We sat quietly for a few moments"Is there no way of being happy?" said I.

"How could you be happy if you have not got what you want?" and he thumped solidly with his hammer. "What do you want?" I asked. "Many a thing," was his reply; "many a thing."

I squatted on the ground in front of him, and he continued:

"You that are always travelling, did you ever meet a contented person in all your travels?"

"Yes," said I, "I met a man yesterday, three hills away from here, and he told me he was happy."

"Maybe he wasn't a poor man?" "I asked him that, and he said he had enough to be going on with." "I wonder what he had."

"I wondered too, and he told me. He said that he had a wife, a son, an apple tree, and a fiddle."

"There's people have more than that."

"He said that his wife was dumb, his son was deaf, his apple tree was barren, and his fiddle was broken."

"It didn't take a lot to satisfy that man."

"And he said that these things, being the way they were, gave him no trouble attending on them, and, that being so, he was left with plenty of time for himself."

"I think the man you are telling me about was a joker; maybe, you are a joker yourself, for that matter."

"Tell me," said I, "the sort of things a person should want, for I am a young man, and everything one learns is so much to the good."

He rested his hammer and stared sideways down the road, and he remained so, pursing and relaxing his lips, for a little while. At last he said, in a low voice:

"A person wants respect from other people. If he doesn't get that, what

does he signify more than a goat or a badger? We live by what folk think of us, and if they speak badly of a man, doesn't that finish him for ever?"

"Do people speak well of you?” I asked.

"They speak badly of me," said he; "and the way I am now is this, that I wouldn't have them say a good word of me at all."

"Would you tell me why the people speak badly of you?"

"You are travelling down the road," said he, "and I am staying where I am. We never met before in all the years, and we may never meet again, and so I'll tell you what is in my mind. A person that has neighbors will have either friends or enemies, and it's likely enough that he'll have the last, unless he has a meek spirit. And it's the same thing with a man that's married, or a man that has a brother. For the neighbors will spy on you from dawn to dark, and talk about you in every place, and a wife will try to rule you in the house and out of the house, until you are badgered to a skeleton, and a brother will ask you to give him whatever thing you value most in the world."

He remained silent for a few minutes, with his hammer eased on his knee, and then, in a more heated strain, he continued:

"There are three things a man doesn't like. He doesn't like to be spied on; and he doesn't like to be ruled and regulated! and he doesn't like to be asked for a thing he wants himself. And whether he lets himself be spied on or not, he'll be talked about, and in any case he'll be made out to be a queer man; and if he lets his wife rule him he'll be scorned and laughed at, and if he doesn't let her rule him he'll be called a rough man; and if he once gives to his brother he will have to keep on giving for

ever, and if he doesn't give at all he'll get the bad name and the sour look as he goes about his business." "You have bad neighbors, indeed," said I.

"I'd call them that."

"And a brother that would ask you for a thing you wanted yourself wouldn't be a decent man?"

"He would not."

"Tell me," said I, "what kind of a wife have you?"

"She's the same as anyone else's wife to look at, but I fancy the other women must be different to live with."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because you can hear men laughing and singing in every public-house that you'd go into, and they wouldn't do that if their wives were hard to live with, for nobody could stand a bad comrade. A good wife, a good brother, a good neighbor-these are three good things, but you don't find them lying in every ditch."

"If you went to a ditch for your wife-" said I.

The Nation.

He pursed up his lips at me.

"I think," said I, "that you need not mind the neighbors so very much. If your mind was in a glass case instead of in a head it would be different, but no one can spy on you but yourself, and no one can really rule and regulate you, but yourself, and that's well worth doing."

"Different people," said he shortly, "are made differently."

"Maybe," said I, "your wife would be a good wife to some other husband, and your brother might be decent enough if he had a different brother."

He wrinkled up his eyes and looked at me very steadily

"I'll be saying good-bye to you, young man," said he, and he raised his hammer again and began to beat solemnly on the stones.

I stood by him for a few minutes, but as he neither spoke nor looked at me again I turned to my own path, intending to strike Dublin by the Paps of Dana and the long slopes beyond them.

James Stephens.

