I felt very stupid and humbled at the idea that in traveling to study people I gave them equal opportunity to study myself.

"I am an American," I said, while we both seated ourselves on the bench.

"And I am a European," he replied. "We are different in nationality, and, to all appearance, in fortune; yet we have much in common that lies deeper than all these differences which are only outward, and are to a man's character what his clothes are to his body. We are both men, and our motives and actions are based on our common human nature. Perhaps we both have come to this place for the same purpose."

I should have admired his philosophy had there not been something artful and ironical in his looks and voice. "I came here for mere curiosity," I said.

"And I came to quench my thirst. I see my mistake."

"We all are liable to mistakes, since we are human," I said, looking at his face to see what effect my wise remark had made upon him. But there was nothing but a half-suppressed smile.

Irritated at his lack of appreciation, I continued: "It was curiosity that brought me here, but it is not yet gratified, and I have a burning thirst for information regarding these strange sights around here. As you are the only person available, I hope you will not think me impertinent if I inquire of you."

"You met the right man,' he said, "and you shall have your thirst for information quenched as freely as I have quenched my thirst for water. But first I must appeal to your charity. Your need of information is not more pressing than my need of a pair of new shoes. I am a poor, destitute man—a child of misfortune."

"And what are your misfortunes," I asked.

"My first misfortune was in being born of poor parents. Another and equally sad misfortune befell me when they died before my training for a vocation was completed. They intended to make a priest of me, but after their death I had not sufficient funds to continue my studies, and now I am a poor creature,

unable to fit myself to any place, with too much Latin for a peasant and too little for a priest."

"Your condition is very sad, indeed," said I, much touched, and handed him a five franc piece. I looked again at his face, expecting it to shin with joy and gratitude. But there was the same ironical smile. Then he began fumbling in his coat-pocket, as if trying to grasp something from among a miscellany of things, and finally brought forth a shortstemed clay pipe, then the stub of a cigar, and he began fumbling again.

"Do you wish for a match?" I asked, and without waiting for an answer, handed him a few.

He grasped eagerly at them and said, "You are kind, sir; very kind."

His face was radiant now, perhaps from gratitude, or more likely from anticipation of the nicotian pleasure. Then he began:

"It was in the year 1449, as is written in the chronicle of Petite Rannes, when in the said place a man fell ill suddenly and died in a few hours, and his body turned black in blotches. On account of this circumstance, coupled with the circumstance of his having lived a very unholy life the villagers whispered of "Divine punishment for his sins." Next day two men died of the same malady and, as the legend says, they were those who first alluded to Divine punishment. Two weeks later all the inhabitants of Petite Rannes were dead, excepting Father Perdu, the village priest, upon whom devolved the task of digging many of the graves and interring the dead with his own hands, as no outsider could be had for love or money to enter the doomed village. From the fact that the priest was the only survivor, the people of the neighboring towns looked upon the Scourge as the judgment of God for the people's impiety, of which, of course, a priest could not be accused. A year later the village was torn down, excepting the chapel yonder, and this fountain. About twenty years later another village, which was given the same name, was built fifteen minutes farther down.

"Now, the people of old Petite Rannes have been dead for several centuries, but

the spirits of some are still haunting these surroundings. It is said that some spend part of their time in purgatory and part hovering about this fountain and the old church, sometimes appearing before belated travelers, and imploring them, with hollow, unearthly voice, for their prayers, which help towards lessening their pain and shortening their exile in purgatory. One spirit is recorded to have been seen at various times ever since the days of the plague. He appears as an old man, carrying a fieldstone on his shoulders. During his life he formed the habit of secretly moving the boundary stones between his field and that of his neighbors, thus stealing some of the latter's ground. When he first appeared his long robe was black, almost as the earth which he stole. As years passed it grew lighter and when he is seen now there is only one dark spot on his breast. When this last stain of sin is removed he may enter heaven. The most remarkable point about these apparitions is that they seldom speak until accosted. If not addressed, they continue to appear, night after night, until their request is known to the living.

"Some years ago, a mail-carrier who, in the discharge of his duty, passed here every night at a late hour, was surprised by a ghost. Upon being asked for his wishes, the ghost in pitiable tones implored him to have seven masses said for the peace of his soul, as he was suffering great torture in purgatory. The mailcarrier being a poor man, and masses at five francs apiece, was shocked at this strange petition, and sought to avoid the apparition and the obligation imposed on himself, by making his way home the following evening by a path through the open field. But disembodied souls have neither understanding nor pity for earthly trouble, and so this spirit in question. pursued the poor mail-carrier wherever he might be at that time of the night, until the masses were said."

"Have you ever seen any of these ghosts yourself?" I asked, desirous to get a ghost story first hand.

"I have never seen a ghost in my life," he answered, “and I am glad of it, for. my nerves are weak, and the sight of one

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would frighten me out of my wits. But one evening I saw something that cannot be explained by anything natural. One night I walked in the road here when, suddenly, such a brightness came from the windows of the old church yonder, as if a thousand candles were ablaze within."

"And did you investigate the matter?" "No," he said, "I took to my heels." "If I had been in your place I should have knocked at the door, or peered through the window," said I.

