"How?"
"If they all got married instead of pumping up interest in a bric-à-brac museum and advertised lectures, and having their names in the papers. One never gets to believe in the proper destiny of woman until one sees a thousand of 'em doing something different. I don't like Chautauqua. There's something wrong with it, and I haven't time to find out where. But it is wrong."
FOOTNOTES:
[18] No. XXXIX appeared in the "Pioneer Mail," Vol. XVII, No. 14, April 2, 1890.
"See those things yonder?" He looked in the direction of the Market Street cable-cars which, moved without any visible agency, were conveying the good people of San Francisco to a picnic somewhere across the harbour. The stranger was not more than seven feet high. His face was burnished copper, his hands and beard were fiery red and his eyes a baleful blue. He had thrust his large frame into a suit of black clothes which made no pretensions toward fitting him, and his cheek was distended with plug-tobacco. "Those cars," he said, more to himself than to me, "run upon a concealed cable worked by machinery, and that's what broke our syndicate at Bow Flume. Concealed machinery, no—concealed ropes. Don't you mix yourself with them. They are ontrustworthy."
"These cars work comfortably," I ventured. "They run over people now and then, but that doesn't matter."