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environment as wholesome for all of us as our united efforts can make it? The new keeper of his brother is the man who looks to bettering his home town, not to giving his old coat to the beggar. At the Judgment Seat we may be asked, 'What did you do to improve your city government?' and not be allowed to introduce evidence as to our distribution of the scraps from our table. Our task is, not buttressing the weaknesses of our fellows with our strength, but organizing the energies of man to reconstruct his world.

The dream of our people is the coming in of true democracy. Dreaming does not bring the realization nearer. In the organization of human society the pronouncement, 'Let there be peace,' is of no value unless it is accompanied by some concrete suggestion as to how this desirable end may be attained. The philanthropist's contribution must be experimental work on happier methods of living together. There is no particular dignity or virtue in giving money to a soup-kitchen or in giving clothes to the children of the unemployed. But there is a tonic in working in one's home, one's business, and one's community to prevent unemployment.

The genius of the American people is never going to allow itself to be daunted by such a problem. A nation that could devise the traction plough, tame the wilderness, and build the Panama Canal has inventive ability enough to make continuous mutual service a possibility. Each man's work means every other man's additional comfort and leisure. The problem of uninterrupted employment is surely no more occult than the problems of organization and distribution that our great corporations have successfully wrestled with. But so long as we placate our intelligence and pacify our consciences by our philanthropies, we put off the

day of attack on the sources of poverty and distress.

The game of democracy cannot be played from the grand stand. The humanitarian finds it fatally easy to sit on the side-lines and criticize. He may be willing to sponge the combatants' faces and run no risk of getting dirt on his clothes, but to play the people's game, he must get into the ring and be willing to take knockout blows and still come back. The only place where the game can be played is within the organizations of our towns, our counties, our states, and our nation. And the only way it can be played is by citizens fighting together as fellow sufferers against the forces of corruption and destruction that lie in wait for us.

The social workers, the professionals of the philanthropic movement, are themselves becoming weary of their dependence on the uncertain generosity of the patrons of the poor. Many of them, especially the more thoughtful, have felt an inner skepticism as to the fundamental character of their work, even while they have developed a technique which they feel is their real contribution to the solution of the social riddle. The primary interest of the best of them is not so much that of keeping their own particular institutions alive, as of animating the community as a whole with the spirit they have developed, and transferring to the public agencies the methods worked out by years of experiment in private enterprises.

The community organizations deal with masses; and, as masses are simply the sum-total of individuals, the perfection of the result depends on the intelligence with which each dependent's difficulty is treated. To carry over into public work the professional ability, the intellectual enthusiasm, and the discriminating judgment that have characterized the activities of the

best social workers, is a responsibility of the philanthropists who pay their taxes but who have ceased giving to private charities. The passing of laws alone will never bring in the millennium; the establishment of public commissions to do the work the private groups are now doing is not enough. We must feel a responsibility, as individuals and as a nation, for the organ

izations we share in common. We can afford to give over into public control our private institutions for the service of our fellow men, if we continue to exercise the same energy that we have devoted to them in cultivating the social outlook of our public officers and in increasing the scientific and humanitarian character of our community institutions.



[From a packet of letters, written in the middle of the eighteenth century by Lady Fanny Armine to her cousin, Lady Desmond, in Ireland, I have strung together one of the strangest of true stories - the history of Maria Walpole, niece of the famous Horace Walpole and illegitimate daughter of his brother, Sir Edward Walpole. The letters are a pot-pourri of town and family gossip, and in gathering the references to Maria Walpole into coherence, I am compelled to omit much that is characteristic and interesting.]

July, 1757.

WHY, Kitty, my dear, what signifies your reproaches? I wish I may never be more guilty than I am this day. I laid out a part of your money in a made-up mantua and a petticoat of Rat de St. Maur, and for the hat, 't was the exact copy of the lovely Gunning's - Maria Coventry. And though I won't flatter you, child, by saying your bloom equals hers (for I can't tell what hers may be under the white lead she lays on so thick), yet I will say that will say that your Irish eyes may ambuscade to the full as well beneath it, though they won't shoot an earl flying, like hers, because you have captured your baronet already!


news, says you, of all the gay doings of the town.

