fulness does not count, because it is purely a matter of temperament; such men would smile over a wrecked universe. Against this easy-going, good-natured mood, which accepts "rings" and "bosses" in politics as necessary evils and will not fight them to the death as the deadly enemies of society; which sits content in a social order full of injustice because it is more comfortable to let things alone; which tolerates low standards, easy morals, cheap education, and vulgar manners, it is the bounden duty of all right minded men to protest, in season and out of season. This false optimism is, if possible, worse than pessimism, because it obliterates moral distinctions and cheapens the idea of God; and it is better to reject the idea of God than to vulgarize it. But this easy-going, good-natured acquiescence in things as they are must not for a moment be confounded with true optimism: the belief in a divine order being worked out in an imperfect world, in a divine salvation being wrought out in a sinful race. The true optimist is often at one with the pessimist in affirming that, at the moment, conditions could not be worse; but he instantly parts company with the pessimist by adding that there is a power in the world which can make them better, and a capacity in man to co-operate with that power.

Pessimism has its roots in atheism; its essence is disbelief in God and in man. It sees the disorder in the world, and doubts the existence of an eternal order; it sees the lawlessness in society, and questions the reign of law; it sees the confusion of society, and doubts the possibility of the higher unity. Its sorrow over the evil among men is easily changed to scorn, because it disbelieves in the possible purity of men; its pity changes into contempt, because it has no sympathy. The difficulty with pessimism is its blindness; it sees the immediate condition, but it does not see the possibilities of redemption. It recognizes the evil deed, but it has no insight into the depths of the human soul. It is without pity and without sympathy, and it is smitten, therefore, with permanent sterility; it can call attention to injustice and unrighteousness, but it can offer no remedies; it can bring sin ome to the conscience, but it has no power of redemption. If Christ had been a pessimist, the mighty power which has flowed from him to the ends of the earth would not have touched his nearest follower.

There is neither heart, help, nor hope in pessimism; it is, at the best and in its purest condition, a blind protest against wrong.

At the heart of all really constructive movements in society lie two qualities: sympathy and faith. Without these qualities it is possible to discourage men, but not to help them. Much moral force has been wasted in this country of late years because many of those who rightly revolted against the low standards of our public life made their protest in a cynical spirit; they sneered and scoffed where they ought to have rekindled hope and enthusiasm. George William Curtis was a noble example of that far-seeing optimism which, in boldly attacking present abuses and exposing evil and corrupt methods, reinspired hope in the integrity of the people and the possibility of political reformation. Mr. Curtis sympathized profoundly with his countrymen, and had an unshaken faith in them; his voice had, therefore, a note of confidence and cheer. Too many of those who stood with him in his fight against the rule of "machines" and that blind partisanship which is the worst enemy of parties have been willing to denounce, but have not been able to lead, because they had no faith; and without faith there is no leadership. They have been sterile critics instead of fruitful reformers. Society needs keen, sharp, courageous criticism; but it must be the criticism of the friend, not of the cynic. There is place for the pessimist in the arraignment of the world for its sins, but no place for him in its redemption. It is impossible to redeem a man unless one has faith in him. And it ought to be added that faith in God and in man is not only the beginning of happiness, but of sound judgment and practical wisdom and genuine human helpfulness.

The Spectator

The Spectator has been on a search for a dog-a small-sized and cheap one; and yet he has had more adventures than perhaps have come to others seeking a large and costly one. This particular attack of foxterrierism began three years ago, when the Spectator's daughter was seized with it and madly impeiled to the pound kept by the Prevention of Cruelty Society, where she exchanged three good dollars for one bad dog.

Two days later it ran away, and she gave thanks. Exit Ray.

Enter Billy. Billy was not bought-he was borrowed; a puppy whose most signal

characteristic was his ability in using any part

of his rotund and boneless body as a seat: tail-piece, rump, small of the back, or either fore-shoulder served Billy equally well as a part for sitting upon when he wished to repose himself. Well, we commended the young lady's sense of humor in things canine, and took this borrowed Billy up to the country with us, where for some weeks we conducted a reformatory in his behalf, and enjoyed the prospect of a conversion which never came. Billy went back to the city in the fall, bigger, handsomer, more fascinating, but wickeder than ever; and soon after his return to the colored janitor who said he owned him (but never would tell where he

got him), he disappeared very suddenly and mysteriously. Exit Billy.

