the earth in a thousand fruitful years, enriched the soil and covered it with verdure, so the life of God has passed into the life of man and shaped it to high uses and fertilized it with the germs of spiritual vitality and power. There are days, however, in the experience of every man when no sun shines and no light fals upon his path; the heavens are wrapped in cloud, and the earth seems to be pursuing a solitary course through a wide and unsunned waste. There are days when one lives by blind faith; when sight fails for lack of light, and a thick darkness wraps one about as in a starless night. Sometimes there come long periods of depression, when the spirit is driven back to the very sources of its faith, and holds on its course in sheer persistency of resolution. These are the times when a man must sail by dead reckoning, for there are ro great lights to guide and reassure him. There may be some natures so buoyant that for them the light of heaven is never veiled and the great truths never obscured, but to the vast majority of the most loyal and courageous there are appointed days and months when faith does not fail nor fidelity slacken nor work cease, but when there is no clear shining, no cloudless vision. The clouds that gather about the spirit rise out of a man's life as the clouds which cover the sky rise from the earth; but they are as dense and desolating for the time as if they were not mere masses of fog and mist upon which one could look down if he were at a great height. They often have their origin in physical conditions, but while they last they seem to be part of the permanent order of things. In such times one must learn to live without the aid of vision or the wide, clear outlock; one must learn to go on his course as resolutely and courageously as if all the stars were shining upon him. When one has seen a great view from the summit of a mountain, he does not question the existence of the landscape because, after he has descended into the valley, he no longer sees it. However circumscribed the world may be whi h folds him in, he knows that he has only to climb the mountain to see a greater world. That world does not change; it is his position which changes. In like manner, when a man has seen a great truth or passed through a great experience, he has had a final and conclusive demonstration; he does not need, and he ought not to ask for, daily confirmations. If the beautiful vision passes and the great reconciling outlook vanishes, let him seek for the fading of the light and the passing of the splendor in his own conditions; but let him doubt neither the light nor the splendor. It is appointed to all men to suffer the reaction of great experiences; for a man's spirit in its present estate cannot bear the strain of continued exaltation. It is significant that the saints and prophets have often met their greatest temptations while the glow of great disclosures of truth or character was still about them. A man is never in greater danger than when he returns abruptly to earth from the gate of heaven. The change is so immense that the spirit often faints under it. It must be remembered, moreover, that the most important work of life is not the discovery of truth, but the absorption of truth into one's nature and its permanent expression in character. One often learns more in one hour of vision than he can make his own in a year of living. The mountain summits are not our homes; they are too much exposed, and the air about them is too rare; they are for our occasional ascent; they show us the distant point to which we are traveling, but the path we are to take runs through the valleys or along the lower slopes. The summits give us outlooks, but the valleys shelter and feed us. The possession of great truths is not a matter of searching, but of living; and the long, dull days which often intervene between our visions are rich in the quiet assimilation of what we have seen and in quiet preparation for what we are to see. The greater part of the growth of some plants is accomplished before the blade sees the light. The man who attains clear self-knowledge comes to recognize his periods of depression and to treat them as if they were incidental and abnormal. Such a man cannot always escape the cloud, but he learns to distrust his judgment while it enfolds him. He knows that he is seeing surrounding objects through a distorting medium. He refuses to decide important questions while his view is obscured, and he waits for clear light before acting. When there is no shining of the sun, the ship sails as fast and as definitely on her course as if skies were blue over her. Conditions are not ours to arrange; neither is it our duty to conform to them. We are responsible for holding by the truth we know, without regard to our feelings; we are bound to make our port without regard to weather. In all seasons and moods we are to do our work with unflinching courage; we are to be loyal to the highest truth though our hearts are lead within us; we are to inspire and lead though we cannot see the way for the darkness. A man often does his noblest work in the deepest depression; he often speaks the greatest word which is given him out of the depths of something very like to despair. It is our part to sail courageously and unhesitatingly on in the blackest night or the dreariest day. The same power that made the sea made the weather. Concentration When a man has discovered the conditions which are necessary to his most complete development, he will, if he is wise and strong, resolutely preserve those conditions from all disturbing influences and claims. He will not hesitate to disappoint the early and eager expectation