ys say," retorted Philip. "Everything
is in the future. What guaranty have we for that future? I see none. We
make no progress towards the higher arts, except in greater quantities
of mediocrity. We sell larger editions of poor books. Our artists fill
larger frames and travel farther for materials; but a ten-inch canvas
would tell all they have to say."

"The wrong point of view," said Hal. "If you begin with high art, you
begin at the wrong end. The first essential for any nation is to put
the mass of the people above the reach of want. We are all usefully
employed, if we contribute to that."

"So is the cook usefully employed while preparing dinner," said Philip.
"Nevertheless, I do not wish to live in the kitchen."

"Yet you always admire your own country," said Harry, "so long as you
are in Europe."

"No doubt," said Philip. "I do not object to the kitchen at that
distance. And to tell the truth, America looks well from Europe.
No culture, no art seems so noble as this far-off spectacle of a
self-governing people. The enthusiasm lasts till one's return. Then
there seems nothing here but to work hard and keep out of mischief."

"That is something," said Harry.

"A good deal in America," said Phil. "We talk about the immorality of
older countries. Did you ever notice that no class of men are so apt
to take to drinking as highly cultivated Americans? It is a very
demoralizing position, when one's tastes outgrow one's surroundings.
Positively, I think a man is more excusable for coveting his neighbor's
wife in America than in Europe, because there is so little else to
covet."

"Malbone!" said Hal, "what has got into you? Do you know what things you
are saying?"

"Perfectly," was the unconcerned reply. "I am not arguing; I am only
testifying. I know that in Paris, for instance, I myself have no
temptations. Art and history are so delightful, I absolutely do not care
for the society even of women; but here, where there is nothing to do,
one must have some stimulus, and for me, who hate drinking, they are, at
least, a more refined excitement."

"More dangerous," said Hal. "Infinitely more dangerous, in the morbid
way in which you look at life. What have these sickly fancies to do with
the career that opens to every brave man in a great nation?"

"They have everything to do with it, and there are many for whom there
is no career. As the nation develops, it must produce men of high
culture. Now there is no place