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power is proportional to their juvenile support. The real (though largely unseen and unacknowledged) principle of domestic politics is the struggle for prestige among the adults. Some employ the methods of decadent Rome, the panem et circenses; others, the arts of the military hero or of the popular orator. But all acknowledge the need of conciliating the juvenile masses.

The power of juvenile opinion is due, not merely to its mass, and to the boldness and unscrupulousness with which it is asserted, but to its reinforcement from outside. It is more than a domestic movement: it is an interdomestic movement. The opinion of the children is thus less provincial than that of domestic adults. It has, furthermore, a force which it derives from its more intimate contact with the main currents of history. The domestic adult is in a sort of backwash. He is looking toward the past, while the children are thinking the thoughts and speaking the language of to-morrow. They are in closer touch with reality, and cannot fail, however indulgent, to feel that their parents and resident aunt are antiquated. The children's end of the family is its budding, forward-looking end; the adults' end is, at best, its root. There is a profound law of life by which buds and roots grow in opposite directions.

The domestic conflict is in many of its notable features parallel to the industrial conflict; and they may be of common origin. It is natural that simi

lar remedies should be proposed. The Taylor system and other efficiency systems have already broken down in both cases. Conservatives will propose to meet the domestic problem by higher allowances and shorter school-hours, with perhaps time and a half for overtime and a bit of profit-sharing. Liberals will propose boards of conciliation with child representation, attempts to link study and chores with the 'creative' impulses, and experiments in divided management. Radicals and domestic revolutionists will regard all such half-way measures as utterly ineffectual, because they preserve the parental system in its essentials. They will aim to consummate the revolution as soon as possible by violence, and then to bring a new order into being through a dictatorship of a sectarian minority.

This new order would be an almost exact inversion of the parental order. Whereas, under the present system, the parents are supposed to control the home for the benefit of the children, providing them with the necessities of life, and giving them work and advice for their own good, under the new system, the children would control the home for the benefit of the parents and other adults, assuming full responsibility for their living, and employing their expert services only as might be required. However difficult it may be to put such a change into effect, there is, from the adults' point of view, much to be said for it.

TWENTY-FIVE HOURS A DAY

BY A. EDWARD NEWTON

If one elects to live well out in the country, going to the opera presents serious difficulties. One can't very well go home to dress and go in town again; and if one decides to stay in town at a hotel, there is a suit-case to be packed in the morning - an operation the result of which I abhor, as I always forget something essential. On one occasion some years ago, I, like a dutiful husband, had agreed to go to the opera; and having packed my bag and sent it to my hotel, I dismissed from my mind the details of my toilet, until I came to dress in the evening, when I discovered, to my horror, that I had absentmindedly packed a colored negligé shirt instead of the white, hard-boiled article which custom has decreed for such occasions, and that several other little essentials were missing. I was quite undressed when I made this discovery; it was already late, and my temper, never absolutely flawless on opera nights, was not improved by my wife's observation that we should surely miss the overture. I thought it altogether likely and said so - briefly.

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if they could be excused from escorting their wives to the opera, would cheerfully make a substantial contribution to any worthy or even unworthycharity.

Thoughts such as these, if thoughts they may be called, surged through my head as I rapidly dressed, and prepared to dash through the streets in search of any 'gents' furnishing-goods' shop that might chance to be open at that hour. I needed such articles of commerce as would enable me to make myself presentable at the opera, and I needed them at once. It was raining, and as I dashed up one street and down another, I discovered that the difference between a raised umbrella and a parachute is negligible; so I closed mine, with the result that I was thoroughly drenched before I had secured what I needed. I have the best of wives, but truth compels me to say that when, upon my return, she greeted me with the remark that what she wanted especially to hear was the overture and that we should certainly be late, I almost - I say I almost lost my temper.

Is it necessary for me to remark that we do not go to the opera frequently? It was my wife's evening, not mine; and as I sat on the side of a bed, eating a sandwich and struggling to insert square shirt pegs in round holes, to the gently sustained motif that we should surely miss the overture, I thought of home, of my books, of a fire of logs crackling, of my pipe, and I wondered who it was

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that said when anything untoward happened, 'All this could have been avoided if I had stayed at home.'

