came out of the contest comparatively fresh, but forced to withdraw because of the severe strain across the loins which came from repeated 'pocketing' cleverly contrived in the shifting point of attack.

Butterworth's famous dive-play, which won the '93 game at Springfield, was another example of Yale complexity in a simple garb. George Stewart, who was then the Harvard tactician, came to me in the middle of the game and said, 'If you don't do another thing this afternoon, chase up and down the side-lines and get hold of what that play is.' I started. Within fifteen minutes he joined me. By that time I had unraveled the signal for the play and was able to tell Stewart in advance each time it was coming. We both dropped every other thought and 'plugged' for that play. Stewart thought he had it at last, but he was n't in sight of it. We never gave it up till the whistle blew. The play could n't be fathomed, though we studied it afterwards for days and weeks. looked so simple! For two years that play was the one thing I wanted to understand before I died. Then one day Camp and I were picking out some plays for school teams, and I said,

It

'Why not give them that Butterworth dive?' He said, 'Do you think they could play it?' I said, 'I could better express an opinion if I understood the play.' And then he showed it to me. It was Camp's adaptation in scrimmage form of my own principle of the previous year- the flying wedge; but it was twice as powerful, because his wedge was kept very sharp, and inside it was Butterworth, Yale's greatest hurdler. The play was practically built round the wonderful ability of Butterworth to hurdle.

We must bring our study of football to a close, for the limits of a magazine article do not permit of fuller elaboration, and into criticism or constructive suggestion this review does not seek to go. Enough has been presented to show, during the years we are considering, continuity and a definite system at Yale, with a lack in both method and continuity at Harvard.

I believe that Harvard at last realizes the true situation, and perhaps the next few years may see a foundation laid for something better than the old rule, 'Let any one tackle the tactics who cares to try.' May Fortune speed that day!

REFRESHMENTS

In the mind of the wide-eyed child traveler, refreshments by the way are the greatest delight of the journey, as well as the most frequent necessity. The dripping water-cooler in the end of the car is as alluring as a very fount of the naiads; and ambrosial are sandwiches from nice white boxes, bananas from the kind newsman, and chance cookies from a neighboring old lady's bag- these are in the foreground of delights, with flying woodlands, rumbling bridges, waving children on disappearing fences, prancing wild-tailed horses in running pastures, as a much less actual and enjoyable background. Later in child-life- and more luxurious in child-experience the ingenious surprises of the buffet-car and the bewildering abundance of the diningcar become the true objective points of the journey, and are as magical as if a genius should produce baked beans and ham sandwiches from the ring on his finger. No matter how brief the journey may be, it is in getting a drink and taking a bite that the little persons on half-fare find the real reason for traveling.

And with us older folk, too, refreshments by the way have their value, quite aside from the fact that they have sustained us provided, of course, that they are refreshments, and not just food and drink. Most valuable and most significant have they been to those of us who traveled before the dining-car was 'put on at Buffalo,' and who have rattled over remote tracks on which never tinkled ice-water and silver dollars. Not delicious, perhaps,

from a table-d'hôte standard were the sandwiches and doughnuts hurriedly drawn in through car-windows, the blueberry pie hastily consumed on a high stool, in the presence of a chatty maiden who made digestion more sure by watching your train for you. But oh, how delicious the meadows' sweet air that blew in with the sandwiches! How spicy the woodbine by the restaurant window! And how engaging the eyes of the lad who took your ten cents and told you, quite unmelodramatically, that mother had made the doughnuts, and then, if the engine's breathing continued difficult, pointed out the meeting-house spire over yonder, the road that led to a swimming-place, the inviting piazza of the American Eagle Hotel! And how delightful - how infinitely more delightful than the trickle of a Pullman wash-room the cold gush of a chance pump at some wayside station, where, before making a rush for a glass cake-cover, you dashed real water over your face and wrists! Perhaps a friendly dog nosed your boots, or a small girl offered you a short-stemmed handful of violets; and after the pie, you dropped, really refreshed, into your seat, and watched regretfully the little station and the hats of the platformloiterers slide behind your car-window, and, so far as you were concerned, back into the map. What matter if summer resort proved laborious, or city dull, or relatives and friends eccentric or bigoted or shallow or ignorant or narrow, or even badly dressed, if there had been such refreshments on the journey!

