First and last, the Marches did a good deal of travel on the Elevated roads, which, he said, gave you such glimpses of material aspects in the city as some violent invasion of others’ lives might afford in human nature.  Once, when the impulse of adventure was very strong in them, they went quite the length of the West Side lines, and saw the city pushing its way by irregular advances into the country.  Some spaces, probably held by the owners for that rise in value which the industry of others providentially gives to the land of the wise and good, it left vacant comparatively far down the road, and built up others at remoter points.  It was a world of lofty apartment houses beyond the Park, springing up in isolated blocks, with stretches of invaded rusticity between, and here and there an old country-seat standing dusty in its budding vines with the ground before it in rocky upheaval for city foundations.  But wherever it went or wherever it paused, New York gave its peculiar stamp; and the adventurers were amused to find One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street inchoately like Twenty-third Street and Fourteenth Street in its shops and shoppers.  The butchers’ shops and milliners’ shops on the avenue might as well have been at Tenth as at One Hundredth Street.

The adventurers were not often so adventurous.  They recognized that in their willingness to let their fancy range for them, and to let speculation do the work of inquiry, they were no longer young.  Their point of view was singularly unchanged, and their impressions of New York remained the same that they had been fifteen years before:  huge, noisy, ugly, kindly, it seemed to them now as it seemed then.  The main difference was that they saw it more now as a life, and then they only regarded it as a spectacle; and March could not release himself from a sense of complicity with it, no matter what whimsical, or alien, or critical attitude he took.  A sense of the striving and the suffering deeply possessed him; and this grew the more intense as he gained some knowledge of the forces at work-forces of pity, of destruction, of perdition, of salvation.  He wandered about on Sunday not only through the streets, but into this tabernacle and that, as the spirit moved him, and listened to those who dealt with Christianity as a system of economics as well as a religion.  He could not get his wife to go with him; she listened to his report of what he heard, and trembled; it all seemed fantastic and menacing.  She lamented the literary peace, the intellectual refinement of the life they had left behind them; and he owned it was very pretty, but he said it was not life ­it was death-in-life.  She liked to hear him talk in that strain of virtuous self-denunciation, but she asked him, “Which of your prophets are you going to follow?” and he answered:  “All-all!  And a fresh one every Sunday.”  And so they got their laugh out of it at last, but with some sadness at heart, and with a dim consciousness that they had got their laugh out of too many things in life.

What really occupied and compassed his activities, in spite of his strenuous reveries of work beyond it, was his editorship.  On its social side it had not fulfilled all the expectations which Fulkerson’s radiant sketch of its duties and relations had caused him to form of it.  Most of the contributions came from a distance; even the articles written in New York reached him through the post, and so far from having his valuable time, as they called it, consumed in interviews with his collaborators, he rarely saw any of them.  The boy on the stairs, who was to fence him from importunate visitors, led a life of luxurious disoccupation, and whistled almost uninterruptedly.  When any one came, March found himself embarrassed and a little anxious.  The visitors were usually young men, terribly respectful, but cherishing, as he imagined, ideals and opinions chasmally different from his; and he felt in their presence something like an anachronism, something like a fraud.  He tried to freshen up his sympathies on them, to get at what they were really thinking and feeling, and it was some time before he could understand that they were not really thinking and feeling anything of their own concerning their art, but were necessarily, in their quality of young, inexperienced men, mere acceptants of older men’s thoughts and feelings, whether they were tremendously conservative, as some were, or tremendously progressive, as others were.  Certain of them called themselves realists, certain romanticists; but none of them seemed to know what realism was, or what romanticism; they apparently supposed the difference a difference of material.  March had imagined himself taking home to lunch or dinner the aspirants for editorial favor whom he liked, whether he liked their work or not; but this was not an easy matter.  Those who were at all interesting seemed to have engagements and preoccupations; after two or three experiments with the bashfuller sort ­those who had come up to the metropolis with manuscripts in their hands, in the good old literary tradition ­he wondered whether he was otherwise like them when he was young like them.  He could not flatter himself that he was not; and yet he had a hope that the world had grown worse since his time, which his wife encouraged: 