Finally, after doing up my wife's back, 'hooking them in the lace,' I finished my own unsatisfactory toilet, feeling, and doubtless looking, very much as Joe Gargery did when he went to see Miss Havisham. But at last we were ready, and we descended to the lobby of our hotel, having in the confusion quite overlooked the fact that we should require a taxi. It was still raining, and not a taxi or other conveyance was to be had! I was quite nonplussed for the moment, and felt deeply grieved when my wife remarked that it was hardly worth while now to leave the hotel we were so late that we should miss the overture anyway; to which I replied but never mind specifically what I said: it was to the effect that we would go to the opera or bust.

But how? Standing at the door of the hotel, I waited my chance, and finally a taxi arrived; but quite unexpectedly a man appeared from nowhere and was about to enter it, saying as he did so, in a fine rolling English voice, 'I wish to go to the opera house.' There was no time to lose; quickly brushing the man aside, I called to my wife and passed her into the taxi; and then,turning to the stranger, I explained to him that we, too, were going to the opera, and that he was to be our guest, pushed the astonished man into the machine, told the driver to go like h(to drive rapidly), and, entering myself, pulled the door to and heaved a sigh of relief. We were off.

For a moment nothing was said. We were all more or less surprised to find ourselves together. I think I may say that my newly discovered friend was astonished. Something had to be said, and it was up to me. 'My name is Newton,' I said; and gently waving toward Mrs. Newton a white-kid-gloved hand,

which in the darkness looked like a small ham, I explained that Mrs. Newton was very musical and was particularly anxious to hear the overture of the opera and I was unavoidably late. I added that I hoped he would forgive my rudeness; then, remembering that I was speaking to an English gentleman, who probably thought me mad, I inquired if he was not a stranger in Philadelphia.

'Yes,' he replied, 'I only arrived in the city this evening.'

'And have you friends here?' I asked. His reply almost disconcerted me, 'Present company excepted, none.'

'Oh, come now,' I said; 'I took you for an Englishman, but no Englishman could possibly make so graceful a speech on such short notice. You must either be Scotch or Irish; whenever one meets a particularly charming Englishman, he invariably turns out to be Scotch or Irish.'

'Well, the fact is, I'm Scotch,' my friend replied; 'my name is Craig, Frank Craig; I'm an artist.'

'Don't apologize,' I said. 'You are probably not a very great artist. I'm a business man, and not a very great business man either, and as we are the only friends you have in the city, you shall have supper with us after the opera. Don't decline; I'm very much at home in our hotel, as perhaps you noticed. Ask for me at the door of the supperroom. Don't forget my name. Here we are at the opera house, in good time for the overture after all.'

And I passed my friend out of the taxi, and he, assuring me that he would join us at supper, went his way and we

ours.

During the performance, which was miserable, I chuckled gently to myself and wondered what my Scotch friend thought of the affair and whether he would keep his appointment. The opera was late, there was the usual delay in

getting away, and it was almost midnight when the head waiter conducted my new-found guest to our table. Then for the first time we had a good look at each other, and told each other how funny it all was and how unexpected and delightful. After an excellent supper and a bottle of champagne, followed by a fine brandy, and cigars, determined to do the thing well, we grew confidential. We talked of life and of travel, and finally, of course, about books and authors.

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'Have you ever met Booth Tarkington?' my friend inquired. I had. Did I know him? I did not. Craig had been staying with him in Indianapolis. Had I ever heard of Arnold Bennett? I had. Did I care for his books? I did. He also had been staying with Booth Tarkington in Indianapolis: in fact, Bennett and he were traveling together at the present time.

'Bennett is doing a book for the Harpers to be called Your United States,' Craig explained; and he, Craig, was doing the illustrations for it.

the picture-gallery of a Mr. Weednaar, with a friend who has secured cards for us. I'm not invited to the luncheon, but I'm keen to see the pictures.'

'Very well,' I said, 'let me make plans for you. I tell you what we'll do: I'll make it a holiday; I shall get my motor in from the country, and go around with you and show you the sights. You want to see "Georgian Philadelphia, you say - we call it "Colonial"; I know it well; I'll be your guide, you shall take your photographs and make your sketches, and in the afternoon we, too, will go out and see Mr. Widener's pictures, his name, by the way, is Widener, not Weednaar, and if I can find Harry Widener, a scion of that house and a friend of mine, I'll get him to ask us out for lunch, and we will be there to welcome Bennett and his friend with their cards on their arrival. What, by the way, is the name of your friend to whom you owe your introduction to Mr. Widener?'

