I 1 I i l , -tf. p .. f .(- l j h I { {., 11 II lf . J.. l)" td (1 1'.." J ff' t, I t' ., í!}d l m h ) : .p'lj qhl{.!r ! t ) 'J 'rt y} If/' t I f 1. k ? }U\ R' 4 { I , \' 'ð'lt", 'll' 1 ip ' '/f!ì ' ' , i 1 ;f! \ I J I t I \ }1 ,( jX*-,j w ll 1r!: 1 1ðtlf l \h! J'\; ' '1! ," \ 'p (1 ft ,' t5 Ji )' , t. r/?i 1 !ti1r1Jtl ) "y}1 I ; J\ F I {, it, QR 'I! ' r!(l'<'l \1"1'1 / 1\: \ '.1 "1' f j I' '1J d' T '!í\' )} 'lf Mj *f: } \ (tM ;t I;';': 'f.: ",: " \ ' .\ . · i '.\\ \ · \f ' ,II' · '(.' .,H 1' " '1':' ,' ' \' ,I'II( '. ', t!t .' "'. I,". \,t: i 'I' ' J '{\' J fll"{ ', \ l.', ( ....À\8\:.X>:, \ ' I ' , '\1"\ (cJ ktP' ' '\1')"\' t') \ \:I' r .\"J \ \:"1\\:! \ t :I' ' I W i}'if" r\1 'I }i\ii\. ' !' I / " "'{\(.'" '1 fh'\i "'l, I · : , rtl ' 11 m ' . i ì. !ij 4 it : !im; lt li f '! IW ., :,:; !: I W'tl'!iI} ''', \' \\ '\\\ m! t ìk l l ti ): l ,f\ .I,tï;\ !t > 'íh;; " lIiJ I r . { \ \1îl ! :ln: :!t}J) , , } 1:;" , I ( 'i tt h'!<. i ' }:I li W \I Vr,tlf.1;ff<\:líki, 1\I"i, \. It ,i,. I <\\l\ jti f v .. ' 'll\ íi 'tl (l\ ;}: \;ì; i\/ t.'I i \ \ . ':' \. 'h , '. .1 , .n' 'I t- J 1 \ . lsn:. I.I,\I. ' i \ :rli \t} ;'\!&, i 't ;\'3. 1 'I : .j, t. I I, .1', : ; j ,. . . '\' Iti: 1 :':{\ \' f A ,\: ",\':l,C\t \:!ilt\_ "t' I' \ . I'\ ' . .\ .: \ \.N\wr. }1. h :y \ \'; \ ) .i 4 'i}::" \\ \\\}' t ! . ..t' ; " :f' 1\' >'1 ;f! 'X.: I ' " , 1.: :' ) \ì\lH !h'I' &'; .ilk"" \ ,t :. ' '1\ i\,\ t \., . ,. II}!, "t ,< ,I . {1\ "', ' ..'1..'I',,, · ..W:/;1'I.!\ : .It h: i )'r ) 1 "l""'Q&:i '{t") ' \ I r' '-4 . \ "1'" H I \ '1.h't. }'1\\J.' "\1-\1' .\". n' \ \' ' H c. . ! I' . r{.t:rl. ''\ ;;l \'''. ' ' ':( :,..., . .(Iì;} ; tt. · \:. \.\ ! ''' r. t , , \{ , \ \, . .: \ 't " I\ ' .\t \, I f & c .,;:\ t :& , ':'\:" æ\({ ' 1\ '.' ".\) . II . ... "IÇ"7i " '. J' < . 1; "r II .f.....".. þ41 .} ! lReg.No.i 6- helfNo. e F- 1\ ' .) c f Hq/ _ .it-+ y J-. '? ... -;.\: Q U 5 'tli { "i:";;. -,I .:!!f' '" ir' - - , !::r \I . "ell -þ 'j/ ''',: ...., ' \ 1\/,\ "'1'\ . \ I . _ . " t I I ..11:' - ---.. . ,'.,. ,It "' < <Þ- - -::-...' t - ' \ .. -.......... ....... . .. -' ". _ =r -'l:ð-:; ßA- \ ' ,_' -', . ;--c;- }" ..- ,..... _.... - I\\. 'fr ' - flB1 - I hite Sfunb. 5CRIBNE 5 MAGAZINE PUBLISHED MONTHLY WITH ILLUSTRATIONS VOLUME LXXIII JANUARY-JUNE .c.... .... CHARLES SCRIBNER . SONS NEW YORK 7 BEAK STREET, LONDON. ENGLAND IV COJ.V TEN TS CLARK, BADGER. The lIome-Wreckers, CLARK , y t\LMA { Ionition. . . ljlaoiarism, COL'T!