he had ousted every one else, would be stormed, or, one should say, sapped, and its tenure proved precarious. Yet in all this autocracy-for so it was there was nothing to offend the shyest undergraduate or the most devout Christian. There was none of the merciless sarcasm of Socrates, to whom we Trinity men, lovers of Plato every one, were constantly comparing our hero. There was none of the brutality with which certain highly developed intellectual machines at our own Cambridge have delighted to draw in rash disputants, as the devilplant flings out its arms, and to suck their soul's life-blood, with greater joy as they saw domestic prepossessions and saintly aspirations writhe in their clutch. Sidgwick's wide study enabled him to appreciate every phase of human thought; but his candor was far more than that of reason; it was the candor of sympathy and of modesty, arising from a profound sense of devotion, which, never having exactly found the right temple, or rather the sure road to the one temple, - kept the fire ever burning on the altar of its Unknown God. He was as far as possible from the agnostic bigotry, of which there is so much now. If living in the Master's spirit makes a Christian, assuredly he was not far from the kingdom of God, — nay, was in the inner courts of its palace, with the thinnest veil between him and its glories. Full of reason and full of wit; always independent and never unkindly; playful in his deepest argument, reverent in his boldest speculations; spending and spent for others, yet never neglecting his own darling pursuit of self-improvement and self-establishment, - his friends felt that a great star had set in the heavens when, after a dangerous operation for an all but incurable disease, on the 28th of August, 1900, the grave closed over all that was mortal of Henry Sidgwick. This attempt to delineate his character might have been illustrated by abundant extracts from his correspondence with intimate friends, - and no one ever had closer ones. I have preferred to leave those who will read his memoir to find them out for themselves, and to give the space allotted me to tell what I myself saw and heard of a mind unsurpassed in power and a soul unmatched in sweet ness. UP ABOVE THE WORLD SO HIGH THE sun had come out after the fifth hard shower of the day, and shone upon the bedraggled red, white, and blue bunting of the judges' stand, and on the soggy folds of the flag that drooped over the brass band's pavilion. In the green oval enclosed by the race track and grown suddenly brilliant, the carriages, wagons, and automobiles of the patrons of the fair were huddled together; the hoods and tops of these were now being thrown back with a cheerful clatter, revealing the brightgarbed occupants; and behind the grand stand, horses were being led from their and the vocalizings of cows, pigs, and poultry. Harry Mortimer was bidden by his young hostess to detach himself temporarily while she gave the groom instructions about handling Lady Mary in the class designated on the programme as "Unbroken to Automobiles." It was a constant humiliation to Harry that no one ever thought of soliciting his advice on matters of sport; he ventured himself - somewhat timidly in all such branches, and in all of them displayed a notable incapacity. To this he was resigned, but he felt rather aggrieved when Miss Folwell failed to accredit him with even theoretical knowledge, and to appeal to it. He obediently took himself off, he was apt to be too obedient, and wandered in a circumscribed area among the tents and booths, never letting his eye depart for long from Miss Folwell's trim figure, habited for equestrian performance; she stood with her back to him, patting Lady Mary's neck while she talked to the groom, and now and then stooping to run her hand caressingly down one of Lady Mary's slim and beautiful legs. A man throwing baseballs at a boy's head, which was thrust through a hole in a sheet of canvas, diverted Harry's attention for a moment. The person who had paid money thus to enjoy himself was very large and powerful; in one corner of his mouth he gripped a cigar, even while he threw. The blacked face of the boy dodged from side to side and up and down, for the hole in the canvas permitted a limited movement. And from the boy proceeded challenges and jeers. "Hit me, mister; say, I'm a dead easy mark; one on the cocoa now." The man threw with deliberation, and his throw was that of a professional ball player. A frantic dodge barely saved, as it seemed, the blacked face from annihilation, and the crowd of onlookers laughed at the narrow escape. "Go on; you can do it, mister; give me a good one, right on the conk," importuned the boy in de fiance; and the second ball went true and swift to that mark, stove in the battered derby and ricochetted off against the canvas. The crowd cheered and laughed; Harry was touched by the momentary grimace, and then the pathetic smile of the victim. The next moment the boy was singing out bravely, "Stung! Hit me again, somebody; my conk's swellin'; you can't miss it." But there was a quaver in his courageous voice, and Harry, whose sensitiveness was fastidious and shrank before physical pain and danger, even when they were incurred by some one else, turned away. "Poor devil!" he thought, glancing at the boy's head; and he wondered why, when a fellow was reduced to that for a living, people, instead of dealing with him mercifully, should be brutal enough to try to hurt him. As he passed behind the screen of canvas he saw that the boy stood on a packing box, that his hands, interlocked behind his back, gripped each other convulsively, and that he kept knocking one foot against the other; the