The tourist, looking at commercial externals only, naturally marvels at the gowns of the women, the artistic and lavish homes, the unbridled entertaining and the constant touch its richer members keep with New York, nearly nine hundred miles away. Its people discuss the last play, the best opera and the newest dishes at Sherry’s as easily as they do home gossip. Naturally, this is not true of all the people, but it fairly represents the attitude of the leading set. The New York trip has been made easy by the “Yankee millionaires,” who have made Augusta part of an elaborate railway and hotel system. Of course there remains--and praise be that it is so--those of the old _régime_. They are not altogether carried away by this elated modern spirit. They do not entertain tourists or the passing cottager. They are not quite sure but the new spirit may bring the Newport morals. They recoil from the constant phrase, “They do it in New York.” They remind the imitative younger generation that a well-born Southerner has nothing to learn in manners and morals, and that progress is not always improvement. They point to Charleston as the dignified ideal of all that is old and best. They sigh, and say, “Things are not as they used to be.” To which _Punch_ would again reply, “They never were.” [Illustration] THE GATE I who had wandered a weary mile, harkened a voice and knocked. Lo, Love answered, with song and smile, Though the wind of autumn mocked; All in the dawn I beheld Love’s face, set in a rose of flame-- Oh, song is sweet in a lonely place And Love called me by name! “Stay while the rose and the song are one, linger with Love for a day!” “And what of the heart at set of sun When it fares on its lonely way?” “Nay, bide with Love in the flower of dawn, only the dawn with me!” “And what of the heart when it wanders on? And what of the night to be?” “Think not of night, but of Love’s fair face, thine for a golden morn!” Oh, song is sweet in a lonely place, But I turned to the rock and thorn. For had I lingered a fleeting while, what of the Road of Years? I, who had wandered a weary mile, Fared on to the Well of Tears. VIRGINIA WOODWARD CLOUD. THE WAY OF A MAN _By_ Robert Adger Bowen [Illustration] The beach was comparatively deserted. After the week-end, which had been unusually gay, the few scattered groups gathered under the hired umbrellas, with here and there the flash of an individual crimson or green parasol, scarcely served to populate the stretch of hot sand. Near his stand, the Harvard student who was serving as life-guard during the summer months stood, bronzed and athletic, talking to a young fellow whose scant bathing costume revealed the lines and muscles of an Antinous.