\, SIR ID EY. See Ke\\ Ù'ttcrs to Lady Colvin, Edited b ' ir Sidne . Coh in, CONVERSION OF TOROW A, THE (A STORY), . Illustrations (Frontispiece) by O. F. Schmidt. COOKS I HAYE LOYED: AND LOST. Point of View, { Bucking Horses and Buching- COWBOY ARTICLES. See Horse Riders. A Cowpuncher Speaks. COWPUNCHER SPEAKS, A, "II.L JAMES, Illustrations from drawings hy the Author. ('nESTER L. SAXDY, CURRAN, HENRY H. "Lffs," CRA\VFORD, R. P. Discovering a Real American Art, " DEARl< ST PORTIA "-THE FRIENDSHIP OF GEORGE l\IEREDITH AND ALICE l\IEYNELL. Told from Unpuh- lished Letters, . GEORGE MEREDITH, Edited by Griffin Barry. DE MAN, HENRY. Can Labor Save Europe? DI COVERING A REAL AMERICAN ART-Santa Fe's Art Gallery. Field of Art, . R. P. CRAWFORD, DOGS. See The German Shepherd-Dog. DROPPERS, GARRETT. A Letter from Stevenson, 1l"ith a Note, EBERLE, LOUISE. The Sculptor at lIis Work, . 1 The Ban on Teaching, AI'O Our l'niversitics Overpopulated? EDt:'CATION. See "rnder Glass." \Vhat the American Rhodes Scholar Gets from Oxford. EDW ARDS, GEORGE WHARTON. Bridoes of !\1"anhattan. Four Drawinos in ]"Ionotone. EGYPT. See Hekanakbt Writes to His Household. ELLIOTT, RANDOLPH. The ]\Iaverick Princess, ETHKAN. (A STORY), Illustration by O. J. Gatter. EUROPE AND LABOR. See Can Labor Savo Europe? FAIRER GREENS. (A !hORY), IlIustrations b ' C. F. Peters. FIELD OF ART, THE. Illustrated. American Lithographs of To-day. (Frank Weitenkampf), Discovering a Real American Art-Santa Fe's Art Gal- lery. (R. p, Crawford), For a Better Appreciation of the Art of Architecture. (DeWitt Clinton Pond), Painters' Architecture. (Mrs. Schuyler Van Rensselaer), Charles \Villson Peale. (Anne H. Wharton), . The Sculptor at His Work. (Louise Eberle), . FOR A BETTER APPRECIATION o Ii' THE ART OF ARCHITECTL'RE, Field of Art, FORD, JAMES L. New York of the Seventies, FOUR OAKS, A Series of Drawings, . FREER MUSEUM OF ORIENTAL ART, 'l'HE, Illu,>trations from drawings by the architC'ct. (,harlC's A. Platt, and from photographs. }1'ROM Il\lMIGRANT TO INVENTOn, . V. First Journey to Idvor in Eleven Years, VI. Studies at the University of Cambridge, CARY GAMBLE LOWNDE8, MCCREADY HU8TON, DEWITT CLINTON POND, BEATRICE STEVEN8, LOUI8INE 'V. HAVEMEYER, l\-hCHAEL PUPIN PAGE 81 50 337 306 632 417 97 380 515 669 380 358 507 145 596 748 480 123 380 251 635 763 507 251 742 406 529 63 194 CONTENTS End of Studies at the University of Cambridge. Studies at the University of Berlin, End of Studies at the University of Berlin, The First Period of My Academic Career at Co- lumbia University, . Illustrations from portraits, photographs, and drawinp;s, (See also Vols, LXXII and LXXIV,) GAMBOLS IN THE TEMPLE. Point of \ïew. VII. VIII. IX, X. GERMAN SHEPHERD-DOG, THE, . FRED G. MaRIES, 541 Illustrations from drawings by the Aut.hor, GLAMIS CASTLE, 1\1. E. LEICESTER ADDIS. _' 445 Illustrations from drawings by Alfred Brennan and Fletcher Ransom, and from photographs, GORDON, ARMISTEAD S. Thomas Nelson Paye-An Ap- preciation, . GREAT AUDIENCE INVISIBLE, THE, . ORANGE EDWARD 1\lcMEANS, 410 HA VEMEYER, LOrISINE \V. The Freer :Uuseum of Ori- ental Art, 529 HEKAN AKHT WRITES TO HIS HOUSEHOLD, Illustrations from photographs. HIS. (A STORY), Illustrations by