And how is her Gunning Grace of Hamilton, you ask, and do the folk still climb on chairs at Court to stare at her? Vastly in beauty, child. She was in a suit of fine blue satin at the last Birthnight, sprigged all over with white, and the petticoat robings broidered in the manner of a trimming wove in the satin. A hoop of the richest damask, trimmed with gold and silver. These cost fourteen guineas a hoop, my dear. Who shall say the ladies of the present age don't understand refinements? Her Grace had diamonds plastered on wherever they would stick, and all the people of quality run mad

But 't is news you would have to have a stare at so much beauty, set

off with as much glare as Vauxhall on a fête night, and she as demure as a cat after chickens.

But 'tis always the way with these sudden-come-ups, they never have the easy carriage that comes from breeding, and 't is too much to expect she should be a topping courtier.

You must know Horry Walpole was there, in gray and silver brocade, as fine and finical a gentleman as ever, and most genteelly lean; and says I to him, 'What think you, Mr. Walpole, of our two coquet Irish beauties? Do they put out all the fire of our English charmers?'

So he drew himself up and took a pinch of rappee (can't you see him, Kitty, my girl?), and says he,

'Madam, to a lady that is herself all beauty and need envy none, I may say we have a beauty to be produced shortly to the town that will flutter all the world excepting only the lady I have the honor to address.'

And, Lord! the bow he made me, with his hat to his heart!

'La, man,' says I, 'who is she? But sure I know. 'Tis the Duchess of Queensbury reduced a good half in size and with a new complexion.'

But Horry shook his ambrosial curls. 'No, madam, 'pon honor! A little girl with the vivacity of sixteen and brown eyes, brown hair - in fact, a brown beauty.'

leigh's habit at the masquerade at Vauxhall t'other day! She was Iphigenia in a Greek undress, and says Horry,

'Sure, never was a more convenient thing - the victim is prepared for the priest to inspect the entrails without more ado.'

I thought we should have died laughing. 'Tis only a woman of breeding knows exactly where certainty should stop and imagination take its place.

But, Kitty child, who do you guess is the new beauty? I give you one, I give you two, I give you three! And if 't was three hundred, you'd be never the wiser. Why, Maria Walpole, you little blockhead! Maria, the daughter of Sir Edward Walpole, Horry's brother. What think you of that? But Sir Edward never was married, says you. True for you, Kitty, but don't you know the story? No, to be sure. There's no scandal in Ireland, for St. Patrick banished it along with the snakes and their poison, because the island that has so many misfortunes would have died of another.

Well, take your sampler like a good little girl and hearken to the history of the lovely Maria that's to blow out the Gunning candles. Let me present to your la'ship Sir Edward Walpole, brother to the Baron of Strawberry Hill. A flourish and a sliding bow and you know one another! Sir Edward,

And then it flashed on me and I who resembles not Horry in his love for

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purpose? Attend, Madam. The curtain rises!

"T is an old story: the virtuous prentice and the unvirtuous. There was one of them - Dorothy Clement, a rustic beauty, straw hat tied under the roguish chin, little tucked-up gown of flowered stuff, handkerchief crossed over the bosom, ruffled elbows. "T is so pretty a dress, that I protest I marvel women of quality don't use it! However, this demure damsel looked up at Sir Edward under the hat, and he peeped under the brim, and when he left the house and returned to his own, what should happen but the trembling beauty runs to him, one fine day, for protection, swearing her family and master have all cast her off because 't was noted the gentleman had an eye for a charming face.

Well, child, 't is known hermits do not marry. "T is too much to ask of their Holinesses. But he set a chair at the foot of his table for the damsel and bid her share his pulse and crusts; and so 't was done, and whether in town or country, the Hermitess kept him company till she died. Sure the Walpoles are not too fastidious in their women, excepting only Horry of Strawberry Hill, who has all the finicals of the others rolled up in his lean body.

Well, Kitty, there were four children: - a boy, nothing to the purpose, and Laura, Maria, and Charlotte. And the poor lasses, not having a rag of legitimacy to cover 'em, must needs fall back on good behavior and good looks. I saw Laura, a pretty girl, in the garden at Englefield some years since, when I was airing in Lady Pomfret's coach; and as we looked, the little hoyden Maria comes running up in muslin and blue ribbons, all health and youth and blooming cheeks and brown curls and eyes - a perfect Hebe. And 't is she the milliner's brat — that's to borrow the Car of Love and set the

world afire. But she can't be presented, Kitty; for our high and mighty Royals frown on vice, and not a single creature with the bar sinister can creep into court, however many may creep out. And that's that!

