against pneumonia, neuralgia, rheumatism; yet how bravely our forbears laughed at the wildness of winter, our gay grandfathers making a leg in thinnest satin, our diaphanous Empire grandmothers off for the sleigh-ride, only a silken shawl comforting their shoulders. There was no Dr. Yaeger then, no poulticing of woolens, yet they snuffled not, and were ever gay at heart and airy to look upon.

In one regard this examination into the nature and history of costume puzzles me greatly. Just when, just why, did gentlemen abjure their birthright of color and splendor and variety of dress? For two centuries the sexes sought to outflame each other in glory of silk and satin and velvet and gold, then in an instant away goes half the brightness, and one sex walks dim and dull and uniformed forever! Why? It is not because they did not once love it, these poor, sober-feathered fowls, what eager, earnest, painstaking shopping lists the gentlemen of our earlier America sent over the sea! Close concern with the width of the trimming, the pattern of the lace! Their zeal overflows their own wardrobe; they scrutinize every article of dress worn by the females of their household. Husbands or brothers gone abroad send home studied accounts of the new whimsies of fashion in London. George Washington; recently become a stepfather, is as solicitous for little Nellie Custis's hose as he is for his infant country's welfare. How they revel and are glad in the London periwig or proud inflated waistcoat! How undaunted they meet discomfort! Cries one gay blade to his tailor, as he orders his small-clothes, "If I can get into them, I won't pay for them!" And what of the ears half severed by the collar, the neck enfolded by yard upon yard of lawn? There was certainly once a day when men spent a goodly portion of a lifetime in attending to the cut of their sleeves, yet I would remind last month's essayist that in this same day men were playing pretty effectively with scholarship and politics. Regard those much-millinered men of

Elizabeth's time. Look at the portrait of Sir Walter Raleigh on an early page of Mrs. Earle's book. See him all puffed and slashed and padded and ruffled and gartered, yet somehow he managed to be bigger than his toggery, had time for elaborate costume, and also for the varied career of poet, courtier, streetcleaner, colonist, statesman, and tobacconist. No, men would seem to be something more than their raiment, and it would take something more than short hair and an overcoat to boost women into the high and happy places of politics.

In those older days people must have been much less sensitive to the stigma of the second-hand. Mrs. Earle traces the descent of hood or petticoat from generation to generation, and neither garment nor recipient seems to have suffered any loss of prestige in the process. This obtuseness of sentiment in our ancestors reaches an extreme in that bygone custom that allowed the hangman's lady to regard the clothes of executed females as her rightful perquisite. I own I can more readily forgive Mary Queen of Scots certain sportive little peccadillos than I can the unromantic thrift and promptness with which she makes over the murdered Darnley's wardrobe to Bothwell. This is another bit of sidelight information on history for which I am indebted to Mrs. Earle.

The last chapter of Two Centuries of Costume is named "The Romance of Old Clothes," a title well befitting the entire work, breathing delightfully, as it does all through, our old childish joy in attic trunks and forgotten finery. Why is there no such romantic aroma in "My Clothes"? There I read a philosophic pluck in dealing with a problem not selfimposed, but I detect more protest than pleasure in this "dressing, dressing, dressing to the end." Why no Romance of New Clothes? Am I to infer that when our ancestors and their wardrobes were new, costume was just as much a matter of fret and fuss and fit and misfit as it is to-day? For example, my new autumn

frock is to me to-day far more trouble than it is worth; but when gown and wearer and dressmaker have been laid away for a century in their several chests, some great-granddaughter will draw out the ancient dress, grow sentimental, and extract poetry from the silk and stuff that was most sordid prose to me. Why should she? It is not fair. It is but one more instance of the impertinence of upstart posterity, which is always popping in to snatch away our prerogatives from under our very noses.