D. C. Hutchison. HIS CREED. (A STORY). Illustrations (Frontispiece) by Haney DUnn, HOME-WRECKERS, THl . (A STORY) Illustrations by JI('nry Pitz. lfO\VE, FH,EIH RIC C. Set> "Tht, Wt'stward Tide> of Pe>oplt's," HERBERT E. \VINLOCK, MCCREADY HUSTON, \VOLCOTT LECLEAR BEARD, 731 BADOER CLARK, 81 HUMPHREY, SETH K. l\I"n and flalf-A/t n, IIUSTON, McCREADY { . Fa.ircr Crans, 111s,. . . V ALMA CLARK, IGNITION. (A STORY), . Illustrations by O. F. Schmidt. ILLNESS. Point of View. IMMIGRANT. See From Immigrant to Inventor. IMMIGRATION. See "The \Vestward Tide of Peoples," INSTRUCTOR, AN. The Ban on Teaching, JAMES \VILL { Bucking Horses and Bucking-Horse Riders, , A Cowpuncher Speaks, .. .., JENKINS BURRIS { The Brokçn p'itcher, " The }';Ia(flc P'lpe, . JEWS. See Library Experiences Among the Children of the Russian Jews. KENT, CHARLES FOSTER. Recent Trends in Protestantism, LABOR. See Can Labor Save Europe? LETTER FROM STEVENSON, A. WITH A NOTE GARRETT DROPPERS, { "Dearest Portia." LETTERS. See A Letter from Stevenson, New Letters to Lady Colvin. LIBRARY EXPERIENCES AMONG THE CHILDREN OF THE RUSSIAN JE'VS, MARGARET MUNGER STOKES, LITHOGRAPHY. See American Lithographs of To-day. LOCAL DISCOLOR. Point of View, . LONDON STAGE AS SEEN BY A FRENCHßL\N, TIlE, RAYMOND RECOULY, LOWNDES, CARY GAMBLE. EHman, LUCK. (A STORY), JUlES BOYD, Illustrations by L. W. Wilford. MAGIC PIPE, THE. (A STORY), . BURRIS JENKINS, Illustrations b ' E. W, Kemùle. v PAGE 323 466 561 716 122 75 288 223 284 480 223 50 377 426 297 417 362 182 166 358 609 505 521 748 173 182 PEALE. C'IL-\.RLES WILL O-:\. Fipld of \rt. PL-\.R:-;. SIR ED::\1T"D IL\DCLfFFE. S011/e Recollections of Robl rt Louis Stt tensnn, PETER WI::\G, (A STORY). Illu"trations (t'rontiSI)i('cp) h " Gerrit .\, Bl'n('ker, PHELPS, "ILL!.-\.::\I LYOX, As I Lik(' It, (Dppartment), (See also Yols, LXXII and LXXn",) "PIERROT, HÊ\"El-n." (A STORY), STANLEY ODI8TED, 577 Illu-;trations hy (jcorgc A vison. PL_-\.r.L-\.HI '1. (.\ STORY), V AL'IA CLARK, 337 IIIlL<;tration<; from drawings bJ.. Olivcr JÜ'mp. I'Ll ::\I-('OLOHEI> ('O.\T, THE, (A TORY). F. J, STIMSON. 662 Illu<;trations hy (il'orgc ,an \\"pn php POI T OF \lE\\, TIlE According to Ta<;tl'. fi:n, Of ::\Iuch ""riting, fi 4, Bic)-clcs amI Sunclrips, 7til, On H('ducin . 247. .. B1p" l'd Arp the ::\I<'l'k." : 7:;, On Whishprs and the Brutal .\rt of Shaving 249 coohs I I1a\c LO\"cd: And 1.0<.;1. (ì: 2, Our Hirl'd ::\Ian. 24H. (;amhols in thl' TpmpIP. 1 2. Sdl('dul<'d Life, TIlf', 7(iO, IlInf'<;s. a77. Truth, The. ;'04, local Di<;color, ;'0;', Ycrhs, 378, \1 CnSTE1YTS :\L\I SPRIXGS OF ::\[E , I. Why Do We Fed That Wa)? II. 'Who Hurts Our Fl'clings? III. Wh\' Do We Work? , . , . , . , , , IÌlustrations fl'om paintings h)" Gerrit .