ing in a hoarse clamor; it was a mob, and she was in the midst of it, fighting forward. The white stars must be raised from the dirt. Everybody else seemed to want to push up closer to the platform; the lines ahead of her stretched tighter.

Now and then she stopped in sheer exhaustion. Above the hideous din she could hear the voice of Zurov bellowing. Gott! Shall no mans to choke him! Her fingers closed around an imaginary throat. It flashed upon her that there was more room between legs than between bodies, so bending low she went nuzzling her white-clothed head through the tangle of moving legs.

A knee struck her temple, she straightened up to save herself from the trampling feet. She was dazed, bruised, breathless; it seemed that she could go no farther forward. She looked to see if the flag had been lifted. She did not see it. Zurov was still talking. She went down and scrambled forward again.

The nearer she got to the platform, the harder it was to move forward. There was some struggle going on up in front of her, which was swaying the packed mob heavily on its multitude of legs. Suddenly Anna Lipinsky felt herself dizzy, she was going to fall; she caught hold of a man's legs for support. Reaching down, he seized her and flung her back.

"Damn you!" he howled, in the frantic fury of panic. "What are you up to, you old devil?"

He had lifted her from the earth. The jam into which he had hurled her was too dense to permit her feet to touch the ground. Her arms were pinioned against her sides. She floated helplessly on a wave of the mob, her head bare of cloth and wig, her white hair straggling over her forehead. Groaning, she struggled with the final strength of desperation; she could not free herself. And the flag was still down. The feet trampling it were on her heart.

Up near the platform the fighting she had felt was going on more fiercely. From her elevated position she measured the terrible distance yet for her to go. Screaming "Dog!" indiscriminately at the mob around her, she tried to throw herself for

ward and free. A sidewise movement of the men before and behind her twisted her around as if she were between two rollers. Now she could not even see the platform. She believed that her legs were breaking under the pressure.

Then she was twisted around once again, face forward. A man was climbing on the platform, snatched at by a dozen hands. But he was going forward. She could see his back. He was standing up now. He was surrounded. He was fighting. Zurov went down. Then three more. Through the mess of men she saw the flash of white and red and blue. She saw two hands holding the flag against the pole, fumbling to tie it. The hands came down; the flag was firm. She saw the white stars. Anna Lipinsky screamed, and around her there rose a tremendous "Hurrah!" She beat her hands against the back of a man in front of her, and cried through her tears, "So, Gott, so!"

"The police!" somebody was shouting. The crushing pressure against her weakened. The edge of the mob was breaking up, men were leaping down from the platform. The rush carried her into the middle of the park, leaving her there on her own legs. She could not stand; she staggered to a bench.

She would wait awhile, anyhow, and watch. Somebody else might try to pull down the flag. Presently there was no one near it except six or seven blue soldiers of the crossing. It was safe with them. She walked, slowly, unsteadily, up to the platform to get a good view of the flag before going home. She could see that the stamping feet had soiled, had torn it. But it had been raised, and then they all had shouted "Hurrah!" Down, they hissed it; lifted, they applauded it. She wished that it had been she that had served it. But a man did make it to rise; Gott, a mans did make it to rise off of dirty feets.

Anna Lipinsky started home, stopping often to rest. She did not notice her bare head and aching body. She felt guilty. She wished she could have served the white stars. She did not know until that night that the man who had lifted the flag was Levi.

ROM Babel down a certain romance appears to attach to the rising of capitals. On through the years in which, to the music of Apollo's lute, great 'Ilion, like a mist, rose into towers"; on through those when Dido encircled the Bursa with the Bull's Hide; and those in which Rome sprang on her Seven Hills above the Shewolf's Den-down to the founding of Washington, hovers something of this ro

mance.

The capitals of most countries are the especial pride of their people. It is not so with us at least, it has not been so in the past. Happily, it appears as though this condition were changing. It has, indeed, ever appeared to me strange that Americans know so little of and care so little for the capital of their own country. Nature, prodigal of gracious slope and curve and tone, has endowed it with perhaps more charm than any other national capital-at least, than any large European capital, and its founders laid it off on a generous plan which has left the opportunity of furthering what Nature presented in a way to appeal to the pride of our people. Yet how large a proportion of Americans turn their eyes and their steps, not toward its majestic buildings, but to some foreign capital with its gaudy shops and commercial allurements, returning with an alien's ideas on many subjects and boasting of beauties which are not comparable to those of our own Capital City.

