little revolution. It concerned the introduction of compulsory vaccination, which the credulous populace regarded as a kind of poisoning. People assaulted the police, destroyed the street cars and electric lines, and threw up barricades throughout the city. Even in the military school revolution broke out. But the President, retaining his presence of mind, fortified his palace and sent what troops he had against the rioters. After the leaders of the uprising a general and a colonel- had fallen in the street fighting, it was easy enough for him to restore order. When a week had passed, it was possible to go ahead with the vaccination.

In former days, Rio was always being swept by revolution and military revolts, which frequently smacked strongly of comic opera. If one party got control of the army and the customs, then the other would secure control of the islands and the forts in the bay, and of the fleet. The fighting was perfectly fair, though carried on with such a degree of fanaticism that the combatants stopped firing whenever a neutral steamer signaled through violent toots of her whistle her desire to enter the harbor. On the waterfront promenade, where one party's artillery was in position, the 'neutral citizens' could walk in peace and comfort in order to see how the revolution was getting on. At the price of ten milreis one could secure the privilege of firing a cannon at the revolutionists, and for twenty-six milreis one could have the privilege of firing at one of the little islands where some particular enemy lived whom the firer wanted to give an unpleasant reminder. It was all very idyllic.

In the year 1910 an occurrence took place that threw the populace into a paroxysm of terror. The crews of two big dreadnoughts that had just been brought back from England mutinied,

because of certain provisions for punishment in naval law. They struck down their officers and turned the guns on the city. A mulatto sailor, João Candido, made himself admiral, and threatened to hammer the whole city of Rio into dust. In the city not a single measure was taken to reduce these mutinous sailors to obedience. For four long days the city trembled, and then the National Assembly decided to make the punishments lighter and to declare an amnesty for the mutineers. However, the first thing that was done when the sailors came on shore was to take their leaders in custody, and the story goes that most of them vanished into captivity on Governador Island without leaving a trace.

There are none too many scruples in Brazil when it is a question of putting agitators out of the way. When, not long ago, Bolshevism began to show its head in Brazil, the whole group of agitators was dispatched to the inner districts of Northern Brazil, where the heat is intolerable and fever rages. When protest was raised against the treatment of these people, the protesters were invited to go themselves and see conditions with their own eyes. They went, to be sure, but it was noticeable that they stayed there. Since that time nothing has been heard of Bolshevism in Brazil.

A citizen of Brazil is seriously offended if a stranger betrays his ignorance of the fact that Brazil contributed to winning the World War. The Germans who have settled in the country maintain, however, that the only military activities of the Brazilians were target practice and the regulation of the German restaurants and business houses in Rio, or measures against the German colonists. In many cases the latter were driven out of house and home without consideration, and deprived of all they owned. Sometimes

this summary action carried its own revenge with it in a fashion that was not anticipated. Thus, in the idyllic little town of Petropolis, which lies far up in the mountains and is several hours by railway from other towns, the only regular baker, being a German, was driven out. The result was that the people had to put up with bad bread.

The Brazilians insist that the Germans themselves were to blame for the ill treatment they received. In the first days of the war flag-bedecked busts of the Kaiser and Hindenburg were displayed in the German quarters, and at every German success rockets were sent up, the victory was celebrated, and Deutschland, Deutschland über alles was sung. This went on until the first Brazilian steamer was torpedoed, and the tempest broke loose.

Through the war Brazil came into possession of a considerable merchantfleet consisting of surrendered German vessels. The Brazilians, however, are by no means remarkable as sailors. In the harbor of Rio we passed a former German freighter, flying the Brazilian flag, that had been three quarters of a year on the voyage from Cádiz with salt. With malicious satisfaction the Germans explained that the Brazilian crew sailed only with a favoring wind.

In spite of war, however, the hatred of Germany is not very strong, and there is an endeavor to resume business relations. This process has been aided by the way in which the Americans used the situation. The Brazilians constantly say that the country would have had to bleed countless millions in order to pay the exorbitant and increased price of goods imposed by the United States, in spite of all agreements and contracts, when it found itself selling its manufactures without competition.

are as

Experienced dwellers in Brazil who have spent a number of years in the country, and have had opportunity also to become acquainted with other corners of our globe, have compared Brazil with Russia as it was before the war, both in its good and in its bad qualities. Although the two countries so far as geographical position and national stocks are concerned · different as day and night, here in Brazil we find the same incredible natural resources and possibilities and the same incapacity of the people to turn them to good use; the same immense contrast between the riches and luxury of the highest classes, and the poverty of the lowest; the same innate love of country; the same pride in it, coupled with an exploitation of the state that is quite without limit.

