prevailed against by piles of stately masonry. As a perpetual witness to the reality of the things of the spirit, the presence of this historic church in the heart of the city's intensest commercial life is of incalculable value. The quiet of the church, the repose of the ancient burial-ground, bear silent but perpetual testimony to the greatness of man through his heirship of heaven, and to the brevity and littleness of wealth that perishes in the using. Trinity Church has been, in a true sense, a religious home, not a traveling sanctuary; it has become rich in historic memories and in personal associations; those who have received baptism under its roof have worshiped to old age on the same spot, and been carried from it to the last resting-place. In all the shifting and changing of this new world it has stood, not still, but rooted and grounded. Its earlier congregation long ago removed to other sections of the city; but it did not follow them; it called them back, it called in the great new population about it; it kept its faith with the locality. And its crowded services have shown how wise was the loyalty and how sound the policy of this ancient parish. Its example is full of suggestion to those churches which follow congregations instead of leading them. Those who read Miss Winslow's admirable account of the history and growth of Trinity, which appears in another column, will discover that while this historic church has remained immovable amid its holy dead, it has matched, if it has not outreached, every other church in the city in grasping occasion with a strong hand and meeting the religious needs of new neighborhoods with swift and generous provision. The work of Trinity Parish is the most extensive carried on by any single church in the country. It has a large endowment, but its wealth has been lavishly spent in a great group of religious, educational, and philanthropic agencies. Churches, schools, hospitals, scholarships, missions, and religious work of many kinds are its beneficiaries. It has been both conservative and aggressive; it has stood where it was planted, but it has constantly seized new ground; it has held steadfastly to an ancient order of government and worship, but it has studied and used modern methods; it has dealt studiously with the needs of different classes of population; it has been, in a word, a modern institutional quite as much as an ancient historical church. It has stood for dignity, beauty, and stability in architecture, service, music, and method; in the foremost of American cities it has identified religion with art, culture, and practical service to men. It has had its shortcomings and made its mistakes, upon which The Outlook has frankly and critically commented; but this is not the time to recall them. The two hundredth anniversary of the birth of a church so closely identified with the history of the city and so largely a contributor to its spiritual fortunes is an occasion for generous recogni tion of a great work nobly enlarged and generously sustained. In such an hour it is the special good fortune of this ancient parish to be presided over by a rector like Dr. Dix: a man of conspicuous rectitude and courage; the inheritor of an honorable name; a preacher of singular power and earnestness; a leader by virtue of deep convictions, large ability, and unswerving devotion to his work. The Spectator Flags and bunting floating against the sky always thrill the Spectator's blood. He finds that they always bring him into sympathetic relations with his fellows; that he longs for from his fellows in the ordinary activities of companionship. A man cannot withdraw life and come into active sympathy with them on an occasion. The Spectator has learned that his character as a critic-for the man who studies his fellows, whether he will or not, becomes a critic-has, to a certain degree, even in himself, aroused distrust. The Spectator counted as one all day in the vast throng that took part in the dedication of the Grant monument, but he proved the truth of the adage; Never so much alone as in a crowd. dressed from stem to stern in flags, which showed well against the gray and green background of the Palisades. The dome of the tomb could just be seen above the roof of a shanty surrounded by a stand, and looked majestic and imposing against a gray sky that kindly blended its clouds to form a most artistic background. The Riverside Drive, even at that early hour, was crowded. Lunch boxes and baskets were en évidence, and parties were constantly arriving, who greeted each other with the enthusiasm of good comrades having the unusual opportunity of a day of freedom from work. In every direction the crowd was proving the ability of this great people to picnic. Below the Spectator in the side street was a truck. On it rose tier after tier of seats that projected far beyond the truck on either side. Each seat was decorated with bunting, the ends left flapping in the wind. The Spectator wondered if there could be found one man willing to risk his life on this structure. Three young men were the proprietors, and, in the language of the business world, they hustled" for trade. Suddenly there was excitement. Three blue-coated policemen began giving orders at the same time. Three sorrowful young men began harnessing