Not long since, in a club in our chief commercial city, a group of gentlemen were discussing foreign cities with the familiarity of regular habitués, and a provincial visitor from a small territory on the banks of the Potomac suggested that in the spring at least Washington might vie with any capital that he had ever seen.

"I have never been to Washington," said a member of the club who was an VOL. LIV.-31

annual visitor to nearly every European capital and had, indeed, a familiarity with them second only to his familiarity with his native city.

"You mean that you have never visited Washington?"

"No! I have passed through Washington frequently, going back and forth to Florida, or some other Southern winter resort; but I have never spent an hour there."

"Come with me to-night, man, and see the most beautiful city in the world!" exclaimed his guest, gathering courage. But he did not come.

Washington-with its noble buildings; its charming parks; its sunlit stretches and shady avenues; its majestic monument-the most majestic on earth-now bathed in the sunshine, now reflecting the moonlight, now towering amid the clouds

meant nothing to him. Washington, with its charming society, its cosmopolitan flavor, its interesting circles, social, political, scientific, artistic, diplomatic, meant nothing to him. Why was it?

"I have never been able to read a history of the United States," said one not long since. "It is so dull." Is this the answer? Has the history of Washington been too dull to interest our people? "Happy that people whose annals are dull!"

Washington has a unique life; though how long it will remain so no one can tell. Fresh with the beauty of youth, situated at the pleasant mean between the extremes of heat and cold, possessing a climate which throughout the greater portion of the year admits of the only proper life-life in the open air-with sunshine as sparkling and skies as blue as Italy's, it presents to those who wish them political, scientific, and social life, and soon it will offer a literary and artistic life, which, second to none in the New World, may possibly, in no long time, be equal to that of any in the whole world. In Washing319

ton one may, according to taste, hear discussed the most advanced theories of science in every field, the political news of every country; and enjoy a society as simple, cultured, and refined-or, if one prefers it, as pretentious, as empty and diverting as in any capital of the globe. It has a social life, if not as brilliant, at least as agreeable, as that of any other national capital.

Commerce, we are assured by those interested in it, covers as wide, if not as extensive a field, as in any other metropolis, and we are promised soon an increase of manufacture, so that those who love it need not despair of having in time substituted for our present pure and uncontaminated air as filthy an atmosphere as that of the greatest manufacturing city in the country. As to the spirit which produces this, we already have this in abundance.

In fact, Washington naturally demands consideration from every standpoint. Historically, politically, and socially it is a field for the investigator, the student, the lounger. And he will be hard to please who can not find in its various and diverse activities as many varied objects of pursuit as he will find in the varied scenes amid its elegant avenues, lined with trees of every kind and variety.

Crossing the Potomac in a railway train not long ago, as it reached the Washington side with its broad, green park along the river bathed in the sunshine, with the White House beyond on one side, and the noble dome of the Capitol on the other, while above the whole towered the great shaft of Washington, a splendid bar of snow-white marble reaching to the heavens, a traveller exclaimed to the strangers about him, "What a wonderful city this will be fifty years from now! Think what the people who will come here then will see."

"What a wonderful city it is now!" exclaimed another. "Think what we see. You may travel the world over and see nothing like this. More splendid cities, perhaps, but none so beautiful and so charming."

And he was right. Fifty years ago travellers from abroad returned home with lurid accounts of slave-auctions and highwaymen; with impressions of mud-holes

and squalor and mediæval barbarism. Travellers from all over the world go home to-day with impressions of a Capital City set in a park; still unfinished, yet endowed by nature with beauties which centuries of care would not equal, and beginning to show the greatness which, designed by the founders of its plan, has, though often retarded by folly, been promoted from time to time by the far-sightedness of some of the great statesmen and by the genius of some of the great artists of our generation. Yet even fifty years ago the place must have had a beauty of its own, a beauty of trees and gracious slopes, which must have appealed to those who, unlike Mammon, were willing to lift their eyes from the pavements to the skies.

