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and, to be plain, I would rather state my own case, even at the risk of your thinking me a very singular young woman."

"I might answer that to be unusual is not always to be unpleasant."

"That is nicely put and kindly. May I go on ?"

"I wish you would. I have heard something of this trouble of yours."

"Oh, it is not my trouble. People-other people-take the rough material of one's views, plans, hopes, and manufacture trouble out of them. But pardon me. I interrupted you. Do you really want me to go on?"

"Pray do." She paused, looked up at me, and then down at her lap, and at last set wide eyes on me for a moment and continued:

"I hesitate because I do not know how much to say. Mrs. Vincent can tell you just what I am, the bad and the good. Oh, I see she has done it already."


"Well, I am twenty-four. I have more than enough means. Also, I have active brains. A certain discontentment with this life of bits and shreds troubles me. I am told that I should amuse myself as others do—with music. I can play, but I have no real talent or love for it. Sketch! I can caricature hatefully well; I loathe it. And at last mama suggests fancy work, and Aunt Selina says, 'The poor, my dear.' If I were free as to the last suggestion, I might find in it a true career, but no young unmarried woman could make of this a lifenot mama's daughter, at least. What I need is connected work, something which offers an enlarging life. I do not mean for ambition, but as a definite means of development. You are going to say there is science, study."

"I was," I answered. "You are dreadfully apprehensive as to one's ideas."

"Oh, it was what others have suggested; but mere acquirement of barren knowledge seems to me a poor use to make of life."


Yes; that is true. I am at one with you there."

"I have thought it all over. I want to study medicine, and practise it too. That is all. You can help me. Be on my side. I-I shall thank you so much. And you will be my friend in this, will you not?" These last sentences were spoken with some excitement, and with a look of earnest anxiety. I knew as she talked that this was not a woman to turn aside from her purposes with ease. And what could I say? I, too, hesitated. She went on again, and now with a pretty girl-like timidity which touched


"Perhaps I have said more than I should; I may have asked too much of you. Sometimes I seem to myself to be a strong, effective

woman, needing no help, and competent to go my way. And then I find I have troubled mama, and that hurts me, and then I relent, and am like a weak child groping about for help. Are all women like that? I am stopped here, and turned aside there, and told to consult this one or that. It seems so hard to do what is right."

"No one knows that better than I do," I replied. "It is not enough to want to do right. And now, as regards your mother, I am not at all sure what to do or say. Like you, I want to do right, and do not find it easy."

I felt that I did not wish to wound this gentle girl, with her honest longings, and her despair as to the meagerness of mere upperclass life-its failures to satisfy the large mind and larger heart. After an awkward pause I said, "I should like to help you, and I desire in so doing not to hurt you"; and, having so spoken, felt like a fool.

"But you must not mind that. It is not not as if you had known me for years. Speak as you would to a stranger, a patient." "You have made it difficult."

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"That is a serious question, or rather several questions, some of them not easily to be answered. I would rather not discuss them." "And is this all?"

"No; and you will smile at my sequel. I never saw a woman who did not lose something womanly in acquiring the education of the physician. I hardly put it delicately enough: a charm is lost."

“Oh, but that is of no moment."

"You cannot think that. You would lose the power to know you had lost something. That is the real evil. Others would know it. Men, at least."

"Do you think this really important?"
"Yes, I do."

"Oh, there is mama, and I have not half done."

"Perhaps it is as well, Miss Leigh. You

should ask some one who is not a doctor. Every profession has its prejudices, and I am constantly in fear of mine. But, in fact, as to these, the best of us are like people with cross pet dogs; we may be puzzled to know what to do with them, but we do not knock them on the head."

"Oh, but how a nice frank statement like that comforts one. You will not forget that I have as yet said no word in reply ?"

"I did not quite understand her," said Mrs. Leigh. "Do you think she could have meant to make fun of Alice, of us, of me?"

"Oh, I knew of course you would see through her. I hope when Miss Leigh attends that hoary sinner Ashton, she will give him some good old-fashioned dose. May I beg to be called in consultation ? "

Miss Leigh smiled. Her hands unlocked. "Thank you," she said. "And do let this mat

"No. I shall want to hear-I shall very ter rest, mama." much want to hear."

As I spoke, Mrs. Leigh entered, large, rosy, handsome, and smiling. She was a little blown from the exertion of mounting the stairs.

"Good morning, Dr. North. I am glad to see you very glad."

"Let me take your cloak, mama," said Miss Alice, as I returned the mother's welcome and added that I was on the wing, and had more than used up my time. Mrs. Leigh was profusely sorry, but rang the bell, and I left them.

