests of verbal accuracy. But that there should be 'reasons annexed,' and that these also should be remembered, seemed to my youthful understanding a grievance. It made the path of the obedient hard. To this day there is a haziness about the 'reasons' that contrasts with the sharp outlines of the commandment itself.

I fancy that news-gatherers have the same experience. They are diligent in collecting items of news and reporting them to the world, but it is a real hardship to them to have to give any rational account of these bits of fact. They tell what is done in different parts of the world, but they forget to mention 'the moving why they did it.' The consequence is that, in this age of in

VOL. 110 - NO. 4

stantaneous communication, we know what is going on in other countries, but it seems very irrational. The rational elements have been lost in the process of transmission.

There has, for example, been no lack of news cabled across the Atlantic in regard to the nominations for President of the United States. The European reader is made aware that a great deal of strong feeling has been evoked, and strong language used. When a picturesque term of reproach has been hurled by one candidate at another it is promptly reported to a waiting world. But the 'reasons annexed' are calmly ignored. The consequence is that the reader is confirmed in his exaggerated idea of the nervous irritability of the American people. There seems to be a periodicity in their seizures. At intervals of four years they indulge in an orgy of mutual recrimination, and then suddenly return to their normal state of money-getting. It is all very unaccountable. Doubtless the most charitable explanation is the climate.

It was after giving prominence to an unusually vivid bit of vituperation that a conservative London newspaper remarked, 'All this is characteristically American, but it shocks the unaccustomed ears of Europe.'

As I read the rebuke I felt positively

ashamed of my country and its untutored ways. I pictured Europe as a dignified lady of mature years listening to the screams issuing from her neighbor's nursery. She had not been used to hearing naughty words called out in such a loud tone of voice. Instead of discussing their grievances calmly, they were actually calling one another

names.

It was therefore with a feeling of chastened humility that I turned to the columns devoted to the more decorous doings of Europe. Here I should find examples worthy of consideration. They are drawn from the homes of ancient civility. Would that our rude politicians might be brought under these refining influences and learn how to behave!

But alas! When we drop in upon our neighbors, unannounced, things are sometimes not so tidy as they are on the days at home.' The hostess is flustered and evidently has troubles of her own. So, as ill-luck would have it, it is with Dame Europe's household. The visitor from across the Atlantic is surprised at the obstreperousness of the more vigorous members of the family. Evidently a great many interesting things are going on, but the standard of deportment is not high.

While the unaccustomed ears of Europe were shocked at the shrill cries from the rival conventions at Chicago and Baltimore, there was equal turbulence in the Italian Parliament at Rome. There were shouts and catcalls and every sign of uncontrollable violence. What are the 'reasons annexed' to all this uproar? I do not know. In Budapest such unparliamentary expressions as 'swine,' 'liar,' 'thief,' and 'assassin' were freely used in debate. An honorable member who had been expelled for the use of too strong language, returned to 'shoot up' the House. The chairman, after dodg

ing three shots, declared that he must positively insist on better order.

In the German Reichstag a member threatens the Kaiser with the fate of Charles the First, if he does not speedily mend his ways. He suggests as a fit Imperial residence the castle where the Mad King of Bavaria was allowed to exercise his erratic energies without injury to the commonweal. At the mention of Charles the First the chamber was in an uproar, and amid a tumult of angry voices the session was brought to a close.

In Russia, unseemly clamor is kept from the carefully guarded ears of the Czar. There art conspires with nature to produce peace. We read of the Czar's recent visit to his ancient capital. "The police during the previous night made three thousand arrests. The Czar and Czarina drove through the city amid the ringing of bells, and with banners flying.'

On reading this item the American reader plucks up heart. If, during the Chicago convention, the police had made three thousand arrests the sessions might have been as quiet as those of the Duma.

Even the proceedings of the British House of Commons are disappointing to the pilgrim in search of decorum. The Mother of Parliaments has trouble with her unruly brood.

We enter the sacred precincts as a member rises to a point of order.

'I desire to ask your ruling, Mr. Speaker, as to whether the honorable gentleman is entitled to allude to members of the House, as miscreants.'

The Speaker: 'I do not think the term "miscreant" is a proper Parliamentary expression.'

This is very elementary teaching, but it appears that Mr. Speaker is compelled to repeat his lesson almost daily. It is 'line upon line and precept upon precept.'

The records of the doings of the House contain episodes which would be considered exciting in Arizona. We read: 'For five minutes the Honorable George Lansbury defied the Speaker, insulted the Prime Minister, and scorned the House of Commons. He raved in an ecstasy of passion; challenging, taunting, and defying.' The trouble began with a statement of Mr. Asquith's. 'Then up jumped Mr. Lansbury, his face contorted with passion, and his powerful rasping voice dominating the whole House. Shouting and waving his arms, he approached the government Front Bench with a curious crouching gait, like a boxer leaving his corner in the ring. One or two Liberals on the bench behind Mr. Asquith half rose, but the Prime Minister sat stolidly gazing above the heads of the opposition, his arms folded, and his lips pursed. Mr. Lansbury had worked himself up into a state of frenzy and, facing the Prime Minister, he shouted, "You are beneath my contempt! Call yourself a gentleman! You ought to be driven from public life."'

