les, carrying on his guerrilla for what his leader called the
"peerless, passionate, good cause" of human democracy. His little
magazine led a precarious life, supported by good friends. His protest
against iniquities was an honest, good-humoured protest.

Horace Traubel will be remembered, as he wished to be remembered, as the
biographer of Whitman. Whitman also, we may add, wished Traubel to be so
remembered. In his careful record of the Camden sage's utterances and
pulse-beats he approached (as nearly as any one) the devoted dignity of
Boswell. We were about to say the self-effacing devotion of Boswell; but
the beauty of biography is that the biographer cannot wholly delete
himself from the book. One is always curious about the recording
instrument. When we see a particularly fine photograph our first
question is always, "What kind of camera was it taken with?"

It seems to us--speaking only by intuition, for we never knew him--that
Traubel was a happy man. He was untouched by many of the harassing
ambitions that make the lives of prosperous men miserable. He was
touched in boyhood by one simple and overmastering motive--to carry on
the Whitman message and spread it out for the younger world. Much of the
dunnage of life he cast overboard. He was too good a Whitman disciple to
estimate success in the customary terms. When he left his job in the
bank he opened an account in the Walt Whitman philosophy--and he kept a
healthy balance there to the end.

TALES OF TWO CITIES

II. NEW YORK

THE ANATOMY OF MANHATTAN

She is the only city whose lovers live always in a mood of wonder and
expectancy. There are others where one may sink peacefully, contentedly
into the life of the town, affectionate and understanding of its ways.
But she, the woman city, who is bold enough to say he understands her?
The secret of her thrilling and inscrutable appeal has never been told.
How could it be? She has always been so much greater than any one who
has lived with her. (Shall we mention Walt Whitman as the only possible
exception? O. Henry came very near to her, but did he not melodramatize
her a little, sometimes cheapen her by his epigrammatic appraisal, fit
her too neatly into his plot? Kipling seemed to see her only as the
brutal, heedless wanton.) Truly the magic of her spell can never be
exacted. She changes too rapidly, day by day. Realism, as they call it,
can never catch the boundaries of her pearly beauty. She