the Chicago Fair, which like everything else in his later years linked
itself to the business of the dynamo and the Virgin, he says: "Did he
himself quite know what he meant? Certainly not! If he had known enough to
state his problem, his education would have been completed at once." Is
this the statement of a fact, or only the reflection of a perversity? We do
not know. Most readers, at all events, having reached page 343, will not be
inclined to dispute the assertion. Yet we must after all be grateful for
this meaningless philosophy of history (the more so perhaps since it is
meaningless); for without it we should never have had either the
_Mont-Saint-Michel_ or _The Education of Henry Adams_--"books which no
gentleman's library" need contain, but which will long be read by the
curious inquirer into the nature of the human heart.

Henry Adams lies buried in Rock Creek Cemetery, in Washington. The casual
visitor might perhaps notice, on a slight elevation, a group of shrubs and
small trees making a circular enclosure. If he should step up into this
concealed spot, he would see on the opposite side a polished marble seat;
and placing himself there he would find himself facing a seated figure,
done in bronze, loosely wrapped in a mantle which, covering the body and
the head, throws into strong relief a face of singular fascination. Whether
man or woman, it would puzzle the observer to say. The eyes are half
closed, in reverie rather than in sleep. The figure seems not to convey the
sense either of life or death, of joy or sorrow, of hope or despair. It has
lived, but life is done; it has experienced all things, but is now
oblivious of all; it has questioned, but questions no more. The casual
visitor will perhaps approach the figure, looking for a symbol, a name, a
date--some revelation. There is none. The level ground, carpeted with dead
leaves, gives no indication of a grave beneath. It may be that the puzzled
visitor will step outside, walk around the enclosure, examine the marble
shaft against which the figure is placed; and, finding nothing there,
return to the seat and look long at the strange face. What does he make of
it--this level spot, these shrubs, this figure that speaks and yet is
silent? Nothing--or what he will. Such was life to Henry Adams, who lived
long, and questioned seriously, and would not be content with the dishonest
or the facile answer.

THE STRUGGLE FOR AN EDUCATION[18]

BOOKER T. WASHI