While Russia lies sunk in hopeless chaos, however, development in Brazil goes forward with swift strides. In 1922 all countries were invited to partake in an exposition and celebration at Rio in memory of the centennial of Brazilian independence, and this event was celebrated in such dazzling fashion that the fame of the beautiful country of Brazil, with its rich future possibilities, was spread far and wide.

When a man has somewhat recovered from the first varied and overpowering impressions, he soon reaches the point where nothing in Rio can surprise him; he gives up trying to classify or understand what he sees, but takes it unclassified in his big chest of traveling impressions on the top of which the label, 'Rio de Janeiro,' is written, and in which variegated and beautiful memories are enclosed.

I shall always remember the Mercado in Rio, the magnificent market-hall where all the strange fruits and curious animals of Brazil are for sale, ranging all the way from armadillos, young leopards, poisonous serpents (very

much alive), tiger cats, and humming birds, to mangoes, bananas, and all the other products of the land, of whose name and mere existence I previously did not know. In the first cool hours of the morning, industrious activity reigns here if by chance the fishermen put in with great heaps of strange fish from the sea, which lie in the gleaming sunbeams glittering with all the colors of the rainbow, as if brought hither by magic from some far world of fairyland. I shall think, in time to come, of the banana merchants balancing their heavy-laden baskets on their heads, where for fifty reis a man can get big, fresh, fragrant fruit. I shall think, too, of the donkey-drivers who drive their animals down from the interior laden with heavy loads of bananas, and sell them for one or two milreis. Only a few miles from Rio, millions of these excellent fruits are hanging from the trees

and rotting because there is no one to pick them.

But, as I have said before, this is a land where one ceases to wonder at anything. One does not even feel any amazement that Rio alone, together with its nearest suburb, has almost five hundred kilometres of asphalt streets, of which the greater part are automobile roads or pleasure drives which lead through the most beautiful parts of the surrounding country, while in the interior of the land territory worth millions lies uncultivated because there are no commercial roads or railways. One day I went into a big store to see whether I might chance on a collection of poetry, in the study of which a Brazilian lady was helping me, and there I made the discovery that this people possesses a rich store of lyrics -- even though an overwhelming proportion of the nation can neither read nor write.

How enthusiastic the natural man is over museums and art galleries! Something in me responds as I read in a leading article in the Times that 'there is no reason why almost any Londoner should not, if the museums and galleries were always open for nothing, be able to constitute himself a connoisseur of beauty.' Not for me, I know, to con

stitute myself a connoisseur of beauty after this fashion; but even I, who seldom enter a museum or art gallery except during a visit to a foreign town, have dreamed of spending long days in public buildings, from the walls of which the world's genius looked down on me, a trembling initiate, or in which the world's knowledge was preserved

in glass cases to be passed on to me as an almost private possession.

Before I came to London I thought of it chiefly as a city of theatres, concert halls, and museums and galleries of the arts. I imagined that any sane Londoner, outside his working hours, would be either listening to music or looking at pictures on such occasions as he was not reading a book or seeing a play.

It is odd what a hunger for the arts one had at that age, as though perpetually hoping to discover in a book or a picture the keys of Heaven. The very names of certain authors and artists made one vibrate with a sense of impending revelation, even if one had never read or seen a line of their work. I remember my excitement on first hearing the name of Walter Savage Landor, and how I went out with the first shillings I had and bought his verse in the Canterbury Poets and his prose in the Camelot Classics and all but persuaded myself for months, though with more and more difficulty, that here were the keys, or were going to be the keys, at last.

Then

Then there was Schubert. there was Wagner. One went to one's first Wagner opera in the sure and certain hope that a new door would be opened, and lo! doors vaster even than one had dreamed swung wide on their hinges. Those were days in which it was possible to go to the opera twice in a day and not feel weary — to sit through Mignon in the afternoon and to go to Lohengrin in the evening. If London seemed desirable then it was chiefly as a city in which the opera lasted, not for a week only, but for a

season.