of his friends by devoting himself to practice while they are clamorous for work; he will take twenty years for preparation, if necessary, and cheerfully accept indifference and the pangs of being forgotten, if at the end of that time he can do a higher work in a better way. He who takes a long range must expect that his target will be invisible to those who happen to be taking note of him; he will need, therefore, to have a very clear perception of the end he is pursuing, and great persistence in its pursuit. The alertness and facility of the American temperament are very engaging and useful qualities, but they involve serious perils for those who are bent upon doing the best thing in the best way. The man who can turn his hand readily to many things is likely to do many things wel, but to do nothing with commanding force and skill. One may have a fund of energy which needs more than one field to give it adequate play; but he who hopes to achieve genuine distinction in any kind of production must give some particular work the first place in his interest and activity, and must pour his whole soul into the doing of that work. A man may enjoy many diversions by the way, but he must never forget the end of his journey. If he is wise, he will not haste; he will not miss the sights and sounds and pleasures which give variety to travel and bring rest to the traveler; but he will hold all these things subordinate to the accomplishment of his journey. He will rest for the sake of the strength it will give him; he will turn aside for the enjoyment of the view; he will linger in secret and silent places to take counsel with his own thoughts; but the staff and wallet will never be laid aside. There are no men so interesting as those who are quietly and steadfastly following some distant aim which is invisible to others. One recognizes them because they seem to be moving silently but surely onward. Skill, insight, and power steadily flow to them; and, apparently without effort, they climb step by step the steep acclivity where influence and fame abide. They are supremely interesting because, through absorption in their wo k, they are largely free from selfconsciousness, and because they bring with them the air and stir of growth and movement. They rarely obtrude their interests or pursuits upon others, but they give the impression of a definiteness of aim which cannot be obscured or blurred, and a concen tration of energy which steadily reacts in increase of power. They are not only the heroic workers of the world, but they also set in motion the deeper currents of thought and action; into the atmosphere of a sluggish age they infuse freshness and vitality; they do not drift with majorities, they determine their own courses, and sweep others into the wide circles of influence which issue from them. They are the leaders, organizers, energizing spirits of society; they do not copy, but create; they do not accept, but form, conditions; they mold life to their purpose, and stamp themselves on materials. To the making of genuine careers concentration is quite as essential as energy; to achieve the highest success, a man must not only be willing to pour out his vitality without stint or measure, but he must also be willing to give himself. For concentration is, at bottom, entire surrender of one's life to some definie erd. In order to focus all one's powers at a single point, there must be abandonment of a wide field of interest and pleasure. One would like to do many things and take into himself many kinds of knowledge, many forms of influence; but if one is to master an art, a craft, or a profession, one must be willing to leave many paths untrod, to build many walls and to lock many doors. When the boy has learned his lessons, he may roam the fields and float on the river at his own sweet will; but so long as he is at the desk, he must be deaf to the invitation of sky and woods. When a man has mastered his work, he may safely roam the world; but while he is an apprentice, let him be deaf and blind to all things that interrupt or divert or dissipate the energies. Mr. Gladstone's astonishing range of interests and occupations was made possible by his power of concentration. He gave himself completely to the work in hand; all his knowledge, energy, and ability were focused on that work, so that his whole personality was brought to a point of intense light and heat, as the rays of the sun are brought to a point in a burning-glass. When the power of concentration reaches this stage of development, it liberates a man from dependence upon times, places, and conditions; it makes privacy possible in crowds, and silence accessible in tumults of sound; it withdraws a man so completely from his surroundings that he secures complete isolation as readily as if the magic carpet of the 66 Arabian Nights" were under him to bear him on the instant into the solitude of lonely deserts or inaccessible mountains. More than this, it enables a man to work with the utmost rapidity, to complete his task in the shortest space of time, and to secure for himself, therefore, the widest margin of time for his own pleasure and recreation. The marked differences of working power among men are due chiefly to differences in the power of concentration. A retentive and accurate memory is conditioned upon close attention. If one gives entire attention to what is passing before him, he is not likely to forget it or to confuse persons or incidents. The book which one reads with eyes which are continually lifted from the page may furnish entertainment for the moment, but cannot enrich the reader, because it cannot be come part of his knowledge. Attention is