not devote myself to strangers.  The manner in which penniless young men become lawyers in the United States seems impossible in Australia.  Judge Lindsay, son of a ruined southern family, studied law and delivered newspapers in the morning, worked in a lawyer’s office through the day, and acted as janitor at night.  The course appears to be shorter, and probably less Latin and Greek were required in a western State than here.  But during the long vacation in summer, students go as waiters in big hotels at seaside or other health resorts, or take up some other seasonal trade.  All the Columbian guards at the Chicago Exhibition were students.  They kept order, they gave directions, they wheeled invalids in bath chairs, and they earned all that was needed, for their next winter’s course.  In the long high school holidays youths and maidens who are poor and ambitious work for money.  I have seen fairly well-paid professors who went back to the father’s farm and worked hard all harvest time—­and students always did so.  It appears easier in America to get a job for three months’ vacation than in England or Australia, and the most surprising thing about an American is his versatility.  Teaching is with most American men only a step to something better, so that almost all elementary and the far greater proportion of high school teaching is in the hands of women.  In Australia our male teachers have to spend so many years before they are fully equipped that they rarely leave the profession.  The only check on the supply is that the course is so long and laborious that the youth prefers an easy clerkship.  Women, in spite of the chance of marriage, enter the profession in the United States in greater numbers, and as the scale of salaries is by no means equal pay for equal work, except in New York, money is saved by employing women.  I think that it is the student of arts (that English title which is as vague and unmeaning as the Scottish one of humanities)—­student of ancient classical literature—­who, whether man or woman, has least perception of the modern spirit or sympathy with the sorrows of the world.  With all honour to the classical authors, there are two things in which they were deficient—­the spirit of broad humanity and the sense of humour.  All ancient literature is grave—­nay, sad.  It is also aristocratic for learning was the possession of the few.  While writing this narrative I came upon a notable thing done by Miss Crystal Eastman, a member of the New York Bar, and Secretary of the State Commission on Employers’ Liability.  It is difficult for us to understand how so many good things are blocked, not only in the Federal Government, but in the separate States, by the written constitutions.  In Great Britain the Constitution consists of unwritten principles embodied either in Parliamentary statutes or in the common law, and yields to any Act which Parliament may pass, and the judiciary can impose no veto on it.  This is one reason why England