as it is the last; isolated in space from the races that are governed by dynasties whose divine right grows out of human wrong, yet knit into the most absolute solidarity with mankind of all times and places by the one great thought he inherits as his national birthright; free to form and express his opinions on almost every subject, and assured that he will soon acquire the last franchise which men withhold from man,—­that of stating the laws of his spiritual being and the beliefs he accepts without hindrance except from clearer views of truth,—­he seems to want nothing for a large, wholesome, noble, beneficent life.  In fact, the chief danger is that he will think the whole planet is made for him, and forget that there are some possibilities left in the debris of the old-world civilization which deserve a certain respectful consideration at his hands.

The combing and clipping of this shaggy wild continent are in some measure done for him by those who have gone before.  Society has subdivided itself enough to have a place for every form of talent.  Thus, if a man show the least sign of ability as a sculptor or a painter, for instance, he finds the means of education and a demand for his services.  Even a man who knows nothing but science will be provided for, if he does not think it necessary to hang about his birthplace all his days,—­which is a most unAmerican weakness.  The apron-strings of an American mother are made of India-rubber.  Her boy belongs where he is wanted; and that young Marylander of ours spoke for all our young men, when he said that his home was wherever the stars and stripes blew over his head.

And that leads me to say a few words of this young gentleman, who made that audacious movement lately which I chronicled in my last record,—­jumping over the seats of I don’t know how many boarders to put himself in the place which the Little Gentleman’s absence had left vacant at the side of Iris.  When a young man is found habitually at the side of any one given young lady,—­when he lingers where she stays, and hastens when she leaves,—­when his eyes follow her as she moves and rest upon her when she is still,—­when he begins to grow a little timid, he who was so bold, and a little pensive, he who was so gay, whenever accident finds them alone,—­when he thinks very often of the given young lady, and names her very seldom,—­

What do you say about it, my charming young expert in that sweet science in which, perhaps, a long experience is not the first of qualifications?

—­But we don’t know anything about this young man, except that he is good-looking, and somewhat high-spirited, and strong-limbed, and has a generous style of nature,—­all very promising, but by no means proving that he is a proper lover for Iris, whose heart we turned inside out when we opened that sealed book of hers.