the simplest form of concentration, and its value illustrates the supreme importance of that focusing of all the powers upon the thing in hand which may be called the sustained attention of the whole nature. Here, as everywnere in the field of man's life, there enters that element of sacrifice without which no real achievement is possible. To secure a great end one must be willing to pay a great price. The exact adjustment of achievement to sacrifice makes us aware, at every step, of the invisible spiritual order with which all men are in contact in every kind of endeavor. If the highest skill could be secured without long and painful effort, it would be wasted through ignorance of its value, or misused through lack of education; but a man rarely attains great skill without undergoing a discipline of self-denial and work which gives him steadiness, restraint, and a certain kind of character. The giving up of pleasures which are wholesome, the turning aside from fields which are inviting, the steady refusal of invitations and claims which one would be glad to accept or recognize, invest the power of concentration with moral quality, and throw a searching light on the nature of all genuine success. To do one thing well, a man must be willing to hold all other interests and activities subordinate; to attain the largest freedom, a man must first bear the cross of self-denial. The Spectator The Spectator, being of Quaker descent, was opposed to the war. His principles were so near breaking-the cracks were apparent to his friends-that he often trembled for them. A man's inherited principles need watching always; the root is in another's conscience. The habit of years was followed, and the Spectator made his usual stay at mountain and seashore. This brought him to Portsmouth, N. H., at his usual time. Instead of finding the dear old town in its usual quiet condition, with the tide of travel north and south hurrying through it, he found that the current was deflected, so to speak, toward Seavey's Island, then in the possession of the Spanish prisoners. Anything more unwarlike than this island can hardly be conceived. The ground rising gently to the center, with a pine wood on one side, trees here and there scattered in small groups all over the island, the blue waters of the harbor, the long stretch of land beyond jutting far out into the harbor, excursion boats with flags flying sailing up close to the island, soldierly figures passing leisurely to and fro-all added constantly to the holiday effect presented seven days in the week in the surroundings of the Spanish prisoners. Prisoners! Could it be possible that those men, laughing, chatting, lounging, greatly in terested by the people they interested, were prisoners! It seemed incredible. A high board fence, with a barbed-wire fence five feet outside of it, surrounded three sides of the stockade which limited the movements of the swarthy prisoners. Eleven long buildings of pine boards with tarred-paper roofs sheltered the sixteen hundred and more Spaniards. Far down on the slope stood the shed that formed their dining-hall. Several tables supporting boilers from which steam was escaping stood between the houses and the shelter under which were the rough board tables and benches. A bugle-call sounded, and echoed and reechoed over the d.stant hills. It was the call to dinner. A group of United States naval officers stood on a rise of ground in the center of the space commanding a complete view of the whole interior of the stockade. In double file the prisoners appeared, each man carrying a plate, and a cup holding about a quart. At the word of command they fell into line, passing each side of the tables on which was the food. Each man received two thick slices of bread, and, passing further along, his cup on this day-Friday-was filled with fish chowder. There was no stint as to quantity; plate as well as cup was, filled if the man so desired. The moment the Spectator wrote that word "man," he realized that he was giving a false impression. All were not men. Here and there were boys surely not more than fourteen, and many of them. There are mothers in Spain! The expression on every face was that of content: the expression one would find on the faces of many men for whom the glories of the picnic had faded; they did their part because there was nothing else to do. All active enjoyment having ended, they were looking outward for their pleasures, and were easily pleased. The Spectator found that the religious interests of the prisoners were cared for by their own priests. Two were captured with the prisoners, and accompanied them north. The empty cups carried by some of the men who came from the table were explained as cases of penance. Back they file to the house, crowding the windows commanding a view of the knoll on which the visitors stand. The Spectator jumped when he found leveled at him, through one of these windows, an opera glass. The sentinels march back and forth on the platform commanding the stockade-one almost wonders why, when he looks on this quiet scene, with groups cf laughing men gazing out at the crowds. The Spectator leaves the stockade, walking slowly up the hill. Suddenly he stops. hill. Suddenly he stops. Three hundred white tents in rows stretch down to the edge of the pine woods. Men in uniform are standing about. Here and there a man is lying on the grass reading. The open tents show many men writing. They are chaffing, joking each other, carrying on a running fire of talk with any who will talk, dropping into the proper position constantly for the procession of amateur photographers, who seem more completely in possession of the camp than the