Had it been foretold me that a time would come when The Ring would be produced in London and when I, though a Londoner by settlement, would remain away from it, not merely

with cheerfulness, but almost with a feeling of relief, I should have laughed at the falsehood. But The Ring has been produced in London more than once since then, and I have not heard it yet. I doubt if I shall ever hear it. I no longer expect to find the keys just there. I do not even buy Wagner rolls for the piano-player. Yet I would once have sworn that Wagner was greater than St. Paul or Robert Louis Steven

son.

As for the museums and picture galleries, how great was their lure three hundred miles away! The picture galleries, perhaps, were less exciting in prospect than the concert rooms, and the British Museum than the picture galleries. But, as at least half of my friends were painters, I had an ardent enough faith in Turner and Rembrandt and Velasquez to believe that they were the possessors of the keys if I could but find them. I had always felt a foreigner and an ignoramus in the presence of pictures, enjoying them rather as one enjoys a strange town in which a language is being spoken around one that one does not understand, but I had no doubt that I had only to become familiar with them in order to be as powerfully affected by them as I was by music.

The British Museum, too, would disclose to me the secrets of Greece, where there was beauty not only in the faces of men and women but in their words nay, which is most difficult of all, in their very actions. More than this, the reading-room was there to convert me into a scholar, if I wished, with shelves of learning that Faust might have envied.

To go to London, indeed, was to go on a pilgrimage to a city which was a vast storehouse of beauty and wisdom that were to be had almost for the asking. It may seem all the more unaccountable that, on arriving in London,

a lonely loafer in a lonely attic in Pimlico, I immediately went out and bought a map of the town and spent my first evening in a seat in the gallery of the old Gaiety Theatre. Had you been as deeply in love with Miss Marie Studholme as I had been in my 'teens, I do not think you would have regarded this as too base a declension from the ideal. Love transforms even The Toreador into something more charming and desirable than the lost plays of Menander.

The next day a man whom I had known as a medical student and who was acting as locum tenens somewhere in the East End called on me, and, after showing me the house where the Baroness Burdett-Coutts lived-which everybody, for some strange reason, used to show me and the house where the Duke of Devonshire lived and Buckingham Palace and St. James's Palace and Mooney's, took me off later in the day to Whitechapel, where, after a dish of tripe, we spent the evening getting into the way of actors and actresses behind the scenes at the Christmas pantomime. I confess I should have preferred to buy a seat, and I should have preferred still more not to see the pantomime at all, but I was in the hands of fate, which seemed to be bearing me further and further away from Schubert and G. F. Watts how we worshiped him in those days! -and Phidias.

Next to call on me was a painter whom I had known since we were small boys. He took me out and put me on the top of a horse-bus, pointed out the house where the Baroness Burdett-Coutts lived and the house where the Duke of Devonshire lived, and ultimately led me into a public house in Fleet Street, explaining as we went in: 'Old Johnson used to come here.' Well, an association with Dr. Johnson was at least ennobling, but

this was not the reading-room of the British Museum.

Then my friend took me out to Hampstead and into an inn afterward famous in song as the Old Bull and Bush, explaining, after the fashion of a man of letters, 'Old Hazlitt used to come here.' That night I spent with him at Hampstead. On the next afternoon he proposed that we should go to Battersea on a visit to the studio of another artist whose name has become a household word since then. When we reached the Pier Hotel at Albert Bridge, he said, 'Let's go in here,' and, as we waited to be served, he speculated on the possibility that 'Old Whistler used to come in here' when he was painting his Battersea Bridge!

Never before had I lived in such a whirl of literary and artistic associations. I might not be seeing many pictures or reading many books, but I was following in the footsteps of the great painters and the great writers with an almost doglike fidelity. My friend was a perfect master of the literary geography of London, though, indeed, when he led me into a most unpromisinglooking tavern in St. Martin's Lane on the plea that 'Old Stevenson used to come here,' I began to suspect that he was playing on my credulity.

Still, there were pauses between the lessons, during which we did visit the Turner rooms in the National Gallery and gaze at Rain, Steam, and Speed as at one of the wonders of the world in ruins. My friend's chief method of expressing his enthusiasm, as he stood before a picture he liked, was to say merely, 'By God, old chap!' or 'By God, Willie!' or 'By God, Rupert!' and to nod his head, as if in despair of ever rivaling so great a miracle. And so he spoke before the blue cloak of the Mother of God in a Titian, and before the ox and the ass and the divine nursery under a hill of roads winding among