It is of little use asking if Carnegie libraries are a boon and a blessing; they are there "right there," as Mr. Carnegie's private secretary would say. But it is only reasonable to suppose that if the peoples of the localities had not wanted them they would not have had them; whether or not the institutions are good depends largely upon the way in which they are used, for which Mr. Carnegie cannot be expected to accept any responsibility. These, again, are sentiments Mr. Bertram would echo. Just how many library buildings Mr. Carnegie has paid for it is impossible to say at any given moment-that

is, for anyone except Mr. Carnegie himself or his private secretary-as they are to be found in many parts of the world, from the South Seas to the Northern Ocean. Dr. Johnson's famous definition of all-embracing space does not apply here, as neither the Chinese nor the Peruvians have benefited to any great extent. Mr. Carnegie's first step in the direction of the particular branch of philanthropy he has made his own was the gift of a "bay" or book-stack full of books to the old Mechanics' Institute of Pittsburg, or Allegheny, as this particular district was then designated, of which his father had been a member, and where he

himself had gained much knowledge. This, or rather the Public Library that followed, Mr. Carnegie describes as the mother of from twenty-three to twentyfour hundred public libraries in the English-speaking world. This apparently is the nearest Mr. Carnegie himself can get to the exact number of his donations to public libraries! When one considers the amount spent on the erection of these two and a half thousand libraries, the difficulty at arriving at a correct estimate of the total sum is greatly increased; in fact, it becomes little more than a guessing competition, as the number of applications for new libraries averages nearly a hundred a day. And although all these requests are not acceded to, the sums granted are daily increasing, so that to-day's total is more than yesterday's, and less than to-morrow's; how much more or less depends.

A hundred million dollars might be near the mark—at least, it is as near the mark as anyone has been, except Mr. Carnegie. A hundred million dollars does not really sound as much as twenty million pounds. The extra eighty in the hundred millions cannot compensate for the sniff given by the Englishman when anyone refers to large sums of money in francs, marks, or dollars. Twenty millions sterling is rather a large sum for any individual to give away, even when the object is one so deserving as public libraries. One of the New York papers, at the time when Mr. Carnegie's donations had reached the "fifty million dollar mark," gave numerous pictorial and other demonstrations of how much fifty million dollars weighed, how they would be sufficient to handcuff the sun and the moon, or bury the suffragettes, or something equally interesting. Now that the amount has been just about doubled, not even the American paper in question would be able to contain the figures.

These twenty-five hundred public libraries represent rather more than fifteen per cent. of all the public or municipal, state or national, and semipublic libraries. In public libraries in this country alone, however, the percentage of Carnegie libraries is much higher, and probably represents about fifty per cent, of the library buildings; this, of course, includes branches, of which there is a large-an almost unknown-number. Just how many of the hundred million dollars have come to this country by way of libraries is more difficult to guess. Quite a number of local councils have asked for grants without counting the cost to themselves; because certain of Mr. Carnegie's conditions are calculated to remove the idea of charity from the gift i. e., "getting something for nothing." One of these conditions is usually that the library rate of a penny in the pound is to be levied for the upkeep of the institution. And in this connection I may whisper an aside; these conditions are not under seal, and certain local councils, having obtained their buildings, are endeavoring to set aside their understandings with Mr. Carnegie. It is not quite cricket; but, then, the rules of sport are not always recognized by local authorities.

To return, however: how many of the hundred million dollars have been planted in this country? As nearly as possible, the number would appear to be twelve millions. Mr. Carnegie's dinner, which the Library Association is giving in his honor at the Hotel Cecil, has cost him nearly two and a half millions sterling! Perhaps in the future the Library Association may be induced to lower the tariff of its honors, which are more than regal in price at present. Incidentally Mr. Carnegie's generosity has been recognized by numerous caskets; and without doubt he was the originator of the modern fashion in "freedoms," so much

so that he has been called the "great freeman." In common with others of his characteristics and personal qualities, Mr. Carnegie's interest in libraries is inherited-at least, to some The Academy.

considerable extent. Like most Scotsmen, the millionaire's father was an ́ardent reader, and found much value and profit from his self-imposed studies.

A. J. Philip.

Against the precisian in ethics, the man who has precise limits to his moral possibilities and abides within them, no one has a right to cast a stone. Not that he would mind if everybody cast stones. He knows he is right, or thinks he knows, which for practical purposes comes to the same thing. And in justice his neighbors should bless him. They always know where to find him when once they have ascertained his limits, and what a comfort that is! If only he will not try to impose his fences on his neighbor's backyard he is a perfect man to live next door to. Such imposition is his foible. But even so he's a better man than most of us, who are too apt to attempt to get our neighbors to adopt our limits long before we have quite made up our minds exactly where we are going to put them.

Nor are precise manners by any means contemptible. Starched etiquette is not in itself bad. Wash away with comfortable warm water the starch, and the fabric is apt to be damaged. The nation that has no manners is likely soon or late to have customs very beastly. Nations have of course had delightful manners and deplorable morals; indeed it is not easy to mention a nation which shone in both departments-a nation of Sir Charles Grandisons. That was not the fault of their manners.