THE FETICH OF EARLY RISING

"Woe unto them that rise up early in the morning" is a text which I have never yet heard expounded from any pulpit. On the contrary, I have heard and read many exhortations to early rising as one of the most wholesome and remunerative of the virtues. It is invariably recommended to young men as essential to success, and its obligation is enforced by a long list of examples. Not only is the millionaire business man, like the late P. D. Armour, wont to be an early riser, but even those embodiments of otherworldliness, the novelists, have been accustomed, from Scott's day to Mr. Crockett's, to do their best work before breakfast. A character otherwise wrecked is not considered utterly graceless if this one trait survives. The popular scale of values was correctly understood by the clergyman who, having to officiate at the funeral of a notoriously wicked citizen, followed up his biographical sketch of the deceased with the tribute: "Our dead friend had one noble virtue. He always got up early in the morning." This virtue, too, serves as a criterion in the judgment of nations as well as individuals. Many tests have been suggested, at one time and another, for estimating the comparative civilization and prosperity of different countries, — their consumption of soap, their expenditure on automobiles, their proportion of Ph. D.'s to the general population, etc. It has not

escaped the keen insight of the modern journalist that the future progress of the world may be predicted by looking at the clock. If one nation is in the street while another is still in bed, no resources of intelligence or wealth can save the second nation from going under. Not long ago read a sober article in which an elaborate proof of England's decadence was clinched by the crowning argument that Englishmen do not get up so early in the morning as Americans.

To disparage this revered quality must appear very much like running atilt at the wisdom of the ages. It is surprising that the very people who claim to be the most practical and the most independent of mere tradition are in this matter regulated by ancient convention. Strangely enough, it is precisely the up-to-date twentieth-century "hustler," eager for the reputation of no longer doing things in the old way, who is most ready to accept the rustiest maxims as his guide in the solution of new problems. When we begin to ask what advantage the early riser actually has over the late riser, the answer is not very prompt, and it usually shows a confusion between two cases that need to be kept carefully apart.

The first form of the problem is presented when the early and the late riser, though getting up at different times, work the same number of hours daily. This is how the matter stands as between the English and the American practice. The latitude of London is ten degrees north of that of New York, with the result of a far greater variation in the hour of sunrise throughout the year. The darkness of winter mornings in England is sufficient to explain why it is found desirable to begin the day's work rather later there than is usual here. But you cannot say that one bank, for instance, must needs be an effete and crumbling institution because it is open from ten to four, and that another must be a flourishing and vigorous concern because it is open from nine to three. It may be argued, of course, that the earlier the

hour the better the quality of the work. This applies, however, only when freedom from interruption and disturbance is an important consideration. One may certainly study to greater profit before the noises begin about the house. Yet this advantage would be destroyed, ex hypothesi, in proportion as early rising became a general practice, for in a house full of early risers the quiet of the dawn would disappear. And most people's work is, in the main, of such a kind that it can only be done when the rest of the world is awake. Even the business that is transacted through the telephone requires a man at the other end. Where, then, the total working day is of the same length, it cannot reasonably be alleged that the early riser is ipso facto more industrious than the late riser, or that early rising attains to the rank of a virtue.

There remains to be investigated a second situation, where the early riser has a longer working day than the late riser. This is the condition most commonly in mind in discussions of the subject. It is taken for granted that the longer period of activity implies proportionately greater diligence and greater results. Enthusiastic advocates of early rising sometimes talk as though an hour added to one's working day meant a distinct addition to one's total assets of energy. The belief that one may become stronger by getting up early is fostered by instances of the longevity of early risers. The fact should be stated the other way about; what happens is not that early risers live long, but that persons who live long have been early risers. If a physical constitution is so much sounder than the average that it takes its possessor to eighty or ninety, it is likely also to be able to stand the strain of an exceptional expenditure of energy day by day throughout life. It is absurd to suppose that there can be any physical benefit in the exercise of either body or mind beyond what is required for health. The early riser can have no greater resources to draw upon than the late riser.

