Sophisticated children, most of them, optimists with moments of
hideous pessimism, enthusiasts at various stages of Parnassus, the peak
of which is lighted with a huge dollar sign. A friendly, kindly lot,
hard-working and temperamental, with some brilliance and a rather high
level of cleverness--slaves of the magazine, probably, and therefore
not able to throw stones farther into the future than the end of the
month. This is not a country in which literature and art can ever grow
big; the cost of living is too high. The modern Chatterton detests
garrets and must drive something with an engine in it, whatever the
name it goes by."

There was one electrical moment during the next hour which shook the
complacency of every one in the larger room and forced the thoughts,
even of those who deliberately turned their backs to the drama of
Europe, out across the waters which they fondly and fatuously hoped cut
off the United States from ever being singed by the blaze. The little
band was playing one of those rather feeble descriptive pieces which
begin with soft, peaceful music with the suggestion of the life of a
farmyard, and the sound of church bells, swing into the approach of
armed men with shrill bugle calls, become chaotic with the rush of
fearful women and children, and the commencement of heavy artillery,
and wind up with the broad triumphant strains of a national anthem. It
happened, naturally enough, that the particular national anthem chosen
by the energetic and patriotic man who led the band at the piano was
"The Marseillaise."

The incessant chatter and laughter went on as usual. The music had no
more effect upon the closely filled room than a hackneyed ragtime.
Suddenly, as the first few notes of that immortal air rang out, a
little old white-haired man, dining in a corner with a much-bosomed,
elderly woman, sprang to his feet and in a voice vibrating with the
fervor of emotion screamed "Vive la France--vive la patrie!" again and
again.

Instantly, from here and there, other men, stout and middle-aged,
lifted out of their chairs by this intense and beautiful burst of
feeling, joined in that old heart-cry, and for two or three shattering
minutes the air was rent with hoarse shouts of "Vive Joffre," "Vive la
France," "Vive la patrie," to the louder and louder undercurrent of
music. Indifference, complacency, neutrality, gave way. There was a
general uprising and uproar; and America, as represented by that olla
p