"A man never knows what he would, or what he would not do, until called to test," said my new acquaintance.

"Are you sure it was not a hallucination?" I asked.

"I can confirm by oath the truth of my words," he answered.

"I say nothing against your truthfulness, but you must admit there are conditions of mind in which our senses take the imprints of the imagination instead of perceiving the real things around. I have heard people older and wiser than I am say that we cannot always trust our own senses."

"But," he anwered, "if we cannot trust our own senses, what or in whom can we trust? I am a man of belief; I believe my senses, and I believe more; I believe in the supernatural, in spirits and in apparitions. Are not all our religious systems based on the supernatural, the Christian, the Hebrew, the Mohamme

dan? Is it easier to believe the miracles of two thousand years ago than the apparitions and other supernatural manifestations of the present day, attested by living and trustworthy persons?"

He stopped, as if waiting for my reply. But I said no more. Though convinced of the speciousness of his reasoning, I did not dare combat him in argument. I knew that I could not maintain my position. however sound, against his subtletv of thought and nower of expression. He also remained silent. I threw a side glance at him and my eves met the same artful. ironic look, which I now thought was the natural expression of his countenance in his calm mood. Presently I heard a sharp whistle from the road, whereupon he took another drink at the

fountain, relit his pipe, and after wishing me "Good day" walked away. When he had gone so far that I could no longer hear his steps I looked after him, but instead of one I saw two men walking toward the road.

Now that man who, perhaps, had left me with the satisfaction of having enlightened my opaque mind to a better understanding of the supernatural, had veiled my eyes with a darker gloom of mystery. And the most incomprehensible was he himself. He was more unreal and puzzling to me than the ghost with the dark spot on his breast. When I brought his sharp, penetrating look and ironic smile before my mind's eye, I hated him; when I recalled his handsome face and stately form, I admired him; and when I thought of his shabby dress and peculiar misfortune, I pitied him. At all events I was glad he had the price of a new pair of shoes in his pocket. But did he really believe the ghost stories himself? I thought, if he did he was certainly superstitious, if he did not he was devoid of honor and principle. Or did he purpose to frighten me like a boy, with the ghosts for his own amusement? This would have been no more than a frivolous joke, but a sad reflection on his estimate of my intelligence. The whole affair began to look disagreeable, and I resolved to cast it from my mind and go on to Petite Ran

nes.

Perhaps it was the idea of walking that made me conscious of fatigue. I looked at my watch and saw that it was more than an hour before sunset, and Petite Rannes only fifteen minutes distant. And what a delightful place of rest-the murmuring water, the lisping leaves, the chirping crickets, and I stretched myself on the seat and fell asleep.

Awakening, I felt the chill of night. It was dark. Only a gleam of faint light streaked the western horizon. The water was purling, but there was something wierd in its sound. Now a gust of wind rustled the leaves of the trees and the ivy that clambered along the back of the seat. I thought of ghosts. All objects seemed spectre-like. Only the chirping of the crickets inspired me with a sense of

reality. I looked toward the church and —a shudder ran through me-—there was a faint light visible. I started toward the road, but from there came a tall, white bearded man. He was clad in a long white robe and-O horror-on his shoulder he carried a stone, and on his breast was a dark spot. Soon he stood before me. He said nothing, and I was too frightened to speak. Then the man's words that ghosts must be addressed first, came to my mind, and I asked, "What do you wish of me?"

"Follow me," he said with a hollow voice.

As he stepped past me I followed, feeling that an attempt to run away would bring an awful consequence. He led the way toward the church and, strange to say, all fear vanished from my mind and I followed him with the attachment of a pet lamb to his little mistress. I felt myself in another world, and becoming part of it. As we approached the church the light in the windows had a fascinating attraction for me, and I walked almost in advance of my leader. The door was wide open and a beam of light fell into the wood. As we stepped inside, the door closed itself behind us. All the candles on both altars were ablaze; yet, despite the brightness, all objects were indistinct and seemed to flare into one another. The great saint who looked so hideous by daylight was beautiful now, and had a halo around his head. The ghost walked to the high altar, knelt down at its foot and crossed himself three times, while he murmured Latin prayers which seemed to be a most humble supplication to the Deity from one even lower in his sight than mortals. At length he rose and beckoned for me to come near. When I stood before him he raised his eyes heavenward, and said with a voice deep and grave, "My prayer has been heard by the ruler of heaven and earth and purgatory, seven masses will bring me to paradise. Wilt thou help?" I thrust my hand into my pocket. in which were two purses, one containing gold, the other silver. Indiscriminately I took one to hand it over to him; but he made an averting motion with his head, and pointed to the contri

bution box which was near the altar. I placed the purse on its cover and the ghost said solemnly: "Now go in peace, my son, and God be with thee." I walked out of the church thinking only of obeying his command. From the road I looked back. The church was dark, but before me gleamed the lights of Petite Rannes.

The following afternoon I woke from a heavy sleep at the village inn. I had not slept a wink the previous night, and my slumber had begun in the morning. I felt miserable, but my misery was mitigated by the consolation that I had given only the purse with the silver. I hastily dressed, breakfasted and went down to the bar-room to raise my sunken spirits

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with a glass of brandy. Before the bar stood my friend of the ghost stories, but he had reached a state of intoxication which made it impossible for him to recognize me.

