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By Richard Bret Harte

In a Quaker Village.

CHAPTED IV.

URING my visit to Philadelphia I stayed most of the time in Langhorne, a picturesque Quaker village about twenty miles from the city. I went there on account of my health and for the good reason that my finances had reached that state of "artistic uncertainty" usually considered typical of artists, journalists and the like.

Under the restful influence of Langhorne my health rapidly improved. I wrote and caricatured for the Philadelphia Record, which took me to the city once a week; enjoyed a little manual labor; dabbled in psychology with an old Harvard professor, and ate sweet potatoes galore.

Langhorne was the first American village I had ever seen. Unlike the English village, it had no thatchedroof cottages or tall, flowery hedges. There were no famed inns such as "The King's Head" or "Ye Olde Cobwebs" -merely a few ordinary saloons. But in spite of these antique deficiencies, Langhorne possessed a charm that one

can find only in America-the lingering charm of the old colonial days, which is seen so abundantly in and around Philadelphia.

The principal atmosphere of the village consisted of the "Friends." For me it was a novel experience to meet them and live with them, since I had only read of the Quakers, and had thought the sect to be almost extinct. The Quaker vernacular reminded me very much of a kind of badly spoken Shakespearian dialect, in which the pronouns "thee," "thou" and "thy" flourished with considerable extravagance and confusion, but making, somehow, a pleasant, "antique seasoning," as it were, for conversation, like the seasoning of cloves in apple pie.

I found the Quaker somewhat of an enigma. It was impossible to really "get at him." His personality seemed incased in a hide as tough and as thick as a hide can be. He possessed humor -but a morbid humor. For instance, I remember on one occasion while at dinner the family were discussing a friend who had that day died. The deceased had left little else behind him

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than a reputation which, unfortunately, was ninety per cent alcoholic. "Well," commented my host, "he's gone this time, but as soon as he reached the other side I bet he made straight for a saloon." Now I think that the poor man might at least have been given a chance to reform, even if there were saloons "on the other side."

Finding the "Friends" rather uncongenial, I sought the company of an old Harvard professor. He was the only individual with an individuality in the village, and probably the only one who did not spit tobacco-juice from sunrise to sunset. In consequence of these traits of civilization he was naturally looked upon askance by the villagers.

The professor lived in a little "shack" (as he loved to call it) sur

rounded by a small garden. The exterior of the house was commonplace, but once inside the door, one immediately felt philosophy and Greek and Latin psychology, and all the other "ologies" that a professor revels in. In the tiny parlor with its bulging bookcases and its faded sofa, its rickety chairs and its cracked, antique ornaments, we passed many hours in deep discourse, and in pleasant conversation in which his charming little wife would oftimes join us.

He was a friend of Professor James, and had himself published several psychological works. One of the books I shall never forget, on account of its rather startling title of "The Nervous System of Jesus." I was very youthful at the time, and naturally such a trea

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"A raging blizzard tried to blow me overboard."

tise was vastly beyond my comprehension. Nervous systems, divine or otherwise, had never appealed to me, but I suppose a psychologist can find sufficient psychology even in bunions to fill a bookshelf.

However, the professor had not allowed these ponderous studies to monopolize his soul; he was still human. Knowing that I had been to school in England and had lived there many years, he very thoughtfully surmised. that I still retained a few English tastes; and accordingly, as I was about to make my departure, he would beg me stay a moment, hurriedly leave the room, and return, smiling and joking, with two bottles of real, imported English ale.

I liked the professor, with his colossal theories and "braininess," but how I loved him with his ale that sparkled no brighter than his wit and his broad, English laughter.

"Oh, those niggers."

snows, a running nose for four months and chilblains, and irritating underwear as thick as Turkish rugs, and all the rest of those dreadful things that go with a Northern winter.

So I boarded a Merchants and Miners' steamer bound for Jacksonville, Florida, with a farewell "Thank God," as a raging blizzard made a frantic attempt to blow me overboard. The voyage was quite uneventful, though pleasant and calm the second day out. The passengers consisted of a number of invalid mothers with athletic daughters in sportcoats, and also a large cargo of youthful chamber maids, house maids, ladies' maids and various other types of hotel "inducements" found so abundantly at the Florida resorts.

One in particular, an attractive blonde who chewed gum and persistently manicured her nails, was quite interesting. She and I were among the very few that survived mal-de-mer, and we sat next to each other at table. In spite of her rather gauche idiosyncracies, she displayed considerable education, and was quite an intellectual conversationalist. I could

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imagine her secretly tutoring some of the society matrons upon whom she waited during the winter, or teaching some Newport Apollo the English language.

The steamer stopped at Savannah for a few hours, and my heroine and I went ashore. How picturesque and quaint was Savannah! To me it was so typically Southern, with its sunshine, and laziness and its niggers. Niggers! Oh, those niggers. I can still see them lying around in groups

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as it was odd, suggesting for the moment that the city might be in pawn. However, I suppose, after all it was merely the Hebrew district.

Wandering on through the city, we found innumerable little squares with pretty flower beds and fine old trees draped with Spanish moss. Every square had one or several monuments; in fact, half the population of the city seemed to be monuments, and their venerable presence created a strange, reminiscent spell aquiver with the history and romance of the good old Southern days.

It was probably due to this romantic influence that I nearly missed my boat, for I had been sitting in one of the

squares and had almost fallen asleep, dreaming of Lafayette or Lee, or somebody historical; and then Savannah is such an ideal spot to dream in.

We landed at Jacksonville the next morning. After I had said farewell to my blonde steamer-companion who was going on to Daytona, I sought temporary headquarters. Owing to restrained circumstances, I was forced to select a rather mediocre hotel, one of those tourist places with a solitary male attendant who is bell boy, elevator man, porter, chambermaid, clerk, etc., all in one, simultaneously, and with an extraordinary ability for making excuses.

(To be continued next month.)

MY WILD FLOWER OF THE WEST

Her heart yearned for the sagebrush and the hills,
She hungered for the West of old-time thrills;
The East had wearied her, her heart was sad
One look at those old hills would make her glad.

We bade the yawning city a farewell,
The beckoning hills with their alluring spell
Were calling, calling her in sweet refrain,
Resistless were the charms of hill and plain.

Out through the bad lands, Oh the thrilling view!
The breath of sagebrush mingled with the dew!
On through the canyons, o'er the roaring streams,
Her bosom heaved with joy! Her land of dreams!

The tears of gladness glistened in her eyes.
Her mountains! Ah, her prairies and her skies!
The land that gave her birth, the land that blest
Her as its own, My Wild Flower of the West!

LOUIS ROLLER

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