For some good or bad reason the servant was not in the hall, and as I went down I was aware that I had left my hat in the drawingroom. As I went up again to reclaim it, I heard Mrs. Leigh's voice in quick, decisive, and rather high tones. I was seized at once with a violent attack of what I may call the cough social. The voice fell a little, and I went in, saying, "I was careless enough to leave my hat, and rash enough to come back after it." "I am glad you have come back," said Mrs. Leigh. "Do give me five minutes; I have been talking to my daughter."

"I beg of you, mama — Dr. North has an engagement; please not to—”

"It is perfectly useless, Alice. Every one is talking about it. Mrs. Flint asked me if you were going to be a homeopath or a regular." "Mama!"

"And old Mr. Ashton asked me if he might send for you when he had the gout, and that fool, his son, talked about 'sweet girl graduates.'" I had to choose swiftly between retreat or a declaration in favor of the mother or the daughter, who stood white and still before us, her hands clasped together in front of her.

Pardon me," I interposed. "I have really but a moment; and again a pardon, if I say that this is not the best way to meet this question. You have flattered me by asking me to share your counsels. I must have time to think about it. Miss Leigh has been most frank with me, and, my dear Mrs. Leigh, speaking for myself, were I Miss Leigh, nothing would harden me like the ridicule of such women as Mrs. Flint. She is smart-that is the word-and malicious, and so confident that she confuses people who do not know her combination of ill humor and inexactness."

"Oh, of course. I wish other people would; but I could not expect Dr. North to agree entirely with Mrs. Flint. She told me "Mama!"

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"I think Dr. North ought to know how she talks about him."

"Ah, I knew she would justify my character of her. You have made me happy for the day. Good-by. Good-by, Miss Leigh."


ST. CLAIR, a day later, was in what Vincent called the indefinite mood. When in this state he wandered, or rather drifted, whither the tide of accidental encounter took him. These mental states were apt to be followed by days of impassioned work with the pen or moldingtool. But when idle, he would drop in upon Vincent or Clayborne, meander about among books of law or history, complain with childlike disappointment if their owners could not go out with him, and at last slip away silently to feast his eyes on the colors of the piled-up fruit in the old market-sheds, or to walk for miles in the country, have what he termed a debauch of milk at a farm-house, and return home late at night.

About eleven in the morning he found himself (for it was literally that) in Clayborne's study. The historian looked around. "Take a pipe? Cigars in the case; cigarettes in the drawer; books on the table. I am busy."

The final remark was quite useless. "So am I," returned the poet. And this exasperated Clayborne into attention. He shut a huge folio with such vigor as to disturb the gathered dust of other lands, and said savagely:

"Busy! You don't know what it means."

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My dear fellow," returned St. Clair, "I am so happy to-day. Don't moralize. Be glad some fellow carries his Garden of Eden always with him. No; don't consider it affectation. You are a misery-mill; I am a flower-press. And, really, grumble seems to be your normal diet. Just now you think you are unhappy because some other man has said you make mistakes or come to wrong conclusions. It is a disguised joy. You are not truly unhappy. As for me, I do not care a cent what any man

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Oh, her figure and serenity! You should see her when her face is at rest, and then when it smiles. And her eyes! Come and take a walk. It's Miss Leigh I mean."

“Oh, that girl, Mrs. Vincent's latest enthusiasm. My dear boy, take care. I think I see you with Mrs. Leigh for a mother-in-law. You will need no other censor. It would be the thing of all others for you."

"So says Mrs. Vincent. I have several people who attend to my interests and doctor my morals. And you will not walk? Then I think I shall go and call on the Leighs. I should immensely like to model that hand."

"Best tell Mrs. Leigh so," said Clayborne, with a grim smile.

"I think I shall," returned St. Clair, simply. "And now you may demolish that critic; my malediction on him. Good-by."

After this he went away, and on the street bought a lot of roses and went along smelling of them, until of a sudden he was aware of Mrs. Vincent, who said as they met, "I suppose these flowers are for me."

"If you like. I was going to call on Miss Leigh."

"And Mrs. Leigh, I trust," said Mrs. Vincent, demurely.

"And Mrs. Leigh," echoed he, with resignation. "The stem of the rose." Then he added disconnectedly, "Clayborne knows them. I don't like that woman. I did not know it until I got away the other night."

"Oh, she is really nice. Don't nurse prejudices; when they get their growth they become difficulties and embarrassments. And you see

well, I want you to like them. I mean the Leighs."

"I do. Is n't that girl superb? Come with me. If you don't, I will not go at all."

It thus happened that the two found Mrs. Leigh home and alone.