Mrs. March was not eager to pursue the hospitalities which she had at first imagined essential to the literary prosperity of ’Every Other Week’; her family sufficed her; she would willingly have seen no one out of it but the strangers at the weekly table-d’hote dinner, or the audiences at the theatres.  March’s devotion to his work made him reluctant to delegate it to any one; and as the summer advanced, and the question of where to go grew more vexed, he showed a man’s base willingness to shirk it for himself by not going anywhere.  He asked his wife why she did not go somewhere with the children, and he joined her in a search for non-malarial regions on the map when she consented to entertain this notion.  But when it came to the point she would not go; he offered to go with her then, and then she would not let him.  She said she knew he would be anxious about his work; he protested that he could take it with him to any distance within a few hours, but she would not be persuaded.  She would rather he stayed; the effect would be better with Mr. Fulkerson; they could make excursions, and they could all get off a week or two to the seashore near Boston ­the only real seashore ­in August.  The excursions were practically confined to a single day at Coney Island; and once they got as far as Boston on the way to the seashore near Boston; that is, Mrs. March and the children went; an editorial exigency kept March at the last moment.  The Boston streets seemed very queer and clean and empty to the children, and the buildings little; in the horse-cars the Boston faces seemed to arraign their mother with a down-drawn severity that made her feel very guilty.  She knew that this was merely the Puritan mask, the cast of a dead civilization, which people of very amiable and tolerant minds were doomed to wear, and she sighed to think that less than a year of the heterogeneous gayety of New York should have made her afraid of it.  The sky seemed cold and gray; the east wind, which she had always thought so delicious in summer, cut her to the heart.  She took her children up to the South End, and in the pretty square where they used to live they stood before their alienated home, and looked up at its close-shuttered windows.  The tenants must have been away, but Mrs. March had not the courage to ring and make sure, though she had always promised herself that she would go all over the house when she came back, and see how they had used it; she could pretend a desire for something she wished to take away.  She knew she could not bear it now; and the children did not seem eager.  She did not push on to the seaside; it would be forlorn there without their father; she was glad to go back to him in the immense, friendly homelessness of New York, and hold him answerable for the change, in her heart or her mind, which made its shapeless tumult a refuge and a consolation.

She found that he had been giving the cook a holiday, and dining about hither and thither with Fulkerson.  Once he had dined with him at the widow’s (as they always called Mrs. Leighton), and then had spent the evening there, and smoked with Fulkerson and Colonel Woodburn on the gallery overlooking the back yard.  They were all spending the summer in New York.  The widow had got so good an offer for her house at St. Barnaby for the summer that she could not refuse it; and the Woodburns found New York a watering-place of exemplary coolness after the burning Augusts and Septembers of Charlottesburg.

“You can stand it well enough in our climate, sir,” the colonel explained, “till you come to the September heat, that sometimes runs well into October; and then you begin to lose your temper, sir.  It’s never quite so hot as it is in New York at times, but it’s hot longer, sir.”  He alleged, as if something of the sort were necessary, the example of a famous Southwestern editor who spent all his summers in a New York hotel as the most luxurious retreat on the continent, consulting the weather forecasts, and running off on torrid days to the mountains or the sea, and then hurrying back at the promise of cooler weather.  The colonel had not found it necessary to do this yet; and he had been reluctant to leave town, where he was working up a branch of the inquiry which had so long occupied him, in the libraries, and studying the great problem of labor and poverty as it continually presented itself to him in the streets.  He said that he talked with all sorts of people, whom he found monstrously civil, if you took them in the right way; and he went everywhere in the city without fear and apparently without danger.  March could not find out that he had ridden his hobby into the homes of want which he visited, or had proposed their enslavement to the inmates as a short and simple solution of the great question of their lives; he appeared to have contented himself with the collection of facts for the persuasion of the cultivated classes.  It seemed to March a confirmation of this impression that the colonel should address his deductions from these facts so unsparingly to him; he listened with a respectful patience, for which Fulkerson afterward personally thanked him.  Fulkerson said it was not often the colonel found such a good listener; generally nobody listened but Mrs. Leighton, who thought his ideas were shocking, but honored him for holding them so conscientiously.  Fulkerson was glad that March, as the literary department, had treated the old gentleman so well, because there was an open feud between him and the art department.  Beaton was outrageously rude, Fulkerson must say; though as for that, the old colonel seemed quite able to take care of himself, and gave Beaton an unqualified contempt in return for his unmannerliness.  The worst of it was, it distressed the old lady so; she admired Beaton as much as she respected the colonel, and she admired Beaton, Fulkerson thought, rather more than Miss Leighton did; he asked March if he had noticed them together.  March had noticed them, but without any very definite impression except that Beaton seemed to give the whole evening to the girl.  Afterward he recollected that he had fancied her rather harassed by his devotion, and it was this point that he wished to present for his wife’s opinion.

“Girls often put on that air,” she said.  “It’s one of their ways of teasing.  But then, if the man was really very much in love, and she was only enough in love to be uncertain of herself, she might very well seem troubled.  It would be a very serious question.  Girls often don’t know what to do in such a case.”

“Yes,” said March, “I’ve often been glad that I was not a girl, on that account.  But I guess that on general principles Beaton is not more in love than she is.  I couldn’t imagine that young man being more in love with anybody, unless it was himself.  He might be more in love with himself than any one else was.”

“Well, he doesn’t interest me a great deal, and I can’t say Miss Leighton does, either.  I think she can take care of herself.  She has herself very well in hand.”

“Why so censorious?” pleaded March.  “I don’t defend her for having herself in hand; but is it a fault?”

Mrs. March did not say.  She asked, “And how does Mr. Fulkerson’s affair get on?”

“His affair?  You really think it is one?  Well, I’ve fancied so myself, and I’ve had an idea of some time asking him; Fulkerson strikes one as truly domesticable, conjugable at heart; but I’ve waited for him to speak.”

“I should think so.”

“Yes.  He’s never opened on the subject yet.  Do you know, I think Fulkerson has his moments of delicacy.”

“Moments!  He’s all delicacy in regard to women.”

“Well, perhaps so.  There is nothing in them to rouse his advertising instincts.”