dies, what will be Chicago's ruins?
Neither temple nor tower will be brought to the ground. There will be
nothing to show the wandering New Zealander but a broken city, which was
a scrap-heap before it was built; and the wandering New Zealander may be
forgiven if he proclaim the uselessness of size and progress, if he ask
how it has profited a city to buy and sell all the corn in the world,
and in its destruction to leave not a wrack of comeliness behind.

NEW ENGLAND.

If in a country town we find an Inn called New, it is a sure sign of
ancientry. The fresh and fragrant name survives the passing centuries.
It clings to the falling house long after it has ceased to have an
intelligible meaning. Taverns with a nobler sign and more arrogant
aspect obscure its simpler merits. But there is a pride in its name, a
dignity in its age, which a changing fashion will never destroy. And as
it is with Inns, so it is with countries. New is an epithet redolent
of antiquity. The province which once was, and is still called, New
England, is very old America. It cannot be judged by the standards which
are esteemed in New York or Chicago. The broad stream of what is called
progress has left it undisturbed in its patient backwater. It recks as
little of sky-scrapers as of transportation. Its towns are not ashamed
of being villages, and the vanity which it guards is not the vanity of
shapeless size, but the rarer vanity of a quiet and decent life.

No sooner does the English traveller leave Boston for the north than
he enters what seems a familiar country. The towns which he passes,
the rivers which he crosses, bear names, as I have said, to prove the
faithful devotion the old adventurers felt for their native land. If
they sought their fortune across the ocean, they piously preserved the
memories of other days. Austere as were the early Puritans, bitterly as
they smarted under what they supposed a political grievance, they did
not regard the country of their origin with the fierce hatred which
has sometimes inspired their descendants. The love of the New did not
extinguish the love of the Old England. In Appledore and Portsmouth,
in London and Manchester, in Newcastle and Dover, the ancient sentiment
lives and breathes. And the New Englanders, once proud of their source,
still cherish a pride in their blood, which they have kept pure from the
contamination of the foreigner. Fortunately for itself, New England has
fallen behind in