soldiers. These are the heroes of Guantanamo. The Spectator removes his hat. The Spectator knows why Spain was defeated. The tents are bathed in a golden light as the Spectator turns at the bend of the road to look behind him. War! What an antithesis! Two miles away is a village of fisher-folk. Houses are crowded on to the road, with flower-gardens throwing their blossoms into its very dust. Not a sound but of peace. Here a gate-latch clicks, and an old man, whose bent shoulders tell the story of years at the oar and the trolling-line, passes down the road. The Spectator finds himself, all unexpectedly, on the sea-wall. A lighthouse on his left, with a shell road leading to it, draws him onward. Now the Spectator will sit on those rocks and dream the afternoon away. Suddenly he is stopped by a sentry. He is at the entrance of old Fort Constitution, built A in the war of 1812. He gains entrance. clump of wooden buildings grouped just outside the portcullis are tumbling to pieces. The open door of one reveals the messhall of the one hundred and forty-two men, with their officers, of the United States Infantry. Inside the fort are the tents, in two circles-one row on the crumbling walls of the fort, one on the ground just at its feet. A group of soldiers close to the portcullis, in an embrasure, are gathered about a bicycle. High upon the wall an open tent shows a soldier sitting crosslegged on the ground, writing a letter on the top of a chest. One is reading aloud to a group. These men never left the country. They show their disappointment. Few visit them, and there are no enthusiasms. ! The Spectator found himself saying, "They also serve who only stand and wait." gushing forth. Sunday afternoon, eight miles from Portsmouth, the Spectator sat on the rocks with the spray dashing over him. A sapphire sea spread out before him, with the Isle of Shoals lying in the horizon, green and gray. Suddenly a line of smoke to the west attracted his attention. The City of Rome on her way to Portsmouth-the beginning of the end! The Spanish prisoners were going home. Monday morning, on the top of the lighthouse rocks, the fog-bell had just stopped ringing, the clockwork having been put in motion for the Spectator's education, when from behind the long, low neck of land a black speck was seen; it lengthened; the flag of smoke appeared: the City of Rome with the defeated foes on their way to Spain. The war was The Spectator uncovered. over. George Kennan's Story of the War' XIV.-Morro Castle and the Harbor Defenses N the course of the first week after I landed in Santiago, and before I was taken ill with fever, I made a number of interesting excursions to points in the vicinity of the harbor, for the purpose of ascertaining the real nature and strength of the Spanish fortifications and intrenchments. From the front of our army, after the battle of July 1-2, I had carefully examined, with a strong glass, the blockhouses and rifle-pits which defended the city on the land side; and from the bridge of the State of Texas, two weeks later, I 'had obtained a general idea of the appearance of Morro Castle and the batteries at the mouth of the harbor which pro.ected the city from an attack by water; but I was not satisfied with this distant and superficial inspection. External appearances are often deceptive; and forts or earthworks that look very formidable and threatening fr. m the front, and at a distance of half a mile, may prove to have little real strength when seen from the other side and at a distance of only a few yards. I wished, therefore, to get into these forts and batteries before any changes had been made in them, and before their guns had been removed or touched, so that I might see how strong they really were and how much damage had been done to them by the repeated bombardments to which they had been subjected. The first excursion that I made was to Morro Castle and the fortifications at the entrance to the harbor. It was my intention to start at 4 A.M., so as to reach the Castle 'Copyright, 1898, by The Outlook Company. before it should get uncomfortably hot; but as I had no alarm clock, and as no one in the Club ever thought of getting up before six, I very naturally overslept myself, and by the time I had dressed, eaten a hasty breakfast of oatmeal, hard bread, and tea, and filled my canteen with boiled water, it was after seven. The air ought to have been fresh and cool even then; but on the southeastern coast of Cuba the change from the damp chilliness of night to the torrid heat of the tropical day is very rapid, and, if there is no land breeze, the rays of the unclouded sun, even as early as seven o'clock in the morning, have a fierce, scorching intensity that is hardly less trying than the heat of roon. The only really cool part of the day is from four o'clock in the morning to six. I put a can of baked beans and a few crackers of hard bread into my haversack for lunch, threw the strap of my field-glass over my shoulder, took my canteen in my hand, and hurried down Gallo Street to the pier of the Juragua Iron Company, where I had engaged a colored Cuban fisherman to meet me with a sailboat at 4 A.M. He had been waiting for me, patiently or impatiently, more than three hours; but he merely looked at me reproachfully, and pointed to the sun, as if to say, "You agreed to be here at daybreak, and now see where the sun is." I laid my head down sidewise on the palm of my hand, shut my eyes, snored vociferously, and explained to him in Russian that I had overslept myself. I was gratiied to see that he understood my Russian perfectly. In communicating with Cubans and Spaniards I have always made it a practice to address, |