"I met Mr. St. Clair on the way to call on you," said Mrs. Vincent. "And how are you all? And my dear Alice, is she visible?"

"No; she is out-as my Ned says, gone to visit some of her social cripples."

St. Clair looked up. "What are social cripples?"

"Oh-social cripples."

"I think I must be one," said St. Clair. "And perhaps Mrs. Vincent could persuade you to consider my claims. I have some people coming to afternoon tea at my studio." "I fear that we are engaged," returned Mrs. Leigh. "Really —'

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"But you do not know the date yet. How can you be engaged?"


Oh, we shall be, I am sure."

"Not for my tea," said Mrs. Vincent. "This is mine, you know. I permit Mr. St. Clair to lend me his studio. We will talk it over later. I want your advice as to some of the arrangements. And now, about the children." After which there was talk between the two women, while St. Clair fell into a reverie, or with mental disapproval considered the furniture, until, at last, Mrs. Vincent rose, saying, “And now Mr. St. Clair and I must go. I saw your carriage at the door."


Good-by," said St. Clair, to her amuse-. ment and annoyance. She was afraid to leave him, but nevertheless he stayed, and, as they said a word or two, surveyed the pictures. Then, being alone with Mrs. Leigh, who remained standing for a moment, he said:

"Don't you think pictures are very embarrassing things? They are so like acquaintances – so welcome at first, and then after a while one gets tired of them. Now here is this Corot with its ghosts of trees-”

"I never care for Corot," said the hostess; "and as for acquaintances, I—”

"Oh," he interrupted. "Pardon me, you were going to say that an acquaintance is a person with whom we are really not acquainted. Language is such a fraud. It ought all to be made over-and some other things, manners, for instance

"I can imagine the need for that sometimes," said Mrs. Leigh, severely. She felt as if some bad boy had exploded a pack of fire-crackers under her august petticoats.

"Oh, I feel it," he went on, laughing. "And if one could arrange an exchange of manners, it would illustrate the idea neatly. Now, if you and I could effect such an exchange."

"Good Heavens! I prefer to keep my own," said she, shocked out of conventional propriety, and amused despite herself.

"But why not? Then I know you would be sure to say, 'Of course I shall come to your tea.' And you will come, I know"; and he looked at her with a waiting, devoted expression which had been but too often serviceable. Even Mrs. Leigh relented a little. "We shall see," she said.

"Oh, you will come," he said. "And to think of it, I once stood near you in Paris, and just as I asked to be presented you went away."

"And where was that, pray?"

"Oh, at the Comte St. Clair's, a far-away kinsman of mine. You know- or do not know - that we were Irish, and came to France long ago. My branch became Huguenots, more 's the pity."

Indeed. Why a pity?"

"It lacks picturesqueness. Once it had flavor of romance. It has none now. I ought to have been a Catholic."

"And what are you now, may I ask?" "I am nothing."

"I am sorry to hear it."

Mrs. Leigh did not express regret, and he left her, with what reflections I could well imagine when St. Clair, in a mood of amused criticism, related this astonishing interview to Mrs. Vincent and me. Mrs. Vincent shook her fan at him. "She will never come to your tea," she said. "Never."

"Yes, she will. The Count was useful." "No; you were never more mistaken. She is not the least of a snob. There should be a milder word."

"I should fancy," said I, "that she must be the very ideal of the unexpected. At least, if all I hear be true."

"No and yes," said Mrs. Vincent. "The great world has been of use to her. It is a valuable education to some natures. I often think what she might have been had she remained at home."

"I think I see," said I. "But certainly she is as full of social surprises as it is possible for a decently well-bred woman to be.' "She is like a rocking-chair," cried the poet. "A what?" we exclaimed, laughing. "A rocking-chair. My hostess put one in my bedroom last fall. I tried it once, and fell

"Oh, it has its conveniences. I feel that over on my head. If I put a foot on it to lace constantly."

"I trust so, indeed.”

As usual, he took little note of irrelevances, but went on: "I often like to fit people with the religion for which they were plainly meant. Really, as Clayborne says, or perhaps it was Vincent, the outward forms of religion are their manners. Some are stately, some common. But I have kept you. I must go."


a boot, it hit me on the nose. It was always doing queer things. If I hung clothes on it, it fell over, and if the window was open, it rocked as if a ghost were making itself comfortable. Then it rocked on my toes, and mashed a sleeve-button, and —”

"Don't," cried Mrs. Vincent, quite helpless with mirth. "I won't have my friends abused." And we went away.

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ERE where I, sitting in my place, So oft have seen you at the door, A lad comes with indifferent face

To tell me we shall meet no more.

