people going up and down the avenue on their various errands, carrying bundles, pushing handcarts, workmen, shop-boys, employés of all kinds; all that crowd which forms the chief part of the Parisian population during the summer months-a world of toilers, who must accomplish their task alike amid the snows of winter and under the raging dog-star. Opposite the rue de Berri they had to make their way through a gang of workmen who were repairing the wooden pavement. With shirts thrown open and arms and neck scorched fiery red, the men sweated and suffered. Just on the corner of the rue de Presbourg, some masons perched upon a scaffolding were covering a wall with rough-cast plaster of a blinding whiteness. A little farther on, in the Avenue Marceau, an old woman, bent nearly double, was dragging a costermonger's cart slowly along. It was the perpetual spectacle of human activity, rendered painful and even perilous by the high temperature of the day. The accident of birth had made Roger a mere looker-on at this busy scene-a tranquil, comfortable spectator, without effort to make or risk to run. Reclining in his victoria, he slipped through it all without the slightest fatigue, absolutely sure of finding in a few moments an appetizing meal, with iced beverages; to be followed by a good cigar and a refreshing nap in a large, cool, silent room. Being far from hard-hearted, the young man found himself disturbed by the comparison. He thought upon those fine words, Equality and Fraternity, so profusely inscribed on all the public monuments. Did they signify a mere Utopian dream? Undoubtedly, in their strict and absolute sense; but though the end be unattainable may not one strive toward it? Ought not those who are on top to hold out a helping hand to those beneath them, hold them up; at all events, pick a thorn or two from the rough hedges between which their pathway lies? While Roger indulged in these hu manitarian reflections, the cab was rattling on, and the old Cocher becoming every moment more bowed and somnolent. As they drew near the number he had given he opened his pocket-book, feeling prepared to give cabby a good pour-boire. But might he not, ought he not, to do more? His hand travelled toward the bundle of notes in his inner vest-pocket, which he had just received at the Crédit-Lyonnais. What was he going to do with that unexpected sum which had fallen to him by pure chance? He would invest a part of it, no doubt, and with the rest gratify some costly and useless fancy of himself or his wife! And there are so many people-so vast a majority of the whole who have not even the necessaries of life! While they are young they can work, of course, but this round-backed old cabby, who had been so specially unfortunate. What a difference between that poor man's fate and his own! As these thoughts passed rapidly through his mind, Roger became so affected that he hesitated no longer. Replacing the small porte-monnaie in his outer pocket, he pulled out the package from within, and selected one of his thousand-franc notes. "There's for your course, my good man," said he. "And no matter about the change! I don't think you have it." The old cabby looked at him wildly, and stammered in utter bewilderment: "But, monsieur,-but, monsieur-" "Keep it. It's all right!" Redder than ever, with eyes that seemed starting from his head, the driver stretched forth a shaky old hand. Then, suddenly-was it the shock of surprise, or was it only the heat?-from scarlet he became white, speech died in his throat, his lips moved convulsively, the whip dropped from me how he was all alone in the world, and I was interested in him. I gave the money in charity, all the same, of course, but I so wish he could have had it! But no; his ill-luck pursued him to the end. And to think that it was I who killed him! It gave him such a shock-" "More likely it was the heat," observed the friend. "It was horribly warm, no doubt, but I tell you it will be warmer still before I give another thousand-franc pourboire to a cab-driver!" Jacques Normand. UNTIL THE DAY DAWN. Silence and Night were alone in the forest; afar was the sound of the sea, That moaned on its shores with a presage low of the storm The dark clouds drooped like banners of death, and the tops of For a wind came forth, and after the wind a Voice, from the And the stars went out, and the forest trembled, knowing the And He cried: "Is this well that thou doest, O Man? Did I make I gave thee the Earth and the fruits thereof, the sun and the Child and wife to thy bosom; have these My gifts been given I gave thee the breath and the beauty of dawn, the service and The seed and the sap of thy thought, and the skill of thy I gave thee the strength of the morning, and wrought thee the To fold over labor and patience and pleasure the sweetness But My dawns are red with the shame of the flame that thy passions have kindled and fed, 1 And My Earth cries aloud unto Me from her hills and her plains with their burden of dead. Lo, where is the joy of the harvest? ished the growth of the grain, Yet the garners are empty. vest of terror and pain. My seasons have nour But Death has garnered his har For the songs of thy labor are turned into thunder and clamor and clash of the fight; Thou takest no joy from the glory of day, no enfolding of peace from the night; Thy wife and the child that I gave thee are heavy with mourning and wasted with tears, And the power and strength of thy manhood is lavished and lost at the crown of thy years. Art thou weary of light and of gladness? Desirest thou bloodshed and darkness of death? Arise now and answer, O Man whom I made in My likeness and filled with My breath." Then the night gathered back into silence. But, fainting, there passed on the wind as it went An infinite murmur of anguish and