\. Iknl'ht'r. IY. Faith \'s, Fear Inside the Factor) and Out, ::\L\XHATTXX BRIDGES, Sec Bridges of Manhattan, ::\IAXX. JAXE, Peter Wing, ::\IARKS, PERCY. .. Under Glass." ::\IARQUAXD, JOHN P. Tile SlIip, ::\IARUK. F. N. Sketches of Vence. ::\IAYERICK PRIXCE S, THE. (A STORY). Illustrations by 'Villiam A, Rogers, :\IcIXTOSH, K, C. "The 'Ves1\\ard Tide of Peoples." ::\IdIE.\XS, OR.\XGE EDW.-\.RD. Tile Great .A.udience In- risible, ::\IEX AXD HALF-::\[E . ::\IEREDITH, GEORGE, .. Dearest Portia "-Tile Friendship of George j[ereditll and .A.lice ]\[eyncll. told from t'n- publislled Letters, . ::\IEYXELL, ALICE. See" Dearest Portia." ::\lORIES, FRED G, Tile German Sllepllerd-Doa, ::\n"SEL::\1. See The Freer ::\Il1seum of Oriental Art. XEW LETTERS TO LADY COLVIX, Edited by Sir Sidne). Colvin. (The first of three papers. See also YoI. LXXIV,) XFW YORK OF THE SE\"K TIE , OAKS. See Four Oaks. OF l\I"CCH WRITIXG. Point of Yiew. OL::\ISTED, STA "LEY. .. Pierrot, Rêl'eur." OX REDrCIXG. Point of Yicw, OX WHISKER AXD THE BHrT.-\.L ART OF f.;H.\ V- IXG, Point of \ïew, OLR HIRED ::\IAX. Point of Yic\\, OXFORD. See 'Vhat the American Rhodcs Scholar Gets from Oxford. PAGE, THO::\L-\.S XELSOX-AX APPRECIATIO , 'Yith a portrait. P.\I TER ' ARCHITECTl"RE. Field of Art, I'AGE "-lilTING \\'u LlAIIIB, YO 233 34ft 4R9 RANDOLPII ELLIOTT 613 44 106 G53 596 216 410 SETH K, HUMPHREY, 284 515 541 ROBERT Lons TEYEJI;F'ON. 643 JA'IES L. FORD, 742 634 577 247 249 248 AR'IISTEAD C, GORDOX. 75 ::\IRS, SCHUYLER YA" RENSSELAER, 635 \ NE II, \VHARTON, 763 3 JAKE :MANN, 613 114, 241, 69, 497, 625,753 POLLEY, .FREDERICK. Chicago--Nine Sketches. POND, DEWITT CLINTON. For a Better Appreciation of the Art of Architrcture, PRITCHETT, HENRY S. Are Our Universities Overpopu- lated P PROTESTANTISM. See Recent Trends in Protestantism. PUPIN, MICHAEL. From Immigrant to Inventnr, (See also Yols. LXXII and LXXIV.) QUINN, ARTHrR HOBSON. George Henry Boker-Play- wright and Patriot, RADIO. See The Great Audience Invisible. RANCHWOMA . See The Aspirations and Inspirations of a Ranchwoman. RECENT TRENDS IN PROTESTAKTISM, CHARLES FOSTER KENT, 166 RECOULY, RAYMOND. The London Stage as Seen by a Frenchman, 521 RELIGION. See Recent Trends in Prote!>tantism. RHODES SCHOLARS. See What the American Rhodes Scholar Gets from Oxford. SANTA FE'S ART G \LLERY. See Discovering a Real American Art. I 1 { BII Dlle Process of Lall', ST - SO:r-;;, F. J. The Plum-Colored Coat, TEACHIKG. See The Ban on Teaching. r George Henry Boker-Playwright and Pa- THEATRE. See T iröndon Stage as Seen by a French- l man. TIKKEH. CLIFFORD ALBIOX. Selby Abbey and the Wasllingtons, TRrTH, THE. Point of View, .. rFFS "-A STORY OF .. VAN T A"SEL" AXD .. BIG BILL," HENRY II. CURRAX. Illustrations hy Thomas Fogarty. .. UKDER GLASS," PERCY l\IARKS, . T'-"'- J. - I -..T ER "' ITIES. S { Arc Our Fniversiti('3 Overpopulated? '-' J."