and intelligent countenance. Some observations from him drew
from Mr. Grahame the following reply:--

"There is one feature of American society upon which I think no
foreigner has remarked, or if he have, it has been so cursorily as
plainly to show that he was far from appreciating its importance: I mean
the fact that here the thinker is also the worker. In England and the
European States, the working class is distinct from the consumers, and
there must be almost as great a contrast in the intellectual as in the
physical condition of the two. All the refinement, the cultivation, must
remain with those who have leisure and fortune--as a class, I mean, for
individuals will of course be found, who, in spite of all disadvantages,
will rise to the highest position. But here, in America, there are no
idlers. Here, with few if any exceptions, all must be, in some way,
workers, and all may be thinkers. We attain thus to a republic of
mind."

"Do you not fear that the result of this will be to check the
development of individual greatness; that as you have no king in the
State, so you will have no king in literature?"

"Even were this so, it would remain a question whether the great
increase of general intelligence would not more than compensate the
evil."

"Can many Polloks repay us for one Milton--many Drydens for one
Shakspeare?"

"You take extreme cases; besides, I only admitted your supposition to
show that I could produce a set-off to the disadvantage. I do not
believe that the necessity for labor of some sort will prevent a truly
great mind from achieving for itself the highest distinction. I think
the history of such minds proves that it will rather serve as a stimulus
to their powers."

Horace Danforth was silent, and after a moment's pause, Mr. Grahame
resumed.

"In this union of the working and the thinking classes, the refinements
of life, those things which adorn, and beautify it, take their true
place as consolers and soothers of the care-worn and toil-wearied mind.
No Italian opera can give such delight to the sated man of pleasure as
the tired laborer feels in listening to the evening song with which some
loved one, in his home, sings him to repose.

"You speak _con amore_" said Horace Danforth, smiling at his host's
fervor.

"I do. Had I been excluded from the refinements of social life, I should
long since have fainted and grown weary of my toil here. I felt this
when compelled to relinquish my da