movements were obvious manifestations of suffering. But all the while the boy was singing out his urgent challenge, and the balls came plunk against the canvas. It took courage to stand pilloried and be battered like that through a whole long holiday. Harry reverenced courage wherever and however it was displayed; he was painfully aware of his own deficiency, always looking for some opportunity to overcome it. But when you are a very small, weak young man, weighing less than a hundred and twenty pounds, and moving habitually and by preference in a highly-civilized and well-guarded society, your opportunities for the development and display of lion-like qualities "Let's go back to the box," said Miss Folwell, as he joined her. "I have an idea that Lady Mary will behave most abominably." The box, which was in the front tier and directly upon the track, was empty; the other members of the party had not returned from their inspection of the various pleasures of the fair. The chairs in the box were close together, and for fear of crowding Miss Folwell, Harry did not sit down next to her, but considerately left that chair vacant. He was apt to be too considerate, as well as too obedient. "The track is like thick pea soup," observed Miss Folwell, as the horses to be tried in the "Unbroken-to-Automobile" class were ranged up in front of the grandstand. Lady Mary was manoeuvred to position directly before her mistress's eye. "She stands beautifully," declared Harry. "If she'll only hold that position, she ought to get the blue." "She's more likely to jump out of her skin," replied Miss Folwell. Ten mettlesome, beautiful horses in shining harness were ranged before the grandstand, all of them except Lady Mary restless, champing their bits or tossing their heads or pawing impatiently in the mud. Only Lady Mary stood quiet, looking straight ahead with mild and wellbred inquiry. And then down the track, moving cautiously, came a little steam runabout, followed by a big gasoline touring car, which in turn was followed by a motor delivery wagon. Slowly the procession approached, and an agitation that seemed communicable passed down the line of horses. Lady Mary pricked her ears forward, and held her head up with a startled air, but otherwise remained quiet; other horses began to dance. Harry Mortimer was watching one at the farther end of the line, a big chestnut who showed already a tendency to become unmanageable. The little steam machine passed him safely, the touring car was abreast of him, and then the motor delivery wagon sounded its terrible, its screeching horn. Harry saw the big chestnut rear and plunge, and in the same instant immediately before his eyes loomed a glistening brown shape, and hovered, pawing in air, about to fall on him. With only the instinct of getting out from under, Harry sprang from his seat, and shrank into the corner of the box. Then he saw Miss Folwell leaning forward toward the rearing, balancing Lady Mary, saying gentle words; and he saw the horse drop its forefeet, grazing the box rail. As he stepped forward, a man in the neighboring box vaulted out upon the track and seized Lady Mary's bridle. Miss Folwell put out her hand, and patted the horse's neck. Harry knew that he had disgraced himself in her eyes, in the eyes of all those people who sat behind, and who had seen. It was not merely that he had shrunk back in a panic; he had left her to shift for herself. She did not glance at him, and he knew miserably what she must think. And he had meant if things fell out favorably - that very night to demonstrate to her that he had, at least, immense courage! "I think I'd take her out if I were you," observed the man who was holding Lady Mary's head. "I understand this little parade is n't a circumstance to what they're going to do. They're going to take off the mufflers, and race up and down exploding like so many traveling machine guns, - and I guess the people in the front boxes will want then to climb up on the roof." He smiled in perfect innocence at Harry, who promptly hated him. "I think you're right," said Miss Folwell. "Thank you very much. James, you can take her out now. I shall want to drive her in the next class." She kept her eyes on the horse until Lady Mary had been manœuvred out of the line and was trotting down the track. Then, for the first time since he had made his craven exhibition, she turned to Harry; and wretchedly for the second time he showed himself a coward, for he shrank before what seemed to him mocking laughter in her blue eyes. "As I expected," she said, "we did n't behave very well in that event, did we? Better luck in the next, perhaps. You'll drive with me in that, Mr. Mortimer?" He could have prostrated himself at her feet for this forbearance, this willingness on her part still to be seen in public with him. "I ought to say,-you've never driven behind Lady Mary, and you're so beautifully dressed, you'll probably be a good deal spattered.' "Oh, I assure you, I don't mind that," replied Harry; and then he wondered if he had placed a ridiculous, unfortunate emphasis on the word "that." But if he had, she evidently did not notice it. He felt that everybody behind him was still watching him and commenting in whispers on his cowardice; but he sat down in the chair next to Miss Folwell, protected against the world's scorn. He was, however, very humble, very penitent; and quakingly he besought the fates to put before him another opportunity for valiancy, even for sacrifice. But though the automobiles did indeed sweep up and down with more and more violent attempts to terrify, and though horses rose upon their hind legs, and pranced and had to be removed as Lady Mary had