"I tell you lad," he said to a man with a most brutish countenance, "I tell you that American was the softest fellow I ever fleeced, he had no more sense than a chicken."

"You must have exercised your hypnotizing powers over him," said the other.

"Whatever you are pleased to call it; but it was a success."

I left the bar-room without a drink. Two weeks later I was on the Atlantic on my way to New York.

T

HE American college is a great institution. It is the Mecca alike for the ambitious student, and for the aspiring athlete. To attain highest honors in mathematics or on the football field, is ample reward for years of arduous toil. In these days, to undervalue a college education is the mark of a hardheaded worshipper at the shrine of commercial interests, or of an unmerciful and unsympathetic iconoclast. From an educational standpoint, the present writer can lay claim to neither of these titles. Yielding to none in love for his own alma mater, and recognizing the many valuable features of our other colleges, he would tear down nothing but the rotting rafters of conservatism, which demand replacement by better timber.

For years our colleges have been the subject of much just criticism. Unbounded praise has been blended on the immense industry, visible in the educational centers, and yet something has seemed ever to be lacking. Many of their graduates come forth to take high rank in the world of action-but many

more, and these often the most promising, prove mere flotsam and jetsam on the stream of life. Somehow the generation feels itself cheated, tricked out of that which it had a right to expect. And the unsentimental business man reflects sarcastically on the "lack of practical training" that our colleges afford. It is an awkward fact that the college graduate, once thrown on his own resources, finds it an enormously difficult task to earn a good living. Why not tell the secret plainly? It has been whispered about for many days.

Wherein does the trouble lie? The answers received are of the most diverse kind. A favorite theory with some palacophobists (if I may coin a term), is that all the mischief lies in the ancient languages. Banish Latin and Greek from the curriculum, teach the youthful seeker for wisdom to despise the past and ignore his debt to it, and you render him in some mysterious way amply qualified to solve the deepest problem of practical life. Others declare that the fault lies wholly with the preparatory schools, and

business man would slash away ninetenths of the courses given, and set every man in the college at work keeping books and learning the routine of commercial life.

The great trouble with all these criticisms and suggestions is that they do not touch the heart of the matter. We have no cause to complain that our students do not learn enough, nor even that they do not learn the right things. The evil hes deeper, far deeper, and is not to be cured by any mere changes in the curriculum. Furthermore, is is an evil which is likewise manifest in the public schools and which sorely afflicts the entire generation. It is an evil strongly encouraged by the most of the leading institutions of the day, and in the diverse spheres of education, economics, social intercourse, politics, ethics and religion. Traces of exemption from the curse are manifested in the kindergarten, but in few other corners of society. Let us speak right out, and tell the plain truth-that our colleges bow to the conventional thought of the day. They teach facts and theories in abundance, but they do not train men to think for themselves. The one thing needful is the one thing neglected.

The full force of the indictment is not manifest to the casual observer. It will even meet with over-hasty denial on the part of those who form their judgments from surface indications. An unpalatable truth is ever hard to inculcate. When Wendell Phillips, splendid exception to the general rule, smote the bulwark of college conservatism in his great Phi Beta Kappa oration, he addressed an audience capable of according him courteous and liberal treatment, but wholly unable to enter into his realm of thought. The selfishness of academic culture is the most impenetrable armor against new truth. There is more genu

ine apprehension of the nature of social progress in one of the much berated trades unions of the present day than in the average college class in political economy. The better educated man fails to be the more broad-minded. It is a pitable confession, but it is a true one.

One must not underestimate that which our colleges actually accomplish. All knowledge is helpful, in a greater or less degree. Our colleges facilitate the acquisition of knowledge and inspire the longing for more full attainment. By virtue of necessary association with other earnest minds, they develop a certain. measure of kindly toleration, and a large degree of external politeness. A sense of honor, frequently increasing, soon springs up in such congenial soil. A student may be idle, dissipated, licentious, selfish, dishonest, or cruel, but he scorns to be a sneak. This is meritorious, as far as it goes, but it is little more than the crude beginning of ethics. The same conception of honor is found the world over, wherever the rudimentary notion of decency has entered the human mind. The expression may vary widely. enough, but the principle is the same. Our colleges are utterly unfit to claim the leadership in ethical life. The lawless freaks, so readily condoned as the work of students, would even seem to show a public acceptance of the view that college ethics must be classed as below the ethics of the average citizen. The most substantial acquisition which the average student carries away from college with him are a mass of partlydigested facts from the class-room, and an external polish, which makes him a somewhat more agreeable member of society.

On the other hand, too, little attention has hitherto been paid to the positively injurious results of collegiate training, the cultivation of arrogance on the one hand and the conventionality on the other. Our colleges can, unfortunately, not to be acquited of the tendency to create an intellectual aristocracy. The apparent raison d'etre of such a caste principle of course removes it from the wretched folly of an aristocracy of lineage and from the higher banality of an arisistocracy of money. None the less, it is