Enter Pyxie. Ah, ye Nymphs that haunt the falling waters, and ye Naiads that dwell amid the dripping trees-weep for us, for Pyxie is no more! He came in the basket of a darky called "Dock," who drop ped in as a casual caller upon the janitor aforesaid. Helen heard a scrambling in the basket, and demanded to know its contents. Then out rolled Pyxie, a small, soft, silky, white puppy, with a black-and-tan face, and a black patch set awry upon his crupper. This invertebrate lump of little dog was valued at $10, but in the course of time we got him for $6; this saved us $4 for his expenses, which he needed before his saintly course on earth was closed. We paid $2 to have him authentically tagged as PyxieDanthera, that being the name of a little white flower that grows on graves and else where in the pine barrens; and then we devoted ourselves to circling about Pyxie with such devotion as the Siamese give to their white elephant. And never had elephant, white or black, a bigger heart than that little dog, yet small enough to steal into ours and fill a void whose existence we had not known before. And then, just when he was coming to the acme of his perfection, he was killed. Weep, Nymphs and Naiads, for Pyxie is no more-but none of ye can drip more tears than fell from our own bereaved eyes! Exit St. Pyxie. Alas! alas!

Enter-what? All this experience formed the whereas and preamble to our resolution to have another dog-a fox-terrier, of course-but difficulties lay in the way. It was early winter, the wrong season for dogs

beginning a knowledge of the world, and,

warned by Billy, we wished to conduct the early education of any pet ourselves. We insisted upon a well-bred and handsome dog of small size and elegance of shape, according to a certain model in our mind's eye; and we couldn't pay a big price. Consulting the janitor, he darkly hinted at the wisdom of interviewing a "lady frien'" of his (and his color) over in the heart of the "Tenderloin.” It was very stormy that evening, but we— the Spectator and his daughter aforesaidstarted out, only to find that we were wrong in respect to the address and poorly informed as to the name. Trying unsuccessfully to learn something in various places, we at last

inquired in a little barber-shop, where they seemed to know, but would reveal nothing until we had examined their own puppiestwo of the tiniest, quaintest little guinea-pigs ever seen. But we had an idea that the woman we were in search of had Pyxie's relatives, and so we said "No, thank you," to the barbers, got the woman's proper address at last, and found her in the basement of a tenement very shady in all senses of the word.

"I've

It was a well though oddly furnished and by no means neat room into which she led us, the decorations of which were almost exclusively framed membership certificates and silken badges of Grand Army posts, and the campaign portraits of Republican leaders from Lincoln down to General Tracy. been in politics nineteen years!" she exclaimed proudly, as she noted our eyes resting upon these evidences of it; and as she straightened up and began to speak of the late Tammany victory, I wanted to tell her that she could make money as a model to a painter for Rizpah or Deborah. When we said "dog," she opened the door, whistled, and in came a drove, barking and dancing like the stage entrance of a troop of performing poodles-dogs of every size and degree of hairiness; and among them was one terrier that looked as if it really were Pyxie grown to be a grandfather-the same rolling over on his back to have his stomach scratched, the same sanctimonious upturning of the eyes, the same cuddlesome ways. The tales

she told us about them! How this one came from the Lorillards, and that was own brother to one now cradled on silk and eiderdown in the palaces of the Vanderbilts, and another had been left as a pledge for board by an erratic "lady" lodger who valued him at $150, and so on. But most of all she lavished her praises-where they were most needed on twe funny little bat-eared curs, that we nearly had to buy offhand. But when we tried to get information as to the big, friendly fox-terrier whom we thought father or grandfather to our lamented Pyxie, volubility lessened; and at the mention of "Dock" it ceased altogether. So we came away without a dog, but in possession of a fine mystery.

This Dock was a sort of amateur veteri nary and dog-fancier, and the man who had brought us Pyxie. We found out where he lived over towards that lively part of the city called Hell's Kitchen. There was a little old-fashioned tenement filled with negro women who took in washin' and ironin'," Directed to go through a narrow tunnel beneath this house, the Spectator found in the

rear another, with a yard largely paved by

the surface of the original rock of Manhattan Island; and, through the kindness of a laughing old lady as black as tar, found his door. It was early in the evening, yet Dock was in bed, and kept the Spectator out until he dressed. Then we talked dog. The result was his bringing to us sundry puppies which we did not like; and week after week passed by without result, while gloom reigned in our dogless home.

Now, the Spectator and his family go frequently to a German restaurant down in East Fourth Street, well known to artists and writers and musicians; and there we told the tale of our dogs and doglessness into sympathetic ears. One day a waiter, grinning with memories of nimble nickels, appeared at our door, and, hat in hand, announced: "Herr Eckstein hat for you a-a-ein kleines hund. He say, Kommen sie to the store already." The Spectator understood him and went at once. Everybody seemed to know all about it. The proprietor's good frau had a broad smile even for her-and that is saying a great deal. Instantly a waiter ran off, and, while everybody at the tables smiled interest,

brought back a snowy wad of flesh and blood which some time might become a fox-terrier It was a free gift, and, amid the delight of the whole genial company, the Spectator tucked it under his overcoat and marched home. This was Kiyi.

