Mrs. Gower still patronized art, though she successively had given over most of her special protections for the patronage of human life in general; but Sewall was an amateur, and was famed for his galleries, his cellars, and his orchids. Derwent looked at him from the corners of his eyes, but kept silent; meantime Kill Van Kull, Si Starbuck, and Marion Lenoir, sitting forward, had brought out their banjos and struck up a Southern melody, very soft and sweet. “What a pity we have no folk-songs,” said Wemyss. “Great art is, after all, impossible without the nursery songs and tales of many generations, without the legends and delusions of the people.” “I am glad to find you need the people for something,” said Derwent, dryly. “But they have self-educated it away,” said Wemyss. “They have driven beauty out of the world with the three Rs; and now they are about to cut one another’s throats for its mere goods and raw material.” “True,” said Derwent. “But is it they that have done it? or we that have taught them?” “Speaking of the people,” laughed Flossie, “there they are.” And she pointed to an excursion-boat coming up the river; it was filled with a holiday party--clerks, upper mechanics, small tradesmen, and their womankind. The latter were resplendently dressed in new bonnets and bright shawls; the husbands looked dingy and jaded. Wemyss took out his opera-glass and scanned the decks for a minute or more, then laid it down wearily as if exhausted. “I have no doubt they are most of them virtuous,” said he. “But they all wear glass diamonds in their ears.” “Nay,” said Sewall, without cynicism, but as if merely stating an obvious fact. “There are the people.” And he pointed to a huge three-decked barge, coming slowly down stream before two tugs. It was covered with long streamers; the largest bearing, in flaring white letters, “The P. J. McGarragle Association;” and on smaller ones, “6th Ward.” All the decks were black with people; and all the people were waltzing to the loud rhythm of several brass bands. A few dozen of the younger men on the lower deck yelled at the little launch as it went by; they were tipsily singing an obscene song. “Mr. McGarragle has just been elected to Congress; and he is giving a free picnic to all his supporters in his district.” “You were one of his supporters, Mr. Sewall, I believe?” said Derwent, calmly. “But you are both wrong. These are the American people, if I understand them right.” And he pointed to the night boat. The upper decks were crowded with men, intent on their newspapers, regardless of all else--business-men returning to Chicago or the great lakes. And in the bow and main deck were groups of emigrants bound for the prairies; ploughs, sewing-machines, and bales of Eastern goods. This great steamer swept by them with a certain majesty; and Mrs. Gower’s little yacht lay for some seconds, rolling and tossing in its wake. * * * * *