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 volumes or so,” said Adams, “but nobody reads Voltaire any more.”

“I could read the works of Jacob Boehm with interest,” added Bryce, “but not La Henriade.”

“I have read La Henriade,” I ventured to suggest.

“It is a pleasure to meet a man in America who has really read La Henriade,” replied Bryce in a tone which did not quite disclose whether it meant surprise or sarcasm.

“Rabelais can no longer be read,” again suggested Adams.

“It is too coarse,” said I.

“It is stupid,” added Bryce.

“So it is with Hudibras. Its wit is mere dullness,” said Adams.

“Take such lines as

and they have some of that sort of fun which we found acceptable in the Ingoldsby Legends,” I gently suggested, but it met with no response. Bryce made many queries in regard to existing conditions in America, but always stopped short at the point of danger and never ventured an opinion. The effect of the blending of races and the result of the coming presidential election interested him, but he had no views. “What will Pennsylvania do?” he inquired.

“Vote for Taft,” I replied, and there the subject was dropped.

He listened to the address of Henry Cabot Lodge, which contained many strictures upon England, without the indication of any emotion whatever. At the dinner the President, Bryce, Adams, Paget, the minister from Peru to the United States, and myself all made speeches. Rh