We called him Kiyi because nothing else would do. He had the snowiest, silkiest coat anybody ever saw, marked only by a round black patch over one eye; and his hold. He had more dash and courage and white skin was as full of devilry as it would demonism than would suffice for three dogs, and shouts of laughter greeted him wherever he went, with that black eye forever acock to see what mischief he could do next. This was in the daytime and when he wasn't asleep. At night it was different, for then he declined to sleep at all, or more than a little, and spent his time fighting the wire netting of the cage and kiyi-ing to be let out. Unless somebody spent half the night, at intervals of an hour or two, romping with him, nobody could have any peace. wouldn't do at all, and after a week of utterly useless discipline we sent for Dock and gave him the irrepressible Kiyi to train into some sense of propriety. A week later we heard from Dock as follows, by postal card:

This

Dear Sir your Pupey is Geting a long Very nisley But he was the noises Pup i ever saw for too nights But i am Geting him Very nisley Broken of that. I have him nisley Brok to the Chain But he is the Bades Pupy i most ever saw in all kinds of mistuf-etc., etc.

We were rejoiced, and began to anticipate the joy of having so gay a playfellow, when two days later came another card, through all the quaint lines of which we read the sympathy of an honest lover of animals:

Dear Sir the Little Pupey Dide Late last night i Feel very sorrow it Dide i Just Begin to hav him Broken nisley to Be cleen and not to make any noise We all Got attach to him a Lady was going to make a nise Blanket for him to Day this cur Luck I will be Down to see you this Weeak Don get any Dog till you see me this Weeak.

Poor, bright little Kiyi! He had been let out of his box, and, wild with glee, picked up a piece of paper in his teeth and began racing round the room at top speed. Unable to see, or careless where he ran, his head struck a sharp corner, and the gay little dog dropped to the floor with the side of his skull crushed in. It did not seem possible that so light an animal could kill himself in such a way, but

so it happened, and the jolly spirit was quenched forever.

It seemed as though the fates were against us, and weeks of fruitless watching passed before the Spectator opened his door one day

to find the whole family smiling about a big, complacent black man and a small, imperturbabe white dog. This was Waggles. He fell sick and we nearly lost him, but we called in a doctor and now he is well, and some day shall have an essay all to himself.

A

July 14, 1898. S we marched out of the Presidio grounds the companies we left lined up and gave three cheers for each troop as it passed. To a man I believe they wished themselves in our places. Along the line of march the people gathered and cheered and waved flags and cried. There was not the demonstration that was shown when the California volunteers left, but then they were 'Frisco's own boys, and we were regulars. The fellows looked very businesslike. No flowers or decorations of any kind were allowed, and we marched in columnof-four and platoon formation, and rather smartly, we fancied. At the Pacific Mail dock we found Mr. and Mrs. F- to wish us good-by. We were on board and had our lunch by one o'clock. There was a mixture of emotions as we were introduced to our bunks. It was not as bad below decks as it might have been; in fact, it was pretty good, although rather crowded. The bunks are three deep, and measure five feet nine inches by twenty-three inches, and there is a twentythree-inch air-space over each bunk. There is an aisle between every two rows, so that every man can get in directly, without climbing over his neighbor. Most of the passageways are about two feet wide. We of E have the widest, being right in the middle of the ship, forward. The bunks themselves are comfortable, being fitted with woven-wire springs and straw-filled pillow and mattress. K

and I got two top-story bunks next each other and quite near an incandescent light, so that we can read and write-when the light is on. The civilians were ordered ashore at about three-thirty. The wharf was crowded with the friends of the men. Sweethearts, permanent and temporary, waved handkerchiefs and threw kisses and pushed and squeezed about in the excited crowd.

The boat pulled out from the wharf at about four. The men crowded on decks and rigging cheered the people crowding the dock, and the cheer was returned and exchanged back and forth until the Peru had swung out into the stream. About three hundred yards from the dock we came to anchor by our consort, the City of Puebla, and here we wait until to-morrow noon.

July 15.

