"are you impressed by
Baxter's views on Degeneration?"

Having often heard Baxter express himself upon the general downward
tendency of modern civilization, I felt safe in discussing his views in
a broad and general manner.

"I think," I replied, "that they are in harmony with those of
Schopenhauer, without his bitterness; with those of Nordau, without his
flippancy. His materialism is Haeckel's, presented with something of the
charm of Omar Khayyam."

"Yes," chimed in Davis, "it answers the strenuous demand of our
day,--dissatisfaction with an unjustified optimism,--and voices for us
the courage of human philosophy facing the unknown."

I had a vague recollection of having read something like this somewhere,
but so much has been written, that one can scarcely discuss any subject
of importance without unconsciously borrowing, now and then, the
thoughts or the language of others. Quotation, like imitation, is a
superior grade of flattery.

"The Procrustes," said Thompson, to whom the metrical review had been
apportioned, "is couched in sonorous lines, of haunting melody and
charm; and yet so closely inter-related as to be scarcely quotable with
justice to the author. To be appreciated the poem should be read as
a whole,--I shall say as much in my review. What shall you say of the
letter-press?" he concluded, addressing me. I was supposed to discuss
the technical excellence of the volume from the connoisseur's viewpoint.

"The setting," I replied judicially, "is worthy of the gem. The dark
green cover, elaborately tooled, the old English lettering, the heavy
linen paper, mark this as one of our very choicest publications. The
letter-press is of course De Vinne's best,--there is nothing better
on this side of the Atlantic. The text is a beautiful, slender stream,
meandering gracefully through a wide meadow of margin."

For some reason I left the room for a minute. As I stepped into the
hall, I almost ran into Baxter, who was standing near the door, facing a
hunting print of a somewhat humorous character, hung upon the wall, and
smiling with an immensely pleased expression.

"What a ridiculous scene!" he remarked. "Look at that fat old squire on
that tall hunter! I'll wager dollars to doughnuts that he won't get over
the first fence!"

It was a very good bluff, but did not deceive me. Under his mask of
unconcern, Baxter was anxious to learn what we thought of his poem, and
had stationed himself in the hall that