stages of Parnassus, the peak of which is lighted with a huge dollar
sign. A friendly, kindly lot, hard-working and temperamental, with
some brilliance and a rather high level of cleverness--slaves of the
magazine, probably, and therefore not able to throw stones farther
into the future than the end of the month. This is not a country in
which literature and art can ever grow big; the cost of living is
too high. The modern Chatterton detests garrets and must drive
something with an engine in it, whatever the name it goes by."

There was one electrical moment during the next hour which shook the
complacency of every one in the larger room and forced the thoughts,
even of those who deliberately turned their backs to the drama of
Europe, out across the waters which they fondly and fatuously hoped
cut off the United States from ever being singed by the blaze. The
little band was playing one of those rather feeble descriptive
pieces which begin with soft, peaceful music with the suggestion of
the life of a farmyard, and the sound of church bells, swing into
the approach of armed men with shrill bugle calls, become chaotic
with the rush of fearful women and children, and the commencement of
heavy artillery, and wind up with the broad triumphant strains of a
national anthem. It happened, naturally enough, that the particular
national anthem chosen by the energetic and patriotic man who led
the band at the piano was "The Marseillaise."

The incessant chatter and laughter went on as usual. The music had
no more effect upon the closely filled room than a hackneyed
ragtime. Suddenly, as the first few notes of that immortal air rang
out, a little old white-haired man, dining in a corner with a much-
bosomed, elderly woman, sprang to his feet and in a voice vibrating
with the fervor of emotion screamed "Vive la France--vive la