been, nothing occurred to jeopardize the safety of Miss Folwell or of any one in the neighborhood. "Come," said Miss Folwell at last. "It's time we were getting ready." Harry followed her down to the horse stalls. In front of them, harnessed to a shining yellow cart, stood Lady Mary; Miss Folwell mounted to the seat and took the tan-colored reins, and Harry ascended to the place at her side. The gong sounded, and they drove out upon the track, the last of the entries in the Ladies' Driving Class to appear. The five other competitors were already out and limbering up. Miss Folwell took them in at a glance, five solitary ladies. "See how distinguished you are," she said to Harry. "The only man. They count a good deal on form and appearance, and you will pull me through. You are so beautifully dressed!" She glanced at him with her candid, humorous eyes, and with the little chuckle of enjoyment on which he usually doted, but which he now found rather frightening. She spoke to Lady Mary, and the horse quickened its pace. Harry was blinded by a vicious spatter of mud. He groped for his handkerchief, and while he wiped away the smear he felt the mud rain upon his hat, his coat, his legs. With his eyes once more open, he glanced at Miss Folwell winkingly, through the shower that was being flung back by Lady Mary's forefeet. Miss Folwell, however, on her raised seat escaped the muddy discharge, except for an occasional drop; one or two tiny dots glistened on her cheek. Just in front of the middle section of the grandstand they passed through a nearly liquid stretch of track, and Harry received a pasty drenching from Lady Mary's accurate hoofs. It filled his eyes and mouth, and as he convulsively raised his muddy handkerchief he heard the joyous laughter of the spectators, and, worse still, Miss Folwell's genial chuckle. When he again got his eyes open; she was making the turn a hundred feet beyond the stand. "Dear me," she said, glancing at him. "Do you want to get out?" "No, thank you," replied Harry. “Unless my appearance will count against you." "Ah, the poor clothes! Darn the horse," she muttered. "I'm not getting out of her what I might." She touched Lady Mary with the whip. The response was a forward lunge and a backward fling, - a cool poultice was spread across Harry's lower jaw. He was now on the side toward the grandstand, and something like a cheer arose as he went by. He beheld the mirth on the faces of the women; the man who had vaulted over the rail and held Lady Mary's head was guffawing with laughter; the solitary ladies who passed glanced at him with a demure amusement. He would not have resented being innocently ridiculous; but he burned with mortification to think that many of those to whom he furnished this diversion found in it a special zest because they had also been witnesses of his cowardice. And it stung him deeply to think that thus - in this trivial, contemptuous way was Miss Folwell satisfied to administer to him his punishment. He abandoned the now futile attempt to use his handkerchief, and, folding his arms, determined to endure imperturbably. It was hard. At the turns Miss Folwell would glance at him mirthfully and laugh. And it was no longer the unrestrained merriment of the spectators that hurt. It was the gleeful trill which sounded in his ear at every turn; it was that which stabbed him to the heart. It was n't fair of her - it was n't worthy of her to delight in making him ridiculous. She might have rebuked him, punished him in some dignified way, but to make him the butt of light-minded laughter, well, he reflected tragically, it was all part of being little, and weighing less than a hundred and twenty pounds. "Cheer up; don't look so woe-begone," she urged him, as these thoughts were taking possession. "A few patches of skin still show. But ah, the poor clothes!" And she emitted her soft, innocent, compassionate-sounding laughter. Back and forth the judges kept them traveling for what seemed an interminable time; Harry felt that they prolonged the event because of the general rejoicing in his ignominy. But at last the competitors drew rein, the judging was quickly finished, and the red ribbon, not the blue, attached to Lady Mary's bridle. Then, amidst the clapping and laughter of the crowd, Miss Folwell drove past the stand and turned off from the track. Harry alighted and withdrew to a place beyond the stalls. He was patiently scrap ing one trouser leg with a stick, when the man who had held Lady Mary's head, and afterwards had laughed at him from the box, sauntered up. He was a cheerful, good-humored young man, with saucy blue eyes and the confident, leisurely, somewhat aggressive demeanor of one who is not easily put down; his clothes had a certain rusticity, with the exception of his collar and necktie, which were both noticeable for being in the extreme of an ugly fashion. They reasserted the quality of freshness and effervescent spirit which were to be deduced from his bearing. "A good show you gave us," he observed. "No permanent damage done, I hope?" "H. WALTER BUNCH, The Walshville Press." "My own idea entirely," pursued Mr. Bunch. "I'm taking my vacation, — but if I run across a good story, I ask no better fun than to follow it out and write it up. An amateur's impressions, going up in a balloon, descending with the parachute, an interesting sensation, interesting reading. I arranged yesterday with Professor Delgardo,―his real name is Brophy. Telegraphed his terms to the Press; they said 'O. K. Go ahead.' Twenty dollars and a sensation in it for me. But say I am a shade nervous. Kind of like to walk round and feel the earth under me while I can, you know." Harry had ceased to scrape himself; |