street. In the past year about 13,000 persons have emigrated to Canada under the Salvation Army's auspices, and in the year now opening the total will probably not fall short of 20,000 and may be considerably higher. "Colonel" D. C. Lamb, chief officer of the department, who presided, said he would concern himself not at all about the quantity but much about the quality of the people to be sent out. "Commissioner" Cadman, who last year took out three parties of 1,200 or 1,300 people each in the speciallychartered steamer Kensington, said that when folk decried emigration and cried "back to the land," he replied that that only meant "into the land on your back" for most people. Emigration was a good thing, if only for the change of climate and mingling of populations which it involved. Some complained that the people leaving for Canada were the cream of the country, but it was better to take away the cream than let it turn sour. If they took off the top they let the bottom come up. People talked "bosh" about these things. There were a few millions of people here more than in present circumstances the country could support; while God had plenty of land elsewhere for these people to live and prosper on. Systematized, Christianized, Salvationized emigration was something to thank God for-not the old way of picking people up and dumping them down where they did not know what to do. The Government officials in Canada were delighted with the samples the Salvation Army had sent out and wanted more. From the London Times.

The Great Men of France.-The Petit Parisien has taken a plébiscite on the pre-eminence of great Frenchmen of the last century. Fifteen millions of answers have been received, and the results have indicated the following preference:

1. Pasteur. 2. Victor Hugo. 3. Gambetta. 4. Napoleon. I. 5. Thiers. 6. Lazare Carnot. 7. Curie. 8. Dumas pére. 9. Dr. Roux. 10. Parmentier. II. Ampére. 12. Brazza. 13. Zola. 14. Lamartine. 15. Arago. 16. Sarah Bernhardt. 17. WaldeckRousseau. 18. MacMahon. 19. President Carnot. 20. Chevreul. 21. Chateaubriand. 22. de Lesseps. 23. Michelet. 24. Jacquard. 25. Jules Verne. 26. President Loubet. 27. Denfert-Rochereau.

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From Punch

There is no doubt, a correspondent points out, that the Lords are now really frightened, and, in support of his contention, he mentions how few of them are now to be seen walking about in their coronets and robes. They are skulking in mufti.

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We are sorry to have to record a grave set-back to Humour. President Roosevelt's order making Comic Spelling compulsory has been revoked.

Lord Turnour, the eldest son of the Earl of Winterton, upon arriving at New York, announced that he was not looking for an American heiress. At this, we understand, the long queue of heiresses outside his Lordship's hotel slowly broke up and went quietly home.

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I. The Cotswolds*

By Katharine Lee Bates

Professor of Literature in Wellesley College.

ATE in the afternoon we started out from Stratford for a peep at the Cotswolds, swelling downs that belong in the main to Oxfordshire, although, as our drive soon revealed to us. Warwickshire, Gloucestershire, Northamptonshire and even Worcestershire all come in for a share of these pastoral uplands. It is in the Cotswolds, not far from the estuary of the Severn, that the Thames rises and flows modestly through Oxfordshire, which lies wholly within its upper valley, to become the commerce-laden river that takes majestic course through the heart of London.

We were still in the Shakespeare country, for his restless feet must often have roved these breezy wilds, famous since ancient days for hunts and races. "I am glad to see you, good Master Slender," says genial Master Page. And young Master Slender, with his customary tact, replies: "How does your fallow greyhound, sir? I heard say he was outrun on Costol." Whereupon Master Page retorts a little stiffly: "It could not be judged, sir," and Slender chuckles: "You'll not

*This is the fourth of a series entitled "A Reading Journey in English Counties" which will appear in THE CHAUTAUQUAN from December to May. The journey begins with the Border and Lake Country and concludes with Cornwall at the southwestern extremity of England. The articles which have already appeared are "The Border" and "The Lake Country," December; "Lancashire, Cheshire, and Staffordshire," January; "Warwickshire," February.

confess; you'll not confess." Why could it not be judged? For one of the delights of the Cotswold hunt-so hunters say—is the clear view on this open tableland of the straining pack. Shakespeare knew well the "gallant chiding" of the hounds,-how, when they "spend their mouths,"

"Echo replies

As if another chase were in the skies."

