ns, and coffee at the refreshment-counter and keep
our hunger for the table d'hote of the dining-car; when we buy a room in
the steamboat in disdain of the berth that comes with our ticket; when
we refuse to be one of four or even two in the cabin of the simpler
steamers and will not go abroad on any vessel of less than twenty or
thirty thousand tons, with small, separate tables and tuxedos in the
saloon; when we forsake the clothing-store with its democratic misfit
for all figures and order our suits in London, then we begin to barter
away our birthright of republican simplicity, and there is soon nothing
for us but a coronet by marriage in the family or a quarter-section of
public land in northwestern Canada.

There has been altogether too much talk (some of it, we contritely own,
has been ours) of the comparative comforts and discomforts of life for
the better-to-do in Europe and America. In the demand for Pullman trains
between our port of arrival and the end of our journey when we go to the
Continent for a much-needed rest, we are apt to forget the
fellow-citizens whom we saw across the impassable barrier dividing our
first class from them on the steamer, and who will find the second-class
German cars quite good enough for them, and better than our day coaches
at home. If we cannot remember these, then let us remember those for
whom Pullmans are not good enough and who spurn the dust of our summer
ways in their automobiles, and leave the parlor-cars to our lower-class
vulgarity. Such people take their automobiles to Europe with them, and
would not use that possible Pullman train if they found it waiting for
them at the port of arrival in Germany. What is the use? It will soon
not be an affair of automobiles, but of aeroplanes, at the ports of
European arrival, and a Pullman train will look sadly strange and old to
the debarking passengers. No one will want to take it, as no one would
now want to take a bicycle, or even a "bicycle built for two." These
things are all comparative; there is nothing positive, nothing ultimate
in the luxuries, the splendors of life. Soon the last word in them takes
on a vulgarity of accent; and Distinction turns from them "with sick and
scornful looks averse," and listens for the

"airy tongues that syllable men's names
On sands and shores and desert wildernesses."

Simplicity, at the furthest possible remove from all complexity, will be
the next word--the word that follo