arian, as devoted to the gospel of single tax as
his father had been to that of anti-slavery. They lived in a beautiful
house in Brookline, on a terrace built by an enterprising man who had
made his money in New South Wales. Forty-two houses were perfectly and
equally warmed by one great furnace, and all the public rooms of the
ground floor, dining, and drawing rooms, library, and hall were
connected by folding doors, nearly always open, which gave a feeling of
space I never experienced elsewhere. Electric lighting and bells all
over the house, hot and cold baths, lifts, the most complete laundry
arrangements, and cupboards everywhere ensured the maximum of comfort
with the minimum of labour. But in this house I began to be a little
ashamed of being so narrow in my views on the coloured question. Mr.
Garrison, animated with the spirit of the true brotherhood of man, was
an advocate of the heathen Chinee, and was continually speaking of the
goodness of the negro and coloured and yellow races, and of the
injustice and rapacity of the white Caucasians. I saw the files of his
father's paper, The Liberator, from its beginning in 1831 till its
close, when the victory was won in 1865. Of the time spent in the
Lloyd-Garrison household "nothing now is left but a majestic memory,"
which has been kept green by the periodical letters received from this
noble man up till the time of his death last year. He showed me the
monument erected to the memory of his father in Boston in the town
where years before the great abolitionist had been stoned by the mob.
Only recently it rejoiced my heart to know that a memorial to Lloyd
Garrison the younger had been unveiled in Boston, his native city; at
the same time that a similar honour was paid to his venerated leader,
"the prophet of San Francisco."

I account it one of the greatest privileges of my visit to America that
Mrs. Garrison introduced me to Oliver Wendell Holmes, and by
appointment I had an hour and a half's chat with him in the last year
of his long life. He was the only survivor of a famous band of New
England writers, Longfellow, Emerson, Hawthorn, Bryant, Lowell,
Whittier, and Whitman were dead. His memory was failing, and he forgot
some of his own characters; but Elsie Venner he remembered perfectly
and he woke to full animation when I objected to the fatalism of
heredity as being about as paralysing to effort as the fatalism of
Calvinism. As a medical man (and we are apt to f