the team of horses, and the frail structure was seen making its shaking, racking journey over stones and rocks-for the street was not cut through-down Riverside Drive. The Spectator was relieved by the number of lives and limbs saved, on the principle of the small boy's definition of pins which had saved people's lives because they did not swallow them. From the other side of the street came a shout; a man had fallen. He was not hurt, and climbed back to the top of the truck platform from which he had fallen. The was again impressed with the fact that the people usually classified under the head of the masses were the only class in the community who know freedom. Appearances did not concern them; comfort, ease, pleasure, was the aim of existence. They camped about fires built in the long stretches of vacant lots; were lavish in their purchases of sandwiches and coffee; were mines of wealth to the sellers of flags and souvenirs. The family and neighborhood life went on without interruption. Children were disciplined and caressed as though each group was within the shelter of its own four walls. Groups arrived bringing folding chairs and kindergarten chairs, and two families had pillows for the babies. A shout of applause attracted the Spectator's attention to the drive, away from the fascinating attractions of the groups that formed so large a part of the great municipality. The shout was faint at first, coming from many blocks distant. It came nearer and nearer, but the cause of the enthusiasm could not be discovered. At last out of the clouds of dust there appeared one of the sprinkling-carts of the Park Department. The driver, a naturalized Irish citizen evidently, sat in the most dignified attitude, bowing to the throng right and left, giving the military salute with the butt of his whip. The humor of the thing, the ready wit of the man in seizing the occasion and lending himself to the spirit of the crowd, breaking the monotony of the waiting, turned him into a public benefactor. A second cart appeared, and the crowd tried to repeat its effect, but the driver was invincible to public flattery and drove on without a glance to the right or left. When the first cart returned, the driver received an ovation. When the second man returned, a The front part of this truck was a lunch-stand, small boy in a tree called out, “Would you the stock being stored under the seats. smile for a cent?" This was a cue for the platform was built on the high raised sides of crowd, and became a chorus. the truck; the seats, planks laid on nail-kegs. A nail-keg had slipped from under the end of the plank, and thrown the occupant to the ground, a distance of at least eighteen feet. He climbed back, helped the proprietor repair damages, and sat down after buying a sandwich. The Spectator wondered if this were done to prove he had no hard feelings. Below the truck, close to the sidewalk, stood a group of Italians. The women looked about fourteen years old, but the matronly figures, the hair twisted and held in place by high shell-combs, proved them the wives of the men who were with them. Their heads were bare, but the gay-colored shawls were used as head-coverings. The Spectator As the day wore on, the shrewdness of the small boy was apparent. He had strengthened soap-boxes, made benches out of odd bits of boards found under and about the stands. These found ready purchasers at twenty-five cents apiece. Stands were built on the grass as if by magic. A man with a couple of carpenter's or mason's horses would appear, with a few boards. The stand was up and occupied in less time than it takes to write of it. The small boy and his bench were a quick follower. The next day venders' wagons were peddling these benches at five cents apiece in the tenement-house districts. The New York small boy has no respect for men or things. He filled every tree along the drive. When the limbs interfered with his comfort, he broke them off. Riverside Drive will bear the scars of April 27 for many months, because its citizens, young and old, have not been educated to look upon the property of the city as personal property to be protected and enjoyed in common. At last the shouts of the people told of the approach of the Presidential party. On they came, the greeting of the people becoming one mighty shout, the glittering uniforms of the escort marking the progress long before the open barouche in which sat the President appeared through the clouds of dust. The crowd represented all shades of political opinion, but there was only one expression. The President of the United States was passing, and its citizens paid tribute. The carriage of ex-President Cleveland followed, and again the shouts went up, flags and handkerchiefs were waved. A nation honored itself in honoring the men it had chosen to govern it. A woman in a widow's cap and veil came behind these two carriages, and men stood with uncovered heads. There were cheers and the waving of flags, but there was a new note in the people's voices. The hero's widow and children were passing, to live over again the death and burial of a husband and father. The mighty column of sixty thousand men marched on in unbroken ranks-magnificent specimens of manhood. The clouds of dust and sand almost hid them from view. Without an evidence of