To those of us who have been quite unrefreshed by such primitive refresh

ments in our own country, traveling abroad has perhaps offered a food spiced with novelty, which would often equal, if not rival, the charm of castle or of cathedral. Perhaps to equal, if not to rival, what Baedeker stars, would be asking too much of wine or cheese or even omelette. But truly, œufs-auplat eaten under twittering cages of fauvettes, at a vine-hung junction between Paris and Geneva, make one ready for the ecstasy of Mont Blanc, and bees in the honey and purple on the grapes at Giessbach lift one's mood to the height of a first meeting with the Jungfrau.

The map of Europe, to certain of us who have wondered and been refreshed-sometimes with little but a rundreise in our pockets - is starred with such experiences: a basket of Westmoreland strawberries, and a brown and wrinkled smile from an old woman in the station at Penrith; a yellow bowl of milk, banded with blue, bought at a thatched cot on the high moors just over the Border, during a wait for the up-train from Durham; tea and scones and a Scotch song on the coach near Braemar, 'mang the bonny Highland heather; cherries and passion-flowers and the laughter of children on the Sorrento road! And yet, after all, not just eggs and bread and cherries and tea, those refreshments, so full of sweet humanness, of human nearness through the sudden rift in distance and strangeness! Truly, such refreshments are almost sacraments in the great religion of brotherly love!

And yet how many girdle the world, hungry, thirsty, unrefreshed except for the dining-car and the table-d'hôte! How many time their run, or buy their tickets, for dîner at the Schweizerhof! Fancy putting on full speed for déjeuner at Morlaix, when at the old milehouse in the valley of Landeveneck, which runs down to the sea, the hens are

cackling of omelettes ready to hop into Mère Gonvil's pan, and Mère Gonvil is ready to tell you, while you eat, of the six tall sons who go on the Iceland fishing, all save the three who have gone down in the gales! Or fancy taking the express for Inverness when, quite simply, by missing connections, you can sup over the peats in a Highland kitchen, off fresh eggs and toast and jam, with the bairns, big-eyed and still, watching you from the shadows, and outside, the pipes skirling softly at the door, and the moon rising over the heathery

moors.

Oh, that they live at all, anywhere, anyhow, those great rich ones that never are refreshed! They eat cresses, yet what know they really of brooks and skimming swallows! They dine off spring lamb and mint sauce and ducks from the wild sea-marshes, and they talk of stocks and bonds and clothes!

Rather would I send my spirit alone on excursions, leaving me to toss fagots. on my fire and darn my damask, than go myself in body a-traveling, so much eyes and ears that my spirit is left behind. One word with a peasant in his own speech is worth one of the old masters, and the plucking of an olive in a gray Tuscan orchard teaches a wisdom beyond books. And food is but food without the flash of spirit upon spirit.

O Hermes, when thou leadest the phantoms of men outworn down the dark ways past the streams of Oceanus, pause once in the land of dreams and give them a bunch of cress and a greeting, and so refresh them before they fare on to the Elysian fields!

AN OBJECTIONABLE OBJECTIVE

THE cases of overworked particles and adverbs presented by a July Contributor are sad indeed; but is any one

of them so depressing to contemplate as the latest English atrocity, 'linked up,' or the American crime, "visit with'? The former insinuates itself into such good company that the other day a highly fastidious English paper printed, 'Linked up one virtue and a thousand crimes,' as a quotation from Byron. 'Visited with' first adorned a 'Woman's Page,' one of those newspaper departments warranted (according to the regular advertisements, the annual prospectus, and the calendars showered upon subscribers) to cheer, hearten, brighten, ‘enthuse,' stimulate; and even to 'exert a human uplift'; and its vicious preposition made the phrase so conspicuous in the neighboring drab and dull conglomerate of words as to impress both the well-informed and the ignorant; and although the former shuddered, the latter scented something esoteric, and, being properly thrilled, longed to use the phrase on dear John or on the ladies of the .club.

'Visit with,' be it understood, is substituted for 'talk with' or 'talk to,' and has no essential connection with a visit. The Woman's Page, telling of a girl who sits beside her mother's work-table for five minutes chatting about family matters, says, 'Eleanor had a charming little visit with her mother'; if Mrs. Jones and Mrs. Smith, meeting on the summit of Mount Washington, exchange data as to their points and regions of personal refrigeration, and send an account of the incident to the Woman's Page, the editor records their 'mutual visit with one another' as 'an event of which the outcome will undoubtedly be seen in a renewed forthputting of society activity.' If Mrs. Brown, buying a postage stamp at suburban station X, inquire for the health of the postmaster's cat, the overworked editor of the suburban weekly paper remarks, 'We saw the postmaster most

hilariously visiting with Mrs. Brown the other morning, when we called at the post-office to empty our large but overflowing box. Mrs. Brown is always witty.'