\ \' '" rr .. Cnder Glass." CO..VTE1VTS SAXBY, CHESTER L. The Conversion of Torou'a, SCHEDCLED LIFE, TIlE. Point View, . SCULPTOR AT HIS WORK, TIlE. Field of Art. SELBY ABBEY AND THE WASHINGTONS, . Illustrations from photographs. SHEPHERD-DOGS. See The German Shepherd-Dog, SHIP, THE. (A STORY), SKETCHES FRO:\I AN OLD FRENCH TO'Y , With notes by the Artist. SKETCHES OF VENCE, SOME RECOLLECTIO);"S OF ROBERT LOUIS STE- VENSON, . Illustrations from photographs taken in ISS!). SON AT THE FRONT, A. (SERIAL.) Chapters V-XXVIII. Illustrations (Frontispieces) by Frances Rogers. (See also Vols. LXXII and LXXIV.) SPRING FESTIVAL, . SPEARS, RA YMO D S. STEVENS, BEATRICE. Vhen It's In the IIeart, Four Oaks-A Series of Drau:ings, A Letter from Ste- venson. ]\'" ew Letters to Lady Colvin. Some Recollf'ctions of Robert Louis Stevenson. STEVEKSON, ROBERT LOUIS. See Vll PAGE 27'> 251 556 . 63, 194,323,466.561,716 701 Oß 760 LOUli-lE EBERLE, 507 CLIFFORD ALBION TINKER, 131 JOHN P. l\IARQUAND, 106 PERRY BARLOW 37 F. N. MARVIN, 653 SIR ED'\{UND RADCLIFFE PEARS, . 3 EDITH \VHARTON, 19, 149, 259, 3S9, 547, 688 :\IARGUERITE \VILKINSON, 589 207 406 454 662 131 504 97 44 VUI CONTENTS VAN nE :-:I';L.\I;H. l\lU:-:. ::-;CIIl" \ LER, Painters' .4rchi- lecture. T.\ :-:EL" AX D .. BIG BILL" STOIUES. See .. L'ft's." (See also Vol. LXXII) YE ('K See Shetcbes of Yence. "YA \'EHB:-:. Point of View. . " .\S III "\GTO . GEUHG Eo S(/ cll>,} _\l>l>e,} anù the" ash- ingtons. WEITENKA:\IP "'. FRANK. .Llmcrican Lithographs of To- day. "ESTO:X. L, ::\1. The Aspirations and Inspirations of a Ranchu-oman. . .. WESTWARD TIDE 01<'" PEOPLEH. TIlE." A REPLY TO l\lR. FREDERIC C. HOWE. K. C. 1\IcINTOSH. WHARTO . .-\:X E HOLLIXGSWORTII. Charles Willson Peale, WHARTO . EDITH. A Son at the Frunt. Chapters V- XXVIII. (Sl e also V ols. LXX II anù LXXI V.) WHAT TilE AMERICAN IUIODES SCIIOLAH GETS FROM OXFUHD. Illustrations from photograph::;. "lIEN IT'S IN THE HE.\H.T. (A STORY). Illustrations by Albert Matzke, WHIRLII';G DERVISH. THE. (A STORY). . Illustrations by Oliver Kemp. WHITE. FREDERICK. The Whirling DerfJish. WILKIKSOK. MARGUERITE. Spring Festil)al. WILLIAMS. WHITING. Mainsprings of Afen. . WI LOCK. HERBERT E. IIekanakht Writes to lIis lIouse- hold. WIRELE . See The Great Audience Invisible. WORIUNG MAN. See Mainsprings of Men. POETRY RESPITE THE NIGHT PATH, "I K OW A LOYELY LADY WHO IS DEAD" THE ROMAXCER. NEW GODS. THANKSGIVII';G. RETROSPECT. IK A GREEK GAHDE . NIGHT OF RAI . JOIIK CO!\STABLE GOES SKI';T('HIXG-. Decorations by John "'olcott Adams. FACT. A HRIl'E. . AGAIN FIE ULE I THE LOVERS. . \VII EN I AM (;( r"\ E. cur TnY F{'-"':EH \L. WI TEn l\loO RIHE. TIlE OLYl\lPIA S. THE POET'H HOLIDAY. .19.149.259.389.547.688 FRANK AYDELOTTE. . 677 UA YMOND S. SPEARS. 207 FRI!:DERlCK \VHITE. 