Let us now watch what occurs in the case of an early riser who, starting with the same physical and mental equipment, attempts to gain upon a rival by working an hour longer daily. Assume, first, that in lengthening his day he tries to work at the same pressure as before. After a while he discovers that the continued effort tells both upon his own capacity and upon the efficiency of his work. In short, he runs up against the Law of Diminishing Returns, which, long familiar in agriculture, is now found to be a sovereign authority in other provinces also. This law is to-day so clearly recognized in education that research has collected many warning statistics as to the point of fatigue. An excellent illustration of its operation is given in the following extract from a young man's diary: "Got up at five to study; had a headache all day, must n't waste time like this again." An equally sensible conclusion was that of Archbishop Whately. Only once in his life, he said, had he risen early; and then he felt so conceited all the morning and so sleepy all the afternoon that he never repeated the experiment. The mischief of a programme which tempts a man to a greater output of energy than his constitution can afford is understood when the calculation deals with larger spaces of time. We all admit the necessity of the annual holiday. We agree with the lawyer who said that he could do a year's work in eleven months but not in twelve. We can appreciate, too, the value of a weekly rest-day. We need also to apply the same considerations on a smaller scale, when we shall discover that a too prolonged exercise of activity may be disastrous both to the worker and to his work.

But it is possible that, when the day. is lengthened, the pressure is not kept up 'to the same level. This happens in many instances where a man begins with a tremendous spurt, finds himself after a while in sight of a breakdown, and slackens to an easier pace. We have, therefore, now to examine the case of the man who, as a re

sult of earlier rising, works an hour a day longer than his rival, but accomplishes in his x1 hours no more than the other gets through in x. When this happens, early rising, so far from being a virtue, is obviously a vice. It promotes the demoralizing habit of dawdling, and makes it more and more difficult to concentrate the attention. It leads to a slovenly fashion of thinking and acting, and impairs one's capacity of doing quick, clean work. In this situation it is the early, not the late, riser who "loses" or "wastes" his time. He loses one full hour daily, which the late riser can devote to recreation or some other wholesome purpose. And it is to the early riser - the dawdler should be addressed the warnings by which the sages, from time immemorial, have endeavored to reform the sluggard.

that

But it is time to return to my text. The passage from Isaiah with which I headed this little homily is perhaps unfamiliar to many of my readers, and they will probably have looked it up in the Concordance. only to declare me guilty of the offense of garbling my quotations. "The words are actually in the Bible," they will say, "but they should not be torn away from their context." Very well: let us have the whole passage, for it aptly enforces my next point. "Woe unto them that rise up early in the morning, that they may follow strong drink." This denunciation emphasizes the fact that the moral quality of early rising is profoundly affected by its object. Early rising, at its utmost, is only a means to an end, and if the end is evil the use of the means must be blameworthy. This is so evident a truth that it can scarcely escape being called a truism, yet every eulogy of early rising, as in itself a proof of merit, overlooks it. A student of ethics might easily compile a list of variations of the prophetic “Woe," as adapted to the peculiar temptations of twentieth-century America, and his code would startle those who believe that the secret of an upright life lies in the regulation of the alarum-clock.

On the whole, then, early rising is a

practice that will not stand unbiased analysis. When it is adopted for the sake of some good end, its advantages are largely illusory, to say the least; and when it is an instrument in the hands of the evil-doer there is reflected upon it something of the immorality of the deed. Yet proverbial philosophy is not utterly to be contemned. The adage which declares eight hours' sleep to be the proper allowance for a fool is wholly commendable. That man must indeed be a fool who is content with eight when he can get nine.

