assailed a statesman so essentially pure, so absolutely patriotic, so consistently unselfish and benevolent.

One of the most beautiful traits in Mr. Jefferson's character was his capacity for friendshipdeep, lasting, tender, splendidly loyal friendship. Few were the individuals he ever hated; and he loved a great many, some of them being persons whom others found it hard to love-John Adams, for example. We will find these friendships multiplying around him at every stage of his career, we will see them embrace all sorts and conditions

of men. We will see his sympathetic affection reaching out to warriors like Paul Jones and George Rogers Clarke, to savants like Buffon and Cabanis. His circle of good-fellowship embraced such opposite characters as the Abbé Corea and Dr. Rush, the Marquis of Chastelleux and Samuel Adams, Benjamin Franklin and Tobias Lear. He was endeared to English Priestley and to French La Fayette, to Mazzie the Italian and Kosciusko the Pole, to James Madison, the scholarly statesman, and to Thomas Paine, the unpolished patriot. And few men have even shown more stanchness, more downright pluck in standing by his friends, even when he incurred abuse and losses by doing so.

But the most thoroughly congenial tie he ever formed in the way of manly friendship was with Dabney Carr, who loved books as Jefferson loved

them, whose soul was filled with the same enthusiasm for things beautiful and true and great; whose every pulse-beat was that of a man warmly loving, aspiring loftily, eager for thorough equipment, that he might bear himself gallantly in the great battle of life.

This young man had all the tastes which Jefferson had, many of the gifts which made Jefferson great, and had the other great gifts which Jefferson lacked. Notably Dabney Carr was bold in action, fearless in debate, an orator and lawyer whose name was mentioned with praise by those who coupled it with that of Patrick Henry. Very beautiful was the love and trust which bound these two ambitious young men together. In their walks and exercises, their talks and their meditations, they went in company, the one with the other.

On the wooded mountainside they had made a rough seat under a noble tree; and to this retired spot they would bring their books for study and for thought. Here they would give loose rein to imagination as they discussed their plans for the present and their hopes for the future; and here they promised each other that when life's hurlyburly was done, and there was no longer daylight in which any man could hope and plan and work, they should sleep the long sleep under the shadow of the great tree.

A day dream of politically minded young men.

The mountain was Monticello-a part of the Peter Jefferson estate; and as the young men stood upon its summit and gazed upon one of the fairest landscapes nature's many-colored brush ever painted, Jefferson's fancy kindled; and he dreamed of a lovely home that he should make for himself up there in the pure air, amid the clouds and the majestic trees.

Some day he would build it; some day he would lead to its portals the fairest of brides; some day he would stand upon its classic portico, surrounded by those who loved him best, and look forth tranquilly upon the beauties of the world-a world in which he should have done his own part before he came back here for rest in the evening of life.

And when all was done, he would sleep beneath the giant oak, he and Dabney Carr, where they had communed together in the cloudless days when they were boys.

To dream is one thing-a comparatively easy thing; to hold firmly the ideal is quite another; and to work it out, is yet another. Jefferson dreamed, held firmly to his dream, and worked it out.

On the summit of the hill was built the home, planned in his brain, made almost by his handsa classic, lovely, imposing home. To be its queen he did bring as his bride one of the fairest, sweetest, truest of women; children blessed the union; and amid those he loved best he did look down on

the world from the mountain home tranquilly, as the soldier might gaze again upon a battle-field in which he had been a standard-bearer. And when all was done, and the feeble hands had dropped the greater tasks, his faltering feet brought him back here for the quiet of the afternoon. And when it came to be nightfall, and the lights were out, he was laid to his rest under the big tree by the side of Dabney Carr.

CHAPTER II

BEGINNINGS OF THE REVOLUTION

It serves no useful purpose now, perhaps, to enter into elaborate discussion of the rights and wrongs of the Revolutionary War. Yet we can not appreciate the conduct of any of the great actors on that stage unless we know something about the play.

In the recent years a tendency has been shown by some historians to justify Great Britain and to blame the colonies. The mother country, it would seem, was governing her offspring in a parentally considerate manner, when certain wicked men, for sinister purposes, sowed seeds of discord, cultivated rebellion, and garnered independence. The Americans were the aggressors. They started a quarrel without just cause, and they kept it up in spite of all efforts at reconciliation. Historians of this school almost convince us that our forefathers wantonly dragged British soldiers over here from the pure love of combat, coerced the infamous little despots of Germany to hire Hessians to King George, and bearded that well-intentioned monarch for no reason on earth save that they did not want to pay their British debts.

Reading the pages of Mr. Sydney George Fisher