434 434 589 90.233.346.489 ELIZABETH KEMPER ADAMS. FLORENCE HINES BUNTEN. STRUTHERS BURT. THOMAS CALDECOT CHUBB. l' t:-' ; , ; # .... -., ,," 1::1, . I .;::, , ' < 1 ! t.. .' ' " - 1 \ . ' 116 ' t ; ' ] 'J ' . j . : I : \\ ' ":5' ' >. , 4.,(__ _ .... " . .\ _ 1 . ' "\: _ '>L ''10 . .... . ,'" ""'" T, \- . ,líÌ-: ':.; 0.:.; - ....'! . .i _ ... . ,f' f \ i ;-",,:, " I H.. "" " 1J)11 ' . I . 1U \ ". \ \' ; f ,:: . :: \ I . , I r ' '.., < " . . , / [; "", .. ,: \ .. .:' . ::: 'r. .:'-, jc Jt. . .... ,I ',' I, '. <1'. .. , '. <' .-'.' \.:: ,- :.. .' .,' 1:< " J '. .. '. \' .1 ., {':' i, ',1' "':'; > f) ;,r , . "' .. ... . p $': , ' , ,' ..' / ;, " . ' .... . ' .. . J' _ '."'.,. ,} ., '. ........ ,<' I ;.l',>?', > ....:\ a::;:.-I"" --!ill ï =-:::__ -- !.- ..:::J . '" , , c : -..:.... t 1; ! -ë.... .-: I f-'J , k""" .. -", I r J \ " . -... -.... ( ì' '-- '-........ .. \.. i: -...r I 1 ) fa .- '( I , ,' t _;..;. -,. .; - _r)c ol ! ' \ ' , I ,I' ". ". ,';". I I N.. \. \f _t ;- , J.. ( _2 '. . , .r..,, 4', . j " .1 - ;} .. - _, JIll ( j",. \, 'I <. . .( '<\ í \ \. '" <. -e___ .. :...- . } . J \ ( \ ,. .... . " > \ " . \ \'1' , . t . ). . :/# l/) 1-:; ':,- ", fF '. - . -:?' . . , l · .\ \- .. I' \\ . \. ( .' /i J I Ii . -t: fi ' !L. From a drawing by Franus Rogers. lIE CROSSED THE STREET A D LOOKED TOO. _u A Son at the Front."-Pagc 22. 2 SCRIBNER;S · MAGAZINE f/OL. L YXIII ']L11.VU./IRlr, 1923 NO. 1 Some Recollections of" Robert Louis Stevenson WITH ..-\ VISIT TO HIS FRIEXlJ ORI, AT T.\HITI BY SIR EDl\1ITND RADCLIFFE PEARS \ice-Admiral, R. N. (Retired) J J.IXSTRATIOXS FRO.M PHOTOGRAPHS TAKEN IN 1889 1"T,,,,,. '\A( r was in March, 188 9, x in the picturesque days I :1 when King Kalakaua , sat on the throne of ... I,... Hawaii, that the yacht , . __ I Caseo, wIth R. L. Ste- t!, 1Ç1 C!t venson on board, ar- rived at Honolulu, af- ter nearly a year's cruising among the 1Iarquesas and Society Islands, and an- chored inside the coral reef that forms the harbor. Close by lay Her Britannic Iajesty's ship Cormorant, in which I was then serving as a lieutenant, and the com- ing of the Caseo was an event of great interest to us all, especially to myself, for I was already an ardent admirer of Ste- venson and hoped it might be my good luck to meet him. I felt convinced that his personality must possess the charm that pervades his writings and confers on him " the happy privilege of making lovers among his readers." The Caseo party, çonsisting of Steven- son, his wife, his mother, and Lloyd Os- bourne, landed soon after the yacht an- chored, and took up their quarters in a seaside bungalow at \Vaikiki, a few miles outside Honolulu, a delightful place where they lived for several months in rather strict seclusion. Society in Hono- lulu, which included a large number of British and American residents and vis- itors, saw little of any of them except Lloyd Osbourne, who was occasionally to he seen at some of the frequent