hash counter on Spruce Street and bought tobacco in a varsity
drug store, where a New York tailor, over for the day, was
cajoling students into buying his "snappy styles" in time for
Christmas. There is no more interesting game than watching a lot
of college men, trying to pick out those who may be of some value
to the community in future--the scientists, poets, and teachers
of the next generation. The well-dressed youths one sees in the
varsity drug stores are not generally of this type.

The Evans School of Dentistry at Fortieth and Spruce is a
surprising place. Its grotesque gargoyles, showing (with true
medieval humour) the sufferings of tooth patients, are the first
thing one notices. Then one finds the museum, in which is housed
Doctor Thomas W. Evans's collection of paintings and curios
brought back from France. Unfortunately there seems to be no
catalogue of the items, so that there is no way of knowing what
interesting associations belong to them. But most surprising of
all is to find the travelling carriage of the Empress Eugenie in
which she fled from France in the fatal September days of 1870.
She spent her last night in France at the home of Doctor Evans,
and there is a spirited painting by Dupray showing her leaving
his house the next morning, ushered into the carriage by the
courtly doctor. The old black barouche, or whatever one calls it,
seems in perfect condition still, with the empress's monogram on
the door panel. Only the other day we read in the papers that the
remarkable old lady (now in her ninety-fourth year) has been
walking about Paris, revisiting well-known scenes. How it would
surprise her to see her carriage again here in this University
building in West Philadelphia. The whole museum is delightfully
French in flavour; as soon as one enters one seems to step back
into the curiously bizarre and tragic extravagance of the Second
Empire.

One passes into the dignified and placid residence section of
Spruce and Pine streets, with its distinctly academic air. Behind
those quiet walls one suspects bookcases and studious professors
and all the delightful passions of the mind. On Baltimore Avenue
the wintry sun shone white and cold; in Clark Park, Charles
Dickens wore a little cap of snow, and Little Nell looked more
pathetic than ever. There is a breath of mystery about Baltimore
Avenue. What does that large sign mean, in front of a house near
Clark Park--THE EASTERN TRAVELLERS? Then one come