pain, irretrievable loss and lament; Till a curse clove it sharply asunder and flung up a challenge of wrath fierce and bold: "Judge Thou! Is it we who have pandered to power? Is it we who have grasped after gold? As sheep we were driven to slaughter, our eyes have been dazzled and blinded with lies; Judge Thou; are we guilty, that knew not? The curse be on those who have played for the prize. Judge Thou!" The storm burst on the forest; the wild-beating fury and blast of the rain, The roar of the wind in the trees, were as voices of Earth in her passion and pain; The quick, jaggèd spear of the lightning flashed forth from the terror and gloom of the sky, And the thunder rolled far to the end of the heavens its sullen and angry reply. Then, slowly, the night gathered silence again, with sighs for delight of release; The stars in their places shone forth, and the breath of the wind was as healing and peace; And there rose in the darkness a song,-on the wings of the wind it swept loftily by, While the trees waved as banners of triumph before the unclouded clear arch of the sky. "Thou gavest us life, and we loved it; yet went with the gift of our life in our hand; And our blood has baptized to a life that is newer and stronger the length of the land. We gave it for Freedom, and freely; nor feared we the sure shaft of death when it came; We were shedders of blood, we were givers of blood; we are sharers of glory-not shame. Oh, sweet were the dawn and the day! and the strength of our manhood was joyous as wine; And the light of the eyes that we loved was more lovely when tears made their tenderness shine; But the voice that had called us was stronger than these,-perchance though we knew not its name; But we knew there were those that must yield up their lives; and we counted it glory-not shame!" Then the silence sank down like a dove in the heart of the forest, that waited and kept The long, solemn watches of night. "The eyes that have wept And at last came an answer: Shall be lightened, the bruised shall be healed, and the people And the songs of their love and their labor be heard; and the The word of My promise is sure; I have spoken; I change not, For the thunders of War shall be hushed, and the Earth shall learn Peace. But the time is not yet." So the Night, with the voice of its storm, and the clouds and the darkness passed slowly away; And the Dawn softly stirred in the East, and came forth in the And the heart of the world, that had slept, woke and beat; and THE PARIS EXHIBITION. Whatever faults one may find with it in detail, there can be no question that the Paris Universal Exhibition of 1900 is, as a whole, a great achievement, at all events in a spectacular sense. Perhaps, indeed, one may come to the conclusion that the buildings themselves whether regarded in coup d'œil or separately, are really of greater interest than their contents. Specialists in various subjects will, no doubt, find matter for study among the classes of exhibits in which they may respectively be interested, but for the general crowd of visitors, the Exhibition will present itself as a vast and picturesque spectacle, an architectural and artistic fairy-land of palaces and domes and towers and sculptured decoration. Not all of it, to be sure, is immaculate in taste; even as temporary structures for a festal occasion some of the buildings present too rampant a spirit of rococo; though it is fair to remember that most of these are but temporary erections 1 "The earth hath bubbles as the water hath, And these are of them" and that what would be impertinent in permanent architecture may claim indulgence as a temporary picture. But it is impossible that the most purist of critics should not be impressed with the extraordinary vigor and vitality of invention and modelling displayed in that part of the Exhibition-the largest and most important part-which is directly due to French influence and to French artists. The row of pavilions of foreign Powers, extending along the left bank of the river, from the Pont de 1 It is amusing to notice, in this connection, that the street people in Paris all refer to the Exhibition as "La Foire." l'Alma to the Pont des Invalides, and designed mostly by foreign architects, is, no doubt, an important feature in the show, and has a most picturesque effect as seen from the river; but nearly all these, when considered in detail, are seen to be merely imitation architecture, characteristic of the different countries which they represent. But the French edifices are all pure invention, the offspring of the alert and vivacious artistic genius of the country. The buildings of the Chicago Exhibition, with which the Paris Exhibition is inevitably compared, were more classic and more dignified in style, but they were mostly formed on antique models, whereas the French buildings of the Paris Exhibition are an outbreak of sheer originality. This spirit of artistic invention crops out in all the minor details as well as in the more prominent features of the Exhibition. Wherever you turn, there is nothing commonplace or done in a commonplace manner. Look, for instance, at the timber bridge which crosses the public road south of the Pont de l'Alma, with its characteristic and picturesque open timber towers and light egg-shaped wrought-iron cupolas over them. Even the high wooden palisading which seems to wind all about Paris, forming the enclosure of the Exhibition, has been the subject of a special design, simple but exceedingly effective. The one discordant note (and a terribly loud one) is to be felt when one sees how from every point of view, amid the maze of turrets and cupolas The Eiffel Tower, pointing to the skies, Like a tall bully, lifts its head and lies- falsifying the whole scale of the Exhibition and of Paris itself; looking close |