festivi- ties that took place. It was at a dance at the King's palace, if I remember aright, that I met Osbourne, with whom I had a long and interesting talk. It is probable that he was at the palace that night to represent Stevenson, who must certainly have been invited, for he had made the acquaintance of King Kalakaua, an acquaintance that ripened into friendship. Kalakaua, though a hard drinker, was a very intelligent and well-educated man, quite capable of ap- preciating Stevenson, who, on his part, must have found the huge, brown-skinned king a highly interesting character. 11y conversation with Lloyd Osbourne no doubt revealed to him my admiration for his famous stepfather, and my hopes of meeting him, for a few days later I re- ceived a friendly little note from R. L. S. himself, inviting me to go and see him at Waikiki. On the day appointed I set forth and walked out, along the beautiful tree-lined roads, to \Vaikiki, where I found the bun- galow I sought, standing amid trees and oleanders, and so close to the beach as almost to overhang the sea. As I ap- proached, a man dressed in flannels came out on the veranda and welcomed me heartily. Him I recognized instantly, from portraits I had seen, as R. L. Steven- son: a tall, thin figure, very quick and graceful in movement; a face of extraor- Copyrighted in 1922 in United States, Canada, and Great Britain, by Charles Scribner's Sons. Printed in New Yark. All rights reserved. 3 .t SO IF RECOLLECTIO:\fS OF ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON dinar)" character, not to be easily for- gotten; dark hair worn rather long; slight mustache; clean-cut features, and the most e pressiYe brown eyes. The charm of his manner struck me instantaneously, 1.nd enthralled me throughout our con- yersation. I had rather expected to find something of an invalid, knowing of his long ill-health, but he looked nothing of the sort. There was, it is true, a certain delicacy in his looks, but it appeared more the delicacy of refinement and cul- ture than of ailment; he had a well- colored, rather bronzed complexion, and a wonderful suggestion of activity and energy in his talk and movements. He led me into the "lanai," a large room which was really a roofed veranda oyerlooking the sea, and which had no side walls, though the sides could be closed by shutters or "tatties," if re- quired. It made an ideal living-room for such a climate, cool, spacious, and com- fortable. Here we sat and talked, and I straightway found myself under the spell of Steyenson's wonderful charm of con- yersation. I say we sat, but for the most part I sat while he paced up and down as he talked, pausing now and then to fix his dancing brown eyes on me or to roll a new cigarette with his nimble fingers. He professed, by the way, scorn for the ready-made cigarette. "The