And now I end with compliments and curtsies to your la'ship, and the glad tidings that one of the virgin choir of Twickenham, those Muses to which Mr. Horace Walpole is Apollo, has writ an Ode so full of purling streams and warbling birds, that Apollo says he will provide a side-saddle for Pegasus, and no male shall ever bestride him again.

September, 1758.

O la, la, la! Was you ever at the Bath, child? Here am I just returned, where was great company, and all the wits and belles, and Miss Biddy Green, the great City fortune, run off with Harry Howe, and her father flourishing his gouty stick in the Pump Room and swearing a wicked aristocracy should have none of his honest guineas. But he'll soften when he sees her presented at court, with feathers stuck in her poll and all the city dames green with spite. "T is the way of the world.

But to business. The town is talking with hundred-woman power on the marriage that Laura, by courtesy called Walpole, the Hermit's eldest daughter, makes to-morrow. "T will astound you, Lady Desmond your Honor, as much as it did your humble servant. For Miss Laura honors the Church, no less, with her illegitimate hand, and no less a dignitary than a Canon of Windsor! Is not this to be a receiver of stolen goods? Does not his Reverence compound a felony in taking such a bride? What say you? "Tis Canon Keppel, brother to Lord Albemarle; and mark you, Kitty- the Honorable Mrs. Keppel has the right to be presented where Miss Laura might knock at the door in vain! We come up

in the world, child, but the Walpoles had always that secret.

'T will set the other charming daughters dreaming of bride cake. All the world talks of Maria, a shining beauty indeed. Horry Walpole is enchanted at Miss Laura's match-sure, an illegitimate Walpole, if niece to the Baron of Strawberry is worth a dozen of your Cavendishes and Somersets! I laughed like a rogue in my sleeve when says Horry to me at my drum,

'Colonel Yorke is to be married to one or both of the Miss Crasteyns, great city fortunes-nieces to the rich grocer. They have two hundred and sixty thousand pounds apiece. Nothing comes amiss to the digestion of that family a marchioness or a grocer.'

Says I, flirting my fan,

"Tis gross feeding, sure, Mr. Walpole. Now, had it been a royal illegitimate.'

He looked daggers, and took a pinch of snuff with an air. Never was a man with more family pride, though he affects to scorn it.

What think you of this latest news of Lady Coventry? The people are not yet weary of gazing upon the Gunning, and stared somewhat upon her last Sunday was se'night in the Park. Would you believe it, Kitty, that she complained to the King, and His Majesty, not to be outdone in wisdom, offers a guard for her ladyship's beauty. On this she ventures into the Park and, pretending fright, desires the assistance of the officer, who orders twelve sergeants to march abreast before her and a sergeant and twelve men behind her; and in this pomp did the silly little fool walk all the evening, with more mob about her than ever, her blockhead husband on one side and my Lord Pembroke on the other! I'm sure I can't tell you anything to better this, so good-night, dear sister, with all af fectionate esteem.

April, 1759.

Great news, your la'ship. I am but just returned from a royal progress to visit the Baron of Strawberry Hill. Strawberry was in prodigious beauty — flowers, cascades, and grottoes all displayed to advantage in a sunshine that equaled June. The company, her Gunning Grace of Hamilton, the Duchess of Richmond, and your humble servant.

Says Mr. Horace, leaning on his amber cane and surveying us as we sat in the shell on the terrace,

'Strawberry Hill is grown a perfect Paphos. "T is the land of beauties, and if Paris himself stood where I do, he could never adjudge the golden apple.'

He writ to George Montagu after, who showed the letter about town,

"There never was so pretty a sight as to see the three sitting. A thousand years hence, when I begin to grow old, if that can ever be, I shall talk of that event and tell the young people how much handsomer the women of my time were than they are now.'

There's a compliment like a freshplucked rose from the Lord of Strawberry. It reads pretty, don't it, child? Horry was in vast wit - 't was like the Northern Lights hurtling about us made us blink! The Duchess of Richmond pretending she could not recall her marriage-day, says Horry,—

'Record it thus, Madam. This day thousand years I was married!'

"T was not till a week later I discovered this to be a bon mot of Madame de Sévigné. His jewels are polished very fine, but 't is not always in the Strawberry mine they are dug. But to our news - What will your Honor pay me for a penn'orth?

'Tis of our beauty, Maria ahem! Walpole. The pretty angler has caught her fish a big fish, a gold fish, even a golden-hearted fish, for 't is Lord Waldegrave! A belted earl, a Knight of the Garter, no less, for the pretty milliner's

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