HANDS ACROSS THE FENCE

No orthodox American reader, brought up in the fear of the English novel, can fail to possess a fine healthy set of secondary prejudices in favor of England and the English point of view. He does not quite forget Bunker Hill, and cocks his ear at any rumor of menace to the Monroe Doctrine. Moreover, he prefers wheat and cotton kings to the other kind, and thinks it quite as decent to guess as to fancy. But this is in his daily walk and conversation; he forgets it all when he enters the realm of English fiction. At once his mind contrives a shift of gear, his sympathies automatically adjust themselves to a new set of conditions, and the trick is done. He feels an amiable contempt for Dissent. His judgment is not surprised to find itself coinciding with that of the Lady Alicia, who refuses to let her daughter dance with John Brown because his grandfather was a tradesman. It is not possible to feel that much can be said for such a grandfather. Nor can one fail to sympathize with Lady Alicia's objection to an alliance between her daughter and Algernon, who is only the youngest son of the Earl of Brumleigh. As for Algernon, it is clear that his only course is to take orders, since he has not the figure for a red coat, and stutters too much for a parliamentary career. Moreover the Earl (who, everybody knows, has a record) owns the particu

larly valuable living of Brumleigh-cumCastor. The elder brother, to be sure, has disgraced the name by falling in love with the daughter of a Radical, and the Earl has been forced to forbid him the house. But the property is entailed and goes with the title, so that Algernon is no better off for this. He has our sympathy; but we readily agree that entail is a family bulwark which must be protected at any cost to the individual.

It is extraordinary that the brothers should have fared so ill, for we know that they had the best possible bringing up. The first ten years of their lives were spent, with their eight brothers and sisters (most of them fated to be younger children), in the edifying society of nurses, tutors, governesses, and grooms. Not infrequently the good Earl would meet them in the halls or about the stables, when he was inclined to pat them on the heads, to ask them how they got on with their Latin grammar and Euclid, and to end by giving them half-a-crown apiece, or promising them a new pony. As for their lady mother, she sometimes visited them in the schoolroom, when she would question the governess (but not more sharply than she deserved) upon the children's progress and deportment. Once Algernon even woke to find her bending over him, a glorious vision in lace and jewels, such as any boy might be proud to have for a mother. Their second decade was of course spent at public school and university. Young Lord Brumleigh fagged at Eton for the son of a mere baronet, which shows how democratic a place England really is. Algernon's select wineparties were famous at Oxford; the Earl always insisted on furnishing the wine from his own cellars.

How easily we have slipped into an arm's length sympathy with all this! I for one had come to believe in it devoutly, until our neighbors, the Burden-Smiths, brought the question to close quarters. It is a new experience for us to know an Englishman whose back yard is contiguous. His children and ours quarrel and make

up daily, so far as the fence, an indisputable boundary line, will permit. When there is a high wind, his clothes-reel is inclined to impinge upon ours, calling for the international hands-across-the-fence activity of a neat lady in a white cap, whom her mistress calls Hawkins, and our own plain Mary Ann. Mary Ann does not especially care for Hawkins. She thinks her absurdly stuck-up for one who evidently has no share in the family councils; and who reserves her nose for other than conversational purposes. Mary Ann has been with us for seven years, knows all our secrets, and discusses them with us. We can never forget how thoughtful she was when John was born, or her presence of mind when William fell into the water-tank: "Accoutred as she was, she plunged in." She is not precisely the mould of form. One is thankful if she wears any hair on her head; it has not seemed worth while to raise the issue of caps. But we prefer her to a Hawkins.

As for the Burden-Smiths themselves, we do not like their buttery way of speech, or their way of managing servants and children, or their too too affable manner toward the native, or their perambulator. In short, after a year of propinquity, the two families continue to live under two flags. We pay calls, but we do not commune. They think us improbable, and we think them impossible. And we owe them a specific grudge for having reduced a cherished abstraction to the concrete. They have alienated us from a society in which we had long borne a fancied part, exiled us from the land of Thackeray and George Eliot and Mrs. Humphry Ward. I foresee too clearly how we are going to be affected in the future by the disenchanted insularity of Lady Alicia and the Earl of Brumleigh.

OF MARKING BOOKS

Society is curiously organized. I may not force my friendship upon an acquaintance; yet, forsooth, I may without a qualm intrude myself in a far more seri