I cannot remember any scene like this in Disraeli's novels. The House of Commons used to be called the best club in Europe. But that, says the conservative critic, was before the members were paid.

II

But certain changes, like the increased cost of living, are going on everywhere. The fact seems to be that all over the civilized world there is a noticeable falling-off in good manners. It is useless for one country to point the finger of scorn at another, or to assume an air of injured politeness. It is more conducive to good understanding to join in a general confession of sin. We are all miserable offenders, and there is little to choose between us. The con

ventionalities which bind society together are like the patent glue we see advertised on the streets. A plate has been broken and then joined together. The strength of the adhesive substance is shown by the way it holds up a stone of considerable weight attached to it. The plate thus mended holds together admirably till it is put in hot water.

I have no doubt but that a conservative Chinese gentleman would tell you that since the Republic came in there has been a sad falling-off in the observance of the rules of propriety as laid down by Confucius. The conservative newspapers of England bewail the fact that there has been a lamentable change since the present government came in. The arch offender is 'that political Mahdi, Lloyd George, whose false prophecies have made deluded dervishes of hosts of British workmen, and who has corrupted the manners of Parliament itself."

This wicked Mahdi, by his appeals to the passions of the populace, has destroyed the old English reverence for Law.

I do not know what may be the cause, but the American visitor does notice that the English attitude toward the laws of the realm is not so devout as he had been led to expect. We have from our earliest youth been taught to believe that the law-abidingness of the Englishman was innate and impeccable. It was not that, like the good man of whom the Psalmist speaks, he meditated on the law day and night. He did n't need to. Decent respect for the law was in his blood. He simply could n't help conforming to it.

And this impression is confirmed by the things which the tourist goes to see. The stately mansions embowered in green and guarded by immemorial oaks are accepted as symbolic of an ordered life. The multitudinous rooks suggest security which comes from

triumphant legality. No irresponsible person shoots them. When one enters a cathedral close he feels that he is in a land that frowns on the crudity of change. Here everything is 'a thousand years the same.' And how decent is the demeanor of a verger!

When the pilgrim from Kansas arrives at an ancient English inn he feels that he must be on his good behavior. Boots in his green apron is a lesson to him. He is not like a Western hotel bellboy on the way to becoming something else. He knows his place. Everybody in this country knows his place, and there is no unseemly crowding and pushing. And what stronger proof can there be that this is a land where law is reverenced than the demeanor of a London policeman. There is no truculence about him, no show of physical force. He is so mild-eyed and soft of speech that one feels that he has been shielded from rude contact with the world. And so he has been. He represents the Law in a land where law is sacred. He is instinctively obeyed. He has but to wave his hand and traffic stops.

When the traveler is told that in the vicinity of the House of Commons traffic is stopped to allow a Member to cross the street, his admiration increases. Fancy a Congressman being treated with such respect! But the argument which, on the whole, makes the deepest impression is the deferential manners of the tradesmen with their habit of saying, "Thank you,' apropos of nothing at all. It seems an indication of perpetual gratitude over the fact that things are as they are.

But when one comes to listen to the talk of the day, one is surprised to find a general lack of docility. I suspect that the Englishman has not nearly as much respect for law as he has for custom. When, therefore, a law is enacted which is opposed to the custom in

which he believes, his instinct is to resist it in a most vigorous and conscientious way. I doubt whether he has the veneration for the abstract idea of Law that we find among Americans. There is to the average American a certain finality about a decision of the Supreme Court. The Law has spoken, let all the land keep silent! It seems like treason to criticize it. It is anarchy to defy it.

To the modern Englishman this attitude seems superstitious. The counsel of perfection is to obey a law till such time as it can be repealed. But this is too tedious a process. The British way is to disobey and take the consequences. There is a long tradition of such heroic non-conformity. Passive resistance- with such active measures as may make the life of the enforcers of the law a burden to them-is a popular method.

Just at this time every earnest and wide-awake person seems to be engaged in some form of resistance to law. The conscientious women who throw stones through shop windows, and lay violent hands on cabinet ministers, do so, avowedly, to bring certain laws into disrepute. They go on hunger-strikes, not in order to be released from prison, but in order to be treated as political prisoners. They insist that their methods should be recognized as acts of legitimate warfare. They may be extreme in their actions, but they are not alone in their theory.

The Insurance Law, by which all workers whose wages are below a certain sum are compulsorily insured against sickness and the losses that follow it, is just going into effect. Its provisions are necessarily complicated, and its administration must at first be difficult. The Insurance-Law Resisters are organized to nullify the act. Its enormities are held up before all eyes, and it is flouted in every possible way.