what they were enduring, they marched on to honor the man who to many of them was only a name. The Spectator gives this advice to the parents of boys. In a country where it is possible for every boy to be a President, there is the possibility that he reach his high destiny by way of a Governor's chair. This makes horseback-riding a necessary part of every boy's education. When a Governor, he, at least once, will have to take part in a semi-military parade. A Governor on horseback, surrounded by his staff in glittering uniforms that make a golden background for the man in citizen's dress, who has been made commander-in-chief of the State's National Guard, is an imposing figure. But a commander-in-chief of the State's National Guard seated in an open barouche is about as impressive as the undertaker at a funeral. But there comes another army, the schoolboys. Not war, but peace; not battles fought, but to be fought. The Spectator watched them, saying in himself, "I may take my years and my learning back to the place whence I came. There is a new nation whose inheritance is freedom, whose watchword is peace. The battles of the future are to be fought by character, not muskets, and these are the makers of the ammunition of that future." The curtain of night dropped over the river, where the naval parade had been really only the passing of decorated boats; for the war-ships were guarding, apparently, the tomb and the approach to the hero's resting-place. The Outlook Vacation Fund The readers of The Outlook are availing themselves of the opportunity to furnish rooms in the new house at Santa Clara, in the Adirondacks. A mother's gift, acknowledged under the name of “ Wedding Gift," is to carry the name of a daughter who goes out into a new life from the home that had been hers for twenty years. It is a beautiful thought, and must suggest like gifts from other mothers of brides. Thirteen readers have sent the one-dollar membership fee for enrollment as members of the Working-Girls' Vacation Society. Reports will be sent to them, as stated in our issue of April 24. The houses are now being made ready for occupancy, and their doors will soon open to extend the hospitality of our readers to the working-girls of the Greater New York and vicinity: B Second Paper.-Good Manners ETWEEN a cultured American and an uncultured there is as much difference as between, say, Matthew Arnold and "Punch's" 'Arry, and I would like to make a plea some day for the simple and unfinished American; but let one Englishman at least record his honest opinion that an educated American is the most courteous person he has met on his travels. One may have a pardonable pride in the good form of an English gentleman-an instinctive sense of what is becoming and yet desire the cordiality which is very taking in an American; one may admit that in what may be called the decorated style of manners a Frenchman is a past master, and still miss that note of simplicity which is found in an American. There is, indeed, as appears to a dull male person, a certain analogy between the superiority of an American man manners and an American woman in dress (her manners, it goes without saying, are charming, vivacious. sympathetic, fascinating), for she has added to the severe good taste of an Englishwoman a certain grace, and redeemed the cleverness of the Parisian from the suspicion of trickery. Blood and climate have united to produce this felicitous result, where the gravity and dignity of the Anglo-Saxon have been relieved by a certain brightness of spirit and lightness of touch which would be out of place and might be even offensive in rain and fog. The typical American editor is not peremptory, autocratic, nor frank unto the point of brutality in dealing with his contributors who are the only worms who have not formed unions and do not turn in the present millennium of independence. He is warmly appreciative of what he accepts, and he takes the trouble to refuse what he cannot accept in such a way as to confer a favor. In my hands have I held for a brief space a letter from the editor of a largely circulated and quite delightful American monthly to a young lad who had sent an account of life at an English University, explaining why it could not be accepted, but bestowing discriminating praise. One fears that his character for veracity cannot survive the strain of such a statement, but one takes the risk in order to pay his tribute to the courtesy of the editor, and a fortiori of all men of letters across the Atlantic. They have as a profession a quite marked graciousness of manners, but he, the most dominant (and perhaps also chastened) of his order, is an example unto the whole world. His patience-this is the final test-with an unpunctual contributor is sufficient to melt a heart not utterly depraved, and to qualify him for a very high place in the order of Christianity. The young University man of Vale or Harvard is neither gawky nor cheeky, but has an easy and agreeable bearing, with just the proper flavor of deference to his superiors. Whatever a native-born clergyman may say or do in ecclesiastical courts, where the atmosphere, the world over, from Rome downwards, is so close and charged with gas that no one breathing it ought to be held responsible, he is invariably conciliatory and