The Capitol and the White House, the Treasury and the old Patent Office, stood then as now gleaming in the sunshine, with their beautiful proportions speaking of the genius of a race of architect-artists whose successors had not yet appeared; the gracious mansions lying in the part of the city to the southwest of the White House and crowning the heights of Georgetown, amid their noble groves, must already have given Washington a charm. which made it worthy to be the capital of the nation; while below, the Potomac, on its course to the sea, as though resting from the turmoil of its rapids, spread in a silvery lake which has no counterpart in the precincts of any capital of the world.

In the early summer of 1783 the Continental Congress sat in the city of Philadelphia, happy in the belief that the war was over; that America was free; that a new government based upon representation of the people had been established, as they believed for all time, and that peace had come to spread its beneficent blessings on the land they had made so many sacrifices for. Their presence in Philadelphia was a satisfactory proof of their triumph; for out of that city in which the Liberty Bell had first rung its peal of joy at the Declaration of Freedom they had been hunted by the British, breathing threatenings and slaughter against the traitors, and for a period, little more than fugitives, had been fain to hold their sessions wherever they could assemble beyond the

danger of British bayonets and possibly British halters.

In April, 1783, while the temper of the troops was in a state of exasperation, a seditious hand-bill was distributed among those quartered at Newburgh, setting forth their wrongs in vivid terms and calling on them to assert their rights. So threatening became the situation that Washington felt himself called on to address the troops and hotly repudiate the idea that a soldier could have written so inflammatory and unsoldierly a paper.

The author, however, was a soldier, Major John Armstrong, who later took much pride in his achievement. But the storm passed at the time, and the troops returned to their duty, and Washington continued his labors on their behalf.

The existence of the army without pay, and without prospect of pay, was such as to cause grave embarrassment to the country. Provisional articles. of peace had been adopted, but a definitive treaty had not yet been signed, and the question was raised whether the army should be disbanded, or whether the commanderin-chief should be authorized to grant furloughs to the men enlisted to serve during the war. On the 26th of May, 1783, the latter course was determined on by Congress; but the situation was an unhappy one. Mr. Madison, in writing to a friend, said: "Without money there is some reason to surmise that it may be as difficult to disband an army as it has been to raise

Little came of it at the moment, for the people thought that the war was over and had plunged into politics-the struggle had begun between the States and the Federal Government. Most of the veterans had gone home with only their furloughs to show for their service, and their places had been supplied in part by the new Pennsylvania levies. Such was the situation when, the war having ceased, the Congress in Philadelphia, having sent out a notification of the cessation of hostilities, set about preparing for peace. It all had to do with the history of Washington city; for the location of the capital there was in some sort due to a mutiny. The Congress had already begun to discuss the advisability of establishing for

* Rives's "Life and Times of Madison." vol. I, p. 480.

themselves a permanent place of residence. The States of Maryland and New York, in contemplation of this, had passed acts offering to cede respectively to Congress, for its permanent residence, the city of Annapolis and the town of Kingston. And on the 4th of June, Congress had entered an order setting the fourth Monday in October for the consideration of these offers, and so notified the executives of New York and Maryland. Philadelphia was not behindhand with her claims and inducements. Surely they must have thought that peace had come to abide. From this dream they were rudely awakened.

One pleasant summer morning (June 17), a letter was received by Congress from Colonel R. Butler, stationed at Lancaster, Pa., stating that a detachment of about eighty mutineers had broken bounds and were marching on Philadelphia to arouse the troops in the barracks there and demand their pay at the hands of Congress. This was serious, for the troops in the barracks at Philadelphia needed no arousing-they were already on the verge of mutiny, and had a few days before, on the 13th of June, addressed, through a board of non-commissioned officers, an insolent letter to the Congress, setting forth their claims and demanding a satisfactory answer in the course of the day, with a threat otherwise of taking measures to right themselves. Still, that the situation could be handled readily no one doubted.

On June 21 the Lancaster mutineers, with their numbers augmented by those from the Philadelphia barracks, "presented themselves drawn up in the street before the State House where Congress was assembled."

Mr. Madison, in his diary of the proceedings of Congress, has given an account of the occurrence. He says: "The Executive Council of the State, sitting under the same roof, was called on for the proper interposition. President Dickinson came in and explained the difficulty under actual circumstances of bringing out the militia of the place for the suppression of the mutiny. He thought that, without some outrages on persons or property, the militia could not be relied on. General St. Clair, then in Philadelphia,