'A Mr. Hellman of New York; a bookseller, I believe; perhaps you know him

'And where is Arnold Bennett now?' too.' I asked.

'Upstairs, in bed and asleep, I hope.' 'And what are you doing to-morrow?'

'Well, Bennett is lunching with the literati of the city, and I'm going to take photographs and make sketches for our book. We are each on our own, you know.'

'But the literati of the city,' I repeated doubtfully. "That would be Agnes Repplier, of course, and Dr. Furness, and Weir Mitchell, and who else?' We were rather shy of literati at the moment, as we still are, and I hoped these would not fail him.

'Perfectly,' I said; 'I probably owe him money at this very minute.'

With this understanding, and much pleased with each other, we parted for the night.

II

The next morning, at half-past nine, we met in the lobby of the hotel and I was presented to Arnold Bennett. I do not remember that at that time I had ever seen a photograph of him, and I was rather disillusioned by seeing a person quite lacking in distinction, dressed in ill-fitting clothes, and with two very prominent upper teeth, which would

Craig did n't know; he had not been have been invaluable had he taken to invited.

'And after the luncheon, what next?' I inquired.

'Well, I believe that we are to go to

whistling, professionally.

'So you are the man,' he said, 'who has so captivated my friend Craig. He told me all about your escapade last

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night, over the breakfast-table, and in the excitement of narration he ate my eggs.'

'No matter,' said I; 'you are going to lunch with the literati of the city; you ought not to worry over the loss of your eggs. But what is quite as important, who is giving the luncheon?'

'George Horace Lorimer,' he replied. "Then,' said I, 'you certainly need not worry over the loss of a pair of eggs. In an hour or two you'll be glad you did not eat them, for Lorimer understands ordering a luncheon, no man better. I'm sorry for Craig, for he's lunching with me; but we shall join you during the afternoon at Mr. Widener's.'

This seemed to upset Bennett completely. 'But we are going to Mr. Weednaar's by appointment - we have cards -'

'I know, from George Hellman,' I interrupted; 'I don't need any cards. If Harry Widener is at home, we will lunch with him; if not, we will join you some time during the afternoon.'

Bennett looked at me with astonishment. He had doubtless been warned of bunco-steerers, card-sharks, and confidence men generally: I appeared to him a very finished specimen, probably all the more dangerous on that account. We left him bewildered; he evidently thought that his friend would be the victim of some very real experiences before he saw him again. As we parted, he looked as if he wanted to say to Craig, 'If you play poker with that man, you are lost'; but he did n't.

III

We Philadelphians do not boast of the climate of our city. During the summer months we usually tie with some town in Texas - Waco, I believe - for the honor of being the hottest place in the country: but in November it is delightful, and we have the finest

suburbs in the world. If it were not for its outlying districts, Philadelphia would be intolerable. But the day was fine, we were in high spirits, like boys out for a lark, which indeed we were, and I determined that our sightseeing should begin at the 'Old Swedes,' or, to give it its proper name, 'Gloria Dei,' Church, and work our way north from the southern part of the city, stopping at such old landmarks as would seem to afford material for Craig's pencil.

What a wonderful day it was! Agreeable at the time, and in retrospect delightful, if somewhat tinged with melancholy, for I chanced to read in an English newspaper not long ago of the death of my friend Craig, in some way a victim of the war. But looking back upon that day, everything seemed as joyous as the two quaintly carved and colored angels' heads, a bit of old Swedish decoration, which peered down upon us from the organ-loft of the old church about which Craig went into ecstasies of delight as well he might, for it is a quaint little church almost lost in the shipping and commerce that surrounds it. Built by the Swedes in 1700, it stands on the bank of the Delaware, on the site of a block-house in which religious services had been held more than half a century before its erection.

Too few Philadelphians know this tiny church or attend its services: it is out of the beaten track of the tourist; but some of us, not entirely forgetful of old Philadelphia, love to visit it occasionally, and if the sermon gets wearisome, as sermons sometimes do, we can creep out stealthily and spend a few minutes prowling around the graveyard, where interments are still made occasionally, looking at the tombstones, on which are curiously cut the now almost illegible names of devout men and women who departed this life in faith and fear more than two centuries ago.

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