reasonable in private, never allowing himself to wrangle about theology or to assume arrogant airs to lay folk. One is never irritated by religious cant or priestly insolence, nor is one afraid of being browbeaten or taken by guile. Clubmen are everywhere very much the same, having a certain freemasonry which constitutes them a class by themselves; but the American is entitled to this praise, that his manners are not spoiled by affectation, nor frozen into icy inhumanity. He does not wear a single eyeglass for ornamental purposes, nor assume an expression of countenance from which all interest in anything has been studiously eliminated. Nor does he labor to reduce the crisp, sinewy English speech to the sound of jargon, nor is he accustomed to regard the outside world as Philistines. An absolutely well-bred man in speech and deed, he allows you to know that he has a heart; he can shake hands like a man, he is perfectly affable, and does not speak a patois in which "ah" separates each word from its neighbor, and "don't you know" fills up the frequent interstices of thought. The first point of good manners is chivalry, and the test of chivalry is a man's bearing to women. The reason one is suspicious of French breeding is that, though a Parisian-who is a Frenchman raised to the highest degree-may lift his hat on entering a shop, he would show the shop-girl no deference on the street, while French fiction is a standing insult to womankind. From end to end of America a woman is respected, protected, served, honored. If she enters an elevator, every man uncovers; in a street car she is never allowed to stand if a man can give her a seat; on the railways, conductors, porters, and every other kind of official hasten to wait on her; any man daring to annoy a woman would come to grief. The poorest woman can travel with security and comfort in the States, which to a European seems most admirable. Her richer sister has a maid and footman in Europe; she has a nation in attendance. In society she holds a court, with every man listening to her, deferring to her, reflecting her. Perhaps the American woman may be unconsciously exacting at times it is the penalty of absolute monarchy; perhaps the men exceed in deference when they allow the women to read for them and think for them, in everything except politics-this is the drawback of hereditary loyalty. The American Queen might complete an almost perfection by granting her subjects an occasional experience of equality, upon which they would never think of trading. Perhaps the American loyalist might do his ruler true service and safeguard her from selfishness by an occasional and quite limited assertion of the rights of man. It remains, however, that it must be good for a strong and restless people to be possessed with noble ideas of woman, and from the poorest to the highest man to be engaged and sworn unto her service. The woman cult in the States is in itself a civilization, and next door to a religion. Hospitality is also of the essence of courtesy, and every visitor to the States agrees with his neighbor-however he may differ about other things-that the American has revived the ancient Eastern idea and acclimatized it in the West. After a journey in the New World, one returns home convinced that we do not know how hospitality spells in Europe, and smitten to the heart with repentance. When a stranger comes to us with a letter, we receive him with calm civility, hope that he has had a good passage, inquire what he wishes to see in our country, map out his route for him, ask him to a meal, and let him go with a modest disclaimer that he has given us any trouble. If one of us goes over to America, not knowing half a dozen people in the whole continent, letters of hospitality arrive before you start; they are brought on board your steamer with the pilot, they are delivered on the landing-stage, they are lying on the table at your rooms, and they all come to the same thing that you will stay in a hotel at your peril, and that you and your belongings—it is hoped two boys may be with you as well as your wife must at once come to the writer's house. If you have an iron will and a profound conviction that your arrangements prevent your being a proper guestfor a guest has his duties as well as a host-you may deny yourself the pleasure of private hospitality, but you will have to fight your way, so to say, to the hotel. And if you are a guest, you will be received at the station-we allow visitors to make their own way to our houses--and welcomed by the whole family, as if you were of the same blood, or at least friends of twenty years' standing; and you will be driven over the whole district or city, and your host will be at your disposal as if he had nothing to do—yet judges, university men, merchants, editors, have some engagements—and you will depart laden with roses and good will. One is not quite sure whether to admire most of all the grace or tact or spontaneity or completeness of hospitality among our kinsfolk; but that for which one is most grateful, and which counts dearest, is the genuine kindness. The Americans are a kind people, and they are not ashamed to allow it to be seen. When an Englishman, who has been treated like a royal personage and never allowed to live a day in a hotel, finds it in his |