beyond a repudiation of such a view in general. In view of my knowledge of Mr. Canter, it was natural enough that I should be enraged to find him the escort of Eleanor Leigh, and I fear my temper rather showed itself in the conversation which took place and which soon became general, partly because of the earnestness with which I expressed my views on the next subject that came up. The two or three young girls of the company had left at the same time with Miss Leigh, and the ladies who remained were, for the most part, married women of that indefinite age which follows youth after a longer or shorter interval. They had all travelled and seen a good deal of the world, and they knew a good deal of it; at least, some of them did and they thought that they knew more than they actually did know. They agreed with more unanimity than they had yet shown on any subject that America was hopelessly bourgeois. Listening to them, I rather agreed with them. "Take our literature, our stage, our novels," said one, a blonde lady of some thirty-five years, though she would, possibly, have repudiated a lustrum and a half of the measure. "You differentiate the literature and the novels?" I interrupted. "Yes. I might--but--I mean the lot. How provincial they are!" "Yes, they appear so. Well?" "They do not dare to discuss anything large and vital." "Oh! yes, they dare. They are daring enough, but they don't know how--they are stupid." "No, they are afraid." "Afraid? Of what?" "Of public opinion--of the bourgeois so-called virtue of the middle class who control everything." "That is the only valid argument I ever heard in favor of the bourgeois," I said. "What do you mean? Don't you agree with me?" "I certainly do not. I may not seek virtue and ensue it; but at least I revere it." "Do you mean that you think we should not write or talk of anything--forbidden?" "That depends on what you mean by forbidden. If you mean----" "I think there should be no subject forbidden," interrupted the lady by whom I had sat at table, a stout and tightly laced person of some forty summers. "Why shouldn't I talk of any subject I please?" She seemed to appeal to me, so I answered her. "I do not at this instant think of any reason except that it might not be decent." This raised an uncertain sort of laugh and appeared for a moment to stagger her; but she was game, and rallied. "I know--that is the answer I always get." "Because it is the natural answer." "But I want to know why? Why is it indecent?"