The Old World pity of slow ships

Was kinder than this flashing speed;
The first short sigh on western lips-
I hear it plainlier than I need.

The paper flutters to the ground.

Cold wastes of ocean scarcely part Your voiceless mouth that makes no sound, And silence of my beating heart.

LONDON, April 20, 1892.

S. Weir Mitchell.

In this first hour, while thought is blank,
I dwell on all that made you dear;
And for the gracious past I thank

Whatever now can feel or hear.
The gentle mode, so subtly leagued
With moral power and mental health,
The courteous patience unfatigued,

The cordial wish to please by stealth!

That lifelong flame which rose and fell
By purest purpose still was fanned;
That stringent will which planned so well-
For others, not for self, it planned.
I sit alone,

Vain, vain are words!
And helpless sorrow westward send.
Roar louder, London's central moan,
My world is poorer by a friend.

Edmund Gosse.

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NE who is bidden to write for the pages of THE CENTURY MAGAZINE Some words in memory of the man whose name stands above this article might well recall the oftenquoted inscription in St. Paul's Cathedral, under the name of its architect: “Si monumentum requiris, circumspice." Other memorials of his life, beautiul and enduring, can be pointed out; but it is in this magazine that the fairest and most permanent results of his work will abide. To have borne so large a part in originating and establishing an agency like this would be a sufficient distinction for any man. It is difficult for those who have known something of the history of this magazine from its foundation to separate it, in their thought, from his vigorous personality. We may doubt, indeed, whether this is possible. Roswell Smith gave his life to this magazine; we might almost say that he gave his life for it; the vital force that he imparted to it will not soon be spent. Roswell Smith was born March 30, 1829, in Lebanon, Connecticut, a small town in the northern part of New London County, of which the cyclopedia knows only that it "contains several villages and has important manufacturing interests." But Lebanon, though beneath the notice of the cyclopedist, is not the least among the thousands of Yankee-land, for out of her came the great war governor of the Revolution, Jonathan Trumbull, one of Washington's most trusted friends, and the man to whom, through Washington's familiar appellative, we owe our national sobriquet of "Brother Jonathan." This was no mean family: one son of Jonathan, Joseph, was a member of the Continental Congress; a younger son, Jonathan, was United States senator, and in his turn governor; and the second Governor Jonathan's son John was the great historical painter. Other notable names besides the Trumbulls are found in the annals of Lebanon; it has been the seedplot of theology as well as of statesmanship and art; but the patriotic traditions of this one distinguished family must have taken strong hold upon the mind of Roswell Smith: for the historic Trumbull mansion had come into the possession of his father, and was the home of his boyhood.

From his fourteenth to his seventeenth year he served a brief apprenticeship with the pub

lishers of the school-books of his uncle, Roswell C. Smith, in New York; then, having apparently satisfied himself that a little more learning would not be a dangerous thing, he took up the English course in Brown University, and after finishing that course began the study of law in the office of Thomas C. Perkins of Hartford, a most accomplished lawyer. It was about this time that his father, who had become somewhat concerned on account of the frequent changes in his plans of life, repeated to him one day the old adage about the rolling stone. "Well, father," answered the youth, "I don't know that I care to gather moss." That was not what he was after when he turned his steps to what was then the distant West, and in the ambitious young town of Lafayette, Indiana, began the practice of his profession. It was a capital school for the callow lawyer; his conceit was sure to be rudely chastised in that rough Western world; all his conventionalities would be challenged; if he had any convictions, he must fight for them. Roswell Smith always highly valued the experience which he gained in the West. "Every man," he once wrote to one who was looking in that direction, "ought to go to the West and live there a few years of his life at the least. You will like the West, and will have a freedom and a growth you never experienced before." In the life of this community, passing through its formative stages; in the conflict with the lawlessness of the frontier; in the shaping of institutions to meet social exigencies; and in the rapid development of the industrial order, the young man learned much practical wisdom. He was always recurring to this period of his life, and he thought that no man was well equipped for the competitions of the great metropolis unless he knew by actual contact something of the life beyond the Alleghanies.

In 1852 Roswell Smith set up his home in Lafayette, bringing into it Annie, daughter of Henry L. Ellsworth, the first United States Commissioner of Patents, and granddaughter of the illustrious Oliver Ellsworth, Chief Justice of the United States Supreme Court. Sixteen years of active life in Indiana, in the practice of law and in real-estate operations, had brought to him a moderate competence; and, disposing of his business in Lafayette, he sailed with his wife and daughter for Europe, purposing on his return to devote himself to

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