The day is beautiful. All the morning tugs and rowboats and launches have been steaming around the two transports. The small boats are crowded with Red Cross ladies and friends of the soldiers, who bring fruit and flowers and pelt the men on the decks with oranges. The attention is uproariously appreciated, and Indian yells and cat-calls and all manner of cheers are given for the "ladies of the Red Cross." The Fifty-first Iowa band came out in one of the boats, and aroused great enthusiasm. The "Examiner" sent out a lot of free papers that brought the news of Santiago's surrender. There was hardly time to read the news, as the crowd kept pushing from side to side of the boat, struggling for a sight of the visiting boats or a stray orange. At one minute of four the anchor was raised, the whistles blew, and the bombs were discharged, and we were made to feel that, for the time being, we, the Fourth Expedition, were the center of interest. As we moved on through the Golden Gate the noise of the city died away and the ocean swell grew noticeable. Half an hour more and the mirth and joy of life were gone for most of us, and few. were the brethren that gathered at 5:30 for salt pork and coffee.

July 16.

The ship's company woke up feeling much better. The large majority of the men felt hungry, and though they were a trifle "shaky

on their pins," still they were so much better than last night that they looked with scorn on the weak ones who kept their berths. From all accounts this morning no one had been seasick. At least I have not found a man yet (with two exceptions, Jim, my next door neighbor, and myself) who will not stoutly affirm that he was not sick. And so I am forced to conclude that the long, sad line along the ship's side last evening, and the unhappy sounds that punctuated the night watches below, were all a bad dream. Breakfast was very much helped by some "malted milk" which was served out to the weakkneed brethren by the doctor's orders. It was very refreshing, and strengthened us to tackle the bacon and sugarless coffee. The boat is running easily, rolling and pitchingnot badly. The City of Puebla, our “concert," as they say, has been in sight all day. Orce we stopped for a few minutes and our sister transport forged ahead, only to drop respectfully in the rear when our engines started again. Towards six o'clock she was so near that we could hear the cheers of the men aboard her. The sea has treated our "not-coms (non-commissioned officers) unkindly. I asked our quartermaster sergeant, in all innocence of heart, if he had had his supper yet. "No, and I never want it," with a sigh. "Long Bill," my erstwhile tent-mate, has found a sure cure for seasickness. He says: "Just lie in your bunk and never go on deck and you'll be all right." We have passed one ship, a three-masted bark, with all sails set; she was making for 'Frisco. There was loud cheering from the Peru when she dipped her "Stars and Stripes." The gaming spirit has come back with the return of appetite, and at least two games have been running pretty steadily below decks. The remnants of pay that escaped the Frisco dives are changing bands, and will to a large extent find their way into a comparatively few pockets. It is well for the Regular that pay. day comes but once a month. We were paid last Thursday, and before night fully ten per cent. of the troops "went broke," and before we went on board ship on Thursday I think I am safe in saying that the majority of the men were penniless. The men, being sure of their "keep" for the next month, feel that they can throw away their money as they like.

Sunday, July 17.

The food question is much discussed by the men, and there is dissatisfaction with the

fare. The report is that the food is supplied by contract, and that some shrewd contractor is making a big "rake-off." As far as I can see, there are two causes for the dissatisfaction: one, the condition of the men-just recovering from seasickness; and the other, the poor way in which the food is prepared and served, and the wretched quality of the coffee. All the enlisted men on board-some nine hundred—are fed from a galley perhaps six by sixteen feet. In this little cage three very dirty colored cooks labor day and night, with the result that everybody gets something, if he wishes it, three times a day. The food is all served from the galley, and it takes over two hours for all the men to file past and get their "chuck." Men are detailed to help in serving and washing up. Our menu to-day has been coffee and hardtack at all three meals, boiled corned beef and potatoes for breakfast and dinner, and beef stew, commonly known as "slum," for supper. The food all tastes of the galley, and unless a man has a tremendous appetite or else eats as a religious duty, he is apt to go unfed. But I forget the illicit trade with the Steward & Co. After every officers' mess there is a jam of "pie-eaters" around the doors of the saloon and the main galley. Everybody, apparently, from the head steward to the Chinese cook, is willing at the right moment to hand out a bowl full of scraps or a piece of plum pudding or a hunk of bread and butter in return for a piece of silver. I don't know how far this trade is winked at by the officers, but it seems to me altogether bad, as it results in the men's being made still more dissatisfied with their regular fare. We have a delightful bustling little doctor whose fund of enthusiasm and talk and none but impracticable ideas is never failing. When he discovers something to do, he cackles and crows over it like a hen rejoicing at a new egg. To-day his eyes lighted on a bale of very sorry-looking cabbages that had lain by our bunks since we started and had grown unpleasant to smell. He ordered them thrown overboard at once, but on second thought asked to what troop they belonged, and had word sent to the commander that he must eat or destroy said cabbages before sundown. It ended by the crates being broken open and the cabbages eagerly eaten by the men. Another idea that filled the young doctor's head was of having the men eat below decks in the one aisle that was more than two feet wide. Upon this point he