On the other hand, it is hardly safe to use 'to visit' in its proper sense, lest one be suspected of chattering in a church or a library, or gossiping to a public school; and 'to visit with' is slowly displacing to talk, to speak, to converse, to chat, to discourse, even to caterwaul and to bark. "That's the colonel's dog visiting with our cat,' says the small boy, by way of accounting for a yell of sudden and portentous birth.

As to the case of Felicia Dorothea, the delightfully-named lady so dear in her time to romantic childhood, did she write 'but he' or 'but him' in that ballad of Casabianca which it pleases scoffers at ancient virtues to find absurd. The point in this case is by no means the same as in 'It is me,' preferred by a certain Harvard professor to the form of the King James Bible. ‘All but he' is the compound subject of the verb 'had fled,' its two pronouns being connected by the disjunctive conjunction 'but.'

In George Eliot's sentence, 'Not liberty, but duty, is the law of life'; in the schoolbook example, 'Not John but James went to Boston,' the most luckless victim of 'word-study,' his mind entirely 'uncramped by definitions,' cannot escape seeing that 'liberty' and 'duty' are similarly related to ‘is,' and that 'John' and 'James' are similarly related to 'went,' although his teacher may have thought it shame to teach the child such words as 'noun' and 'verb' and 'nominative.' The nouns have no incorrect form for him to use, the nominative and objective of English nouns being the same, but if he know of two forms of any word he instinctively avoids that which is correct, and as

naturally as he says, 'It is him,' 'You and me will go,' 'He said to you and I,' he thinks and reads, and says, 'All but him had fled.' Give him Tennyson and Browning and he may possibly read, 'Who but I' when he sees it on the page, but it is because the form so startles him that he cannot unconsciously neglect to follow the printed text. He has no prejudices in favor of the nominative, and very possibly, if he have heard of it, thinks that it has something to do with the city elections. But in the day of Felicia Dorothea, the nominative was perfectly real to all adults; and long after her day, indeed as late as 1870, children were freely exposed to nominatives, possessives, conjugations, comparisons, and similar insalubrities, and such is the elasticity of youth that no great consequent mortality is recorded.

But 'reading without tears,' and spelling without letters, and arithmetic without the painful toil of the multiplication table, and geography with so little left on the maps that a baby could reproduce them, and mathematical geography in which each child makes his definitions in his own way, were coming, and grammar fled; and now the public-school pupil's vocabulary contains no words in which he can be told why 'all but him' is not grammatical, and his mind has no strength to grasp reasoning based on parallel phrases. All that can be done is to tell him that Mrs. Hemans wrote 'all but he.'

The presumption is that she did so write, exactly as Moore wrote 'all but he departed' in 'The Light of Other Days,' but, no first edition being at hand, one is compelled to seek the testimony of anthologies and school text-books. Palgrave prints 'All but he'; so do Whipple and Fields in the Family Library of Poetry and Song, and so does Epes Sargent in his Stand

ard Reader, which was copyrighted in 1855, and he indexes the poem as unaltered. Against these three excellent authorities are Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, Bryant's Library of Poetry and Song, and Dr. Samuel Eliot's Poetry for Children, edited for use in the Boston schools, and an army of American 'Readers' and 'Speakers' all declaring that 'all but him had fled.' Who made the original error is of no consequence; evidently the American printer and proof-reader found no harm in it, and the stirring verses are made the vehicle of mischief.

'Up' is undeniably misused in a hundred annoying ways, but surely the people 'sat down to eat and rose up to play' in King James's days; and 'up' and 'down' historically record the point of origin and the direction of growth in so many cities that they are used in popular speech. The visitor, whether from another American city or from a foreign land, invariably finds these adverbs misapplied. He has an obsession that as the South is at the bottom of the map he should always go 'down' South, in a city; and if the northern quarter of the city, either because of comparative elevation, or because it was first settled, and became the business region, is 'down town,' he warmly remonstrates with the natives. Standing in Winter Street, the visitor to Boston will inquire whether he would better go up to the Old South or down to the New Old South first, and being advised to go 'down' to the old Old South and 'over' to the new Old South, he will cry ‘A plague on both your meeting-houses!' and announce that he is going across' to Trinity.

Particles are fiery, as Byron said. Meantime let the very largest stones be reserved for the man who steps 'onto' a car, and steps off on a ‘nearby' cat.