WOULD that the joy of living came to-day, Even as sculptured on Athena’s shrine In sunny conclave of serene design, Maidens and men, procession flute and feast, By Phidias, the ivory-hearted priest Of beauty absolute, whose eyes the sun Showed goodlier forms than our desires can guess And more of happiness. MAN, IN THE CITY OF COLLARS A Not Very Tragic Relapse into the Toils of the World, and of Finance. HAVING been properly treated as a bunco man by systematic piety in a certain city further south, I had double-barrelled special recommendations sent to a lofty benevolence in Asheville, from a religious leader of New York, the before-mentioned Charles F. Powlison. It was with confidence that I bade good-by to the chicken-merchant who drove me into the city. I entered the office of the black-coated, semi-clerical gentleman who had received the Powlison indorsements. My stick pounded his floor. The heels of my brogans made the place resound. But he gave all official privileges. He received me with the fine manly hand-clasp, the glitter of teeth, the pat on the back. He insisted I use the shower bath, writing room, reading table. Then I suggested a conference among a dozen of his devouter workers on the relation of the sense of Beauty to their present notion of Christianity or, if he preferred, a talk on some aspect of art to a larger group. He took me into his office. He shut the door. He was haughty. He made me haughty. I give the conversation as it struck me. He probably said some smart things I do not recall. But I remember all the smart things I said. He denounced labor agitators in plain words. I agreed. I belonged to the brotherhood of those who loaf and invite their souls. He spoke of anarchy. I maintained that I loved the law. He very clearly, and at length, assaulted Single Tax. I knew nothing then of Single Tax, and thanked him for light. He denounced Socialism. Knowing little about Socialism at that time, I denounced it also, having just been converted to individualism by a man in Highlands. The religious leader spoke of his long experience with bunco men. I insisted I wanted not a cent from him, I was there to do him good. I had letters of introduction to two men in the city; one of them, an active worker in the organization, had already been in to identify me. A third man was coming to climb Mount Mitchell with me. He doubted that I was a bona fide worker in his organization. Then came my only long speech. We will omit the speech. But he began to see light. He took a fresh grip on his argument. He said: “There is a man here in Asheville I see snooping around with a tin box and a butterfly net. They call him the state something-ologist. He goes around and--and--_hunts bugs_. But do you want to know what I think of a crank like that?” I wanted to know. He told me. “But,” I objected, “I am not a scientist. I am an art student.”