But the precisian in speech is a dreadful affliction to an imperfect world. Not so much the man who in

sists on form: he is a nuisance-like a starched collar, bearable as the correct thing, erring on the right side-but the faultless monster who insists on veracity, who rebukes exaggeration even when humorous, who considers it falsehood to "give your stories a cocked-hat and a walking-cane." That faultless monster the world very often sees and finds him very hard to suffer. He is right-one meekly supposes. Speech, if narrative, should be an exact statement of carefully ascertained fact. Epithet should be barred to all but the master of the Word. No one should say it was a beastly day because it was foggy and rainy. What have fog and rain of the beast? They don't agree with him, and that's all. Good people all with one accord own that the exact man is right and admit that he is a nearly intolerable nuisance. Lamb's valuing himself on being a matter-oflie man was wisdom. The lady in one of Mr. James' novels who said "I, thank God, lie well!" was right in her practice and in her thanksgiving.

The still widespreading shade of Johnson causes the heretic to shudder as he comes within it. Johnson who "inculcated upon all his friends the importance of perpetual vigilance against the slightest degrees of falsehood." Who would say "It is not so. Do not tell this again"? Who permitted Boswell to snub Mrs. Thrale for saying an old woman and not an old man had told a story? (Boswell, by the way, "presumed to take this opportunity in the presence of Johnson." Where was

Thrale? Would Bozzy have "presumed" in his presence?) But this Johnson was the great moralist. The other Johnson, the Johnson we know and love, said wisely "If I say there's no fruit here and then comes a poring man who finds two apples and three pears and tells me 'Sir, you are mistaken,' I should laugh at him; what would that be to the purpose?" What indeed?

In describing events, etc., for the guidance of others, no doubt exactness is very necessary. In gossip, of which every man's and woman's conversation must largely consist, it is a duty. A duty so generally neglected that some people think there ought to be no gos sip. That is Spartan counsel. If people would only ask themselves the three questions, "Is it true, is it kind, is it necessary to repeat?" gossip would be all good. But, "Ah! Matron, which of us does?" So far everyone may agree. But when it comes to ordinary talk, to expression of opinions which are not meant to give law to others, to description of what you saw or failed to see in your holidays, or your workdays, to repeating stories to the point or because amusing, "My tongue is mine ain', True Thomas said; ‘A gudely gift ye wad gie to me!" A goodly gift indeed. A utilitarian burden grievous to be borne.

The precisian makes apparently two great mistakes. If talk for talk's sake, solely to shorten an otherwise dreary hour, be a sin, so be it. We are all miserable sinners, and without it we could not make sure of sinlessness, but might be quite confident of greater misery. If talk is to be permitted at all, the precisian would, we suppose, begin by allowing the two talkers each to express the opinions he was quite certain of. The two would probably agree. Then each would tell the other his adventures since their last meeting, as far as he knew-no guessing, says

the precisian-they would interest. That, in most cases, would not take long. Then in amoebean speech they would narrate any news which they knew was true, mentioning their informant, where they met him, whether it was under a lamp-post or on the top of a 'bus. Then they would exchange stories, exactly as they got them, witn details as before, or who told it to them and which club armchair he occupied at the time. They would part, sadder if not wiser men. But supposing they met the next day. How then? The opinions could not be repeated. No one gets a fresh opinion-of which he is sure-in twenty-four hours. Therefore no opinions. Very few people get an adventure every day, let alone one interesting to others. Therefore no adventures. Yesterday's news contradicted. No news. One story perhaps between them worth repeating-an impossibly liberal daily allowance. What are they to talk of for the rest of the hour? The precisian forgets that most men meet often, and that if they are to stick to facts they will soon have trayelled over each other's knowledge.

The second omission he makes is that he allows no scope for the amenities of conversation. Your brilliant man shall, in the telling, make a tube journey interesting. Is he to be restricted to a plain statement that he did in fact go by the Bakerloo? And in stories especially, all, or very nearly all, is in the telling. A, let us say, is a great and skilful raconteur. He meets B, a humorous but tongue-tied duffer. B tells him, very badly, a very good story. A sees its points, sees what he himself could make of it. Shall he not retail it to C in all its new glory? Is he not to be allowed to say "B told me a good yarn" and give his own version? Certainly he is. So doing he pleases himself by good work; "The job which the bungling hangman begun, this time, I think, was properly