Here he may have seen his death-pressed hare, ""poor Wat," try to baffle his pursuers and confuse the scent by running among the sheep and deer and along the banks "where earth-delving conies keep."

Still about our route clung, like a silver mist, Shakespeare traditions. In the now perished church of Luddington, two miles south of Stratford, the poet, it is said, married Anne Hathaway; but the same bridal is claimed for the venerable church of Temple Grafton, about a mile distant, and again for the neighboring church of Billesley. Long Marston, "Dancing Marston," believes its sporting-ground was in the mind of the prentice playwright, a little homesick yet in London, when he wrote:

"The Nine-Men's Morris is filled up with mud;
And the quaint mazes in the wanton green,
For lack of tread, are undistinguishable."

At Lower Quinton stands an old manor-house of whose library-such is the whisper that haunts its folios-Will Shakespeare was made free. A happy picture that—of an eager lad swinging across the fields and leaping stiles to enter into his paradise of books.

We were well into Gloucestershire before this, that tongue of Gloucestershire which runs up almost to Stratford-on-Avon, and were driving on in the soft twilight, now past the old-time Common Fields with their furlongs divided by long balks; now over rolling reaches crossed by low stone walls, of sheep-walk and water-meadow and wheat-land, with here and there a fir plantation or a hazel covert; now through a strange grey hamlet built of the native limestone.

Our road was gradually rising, and just before nightfall we came into Chipping Campden, most beautiful of the old Cotswold towns We had not dreamed that England held its like,—one long, wide, stately street, bordered by silent fronts of great stone houses, with here and there the green of mantling ivy, but mainly with only the rich and changeful coloring of the stone itself, grey in shadow, golden in the sun. Campden was for centuries a famous center of the wool trade; the Cotswolds served it as a broad grazing-ground whose flocks furnished wool for the skilful Flemish weavers ; its fourteenth century Woolstapler's Hall still stands; its open market-house, built in 1624 midway of the mile-long street, is one of its finest features; its best-remembered name

is that of William Grevel, described on his monumental brass (1401) as "Flower of the Wool-merchants of all England." He bequeathed a hundred marks toward the building of the magnificent church, which stood complete, as we see it now, in the early fifteenth century. Its glorious tower, tall and light, yet not too slender, battlemented, turreted, noble in all its proportions, is a Cotswold landmark. As we were feasting our eyes, after an evening stroll, upon the symmetries of that grand church, wonderfully impressive as it was, towering in the faint moonlight above a group of strange, pagoda-roofed buildings, its chimes rang out a series of sweet old tunes, all the more poignantly appealing in that the voices of those ancient bells were thin and tremulous, and now and then a note was missed.

The fascinations of this lonely old town held us the summer day long. We must needs explore the church interior, which has suffered at the hands of the restorer; yet its chancel brasses, wrought with figures of plump woolstaplers, their decorous and comely dames, and their kneeling children, reward close survey. I especially rejoiced in one complacent burgher, attended by three wimpled wives, and a long row of sons and daughters all of the same size. There is a curious chapel, too, where we came upon the second Viscount Campden, in marble shroud and coronet, ceremoniously handing, with a most cynical and unholy expression, his lady from the sepulchre. There was a ruined guildhall to see, and some ancient almshouses of distinguished beauty. As we looked, an old man came feebly forth and bowed his white head on the low enclosing wall in an attitude of grief or prayer. We learned later that one of the inmates had died that very hour. We went over the works of the new Guild of Handicraft, an attempt to realize, here in the freshness of the wolds, the ideals of Ruskin and Morris. We cast wistful eyes up at Dover's Hill, on whose level summit used to be held at Whitsuntide the merry Cotswold Games. "Heigh for Cotswold!" But it was the hottest day of the summer, and we contented ourselves with the phrase.