true ciga- rette-smoker," he said, "always makes his own"; and a jar of tobacco and packets of cigarette-papers on the table provided his wants. Cigarette followed cigarette, and the time flew while he talked. I wish that, Boswell-like, I had taken notes of that conversation so that I could repro- duce it now! He was in the highest spirits, and wit and humor flowed from him without the least suggestion of effort. He told me of the cruise he had just fin- ished among the islands, of various ex- periences at sea in the Casco (which led us to discuss matters of seamanship), and spoke of the eagerness with which he and his party were looking forward to receiv- ing on their arrival at Honolulu English newspapers, from which they had been cut off for months, and of their dismay at finding only one English journal awaiting them-a weird weekly called the Pictorial .Vews, dated February 9, 1889. He pro- duced this paper, one of a class intended for" the masses" and devoid of any pre- tension to literary merit, and said: "Imagine our feelings, when we were starving for our newspapers, to receive only this, and this only, to satisfy our hunger!" Then he added, "But there is one page of it which is sublime; it brought tears to our eyes," and he turned to a page which he showed to me with a comic pretense of emotion. I t was a page full of the crudest woodcuts, depicting the death of the Crown Prince Rudolph of Austria, evidently the work of an imagi- native artist in Fleet Street. After we had admired these atrocities Stevenson suddenly said: "I must send this sheet to the officers of the Cormorant as a mark of my esteem; don't you think they would appreciate it?" "I'm sure they would," I replied. So he tore out the sheet, sat down, took up a pen, and began to write: "To the Officers of H.:M::.S. Cormorant this little gem-" He paused, and said: "Now, how shall I put it?" and then wrote" -is cordially offered by R. L. S." I took the sheet on board in due course, and showed it to my brother officers, but claimed the right of retaining it and have kept it ever since. \Vhile we were talking we were joined by J\;Irs. R. L. Stevenson, known as an authoress by the name of Fanny Van de Grift Stevenson, who very soon struck me as a woman of character and intellect, and of marked individuality. Small and dark-haired, she was dressed in a "ho- loku "-the invariable dress of the South Sea Island women-a very sensible gar- ment for a warm climate, being a loose gown flowing freely from the shoulders; and her feet were bare. She must have possessed considerable beauty in her youth, still retained a good figure, and had beautifully shaped little hands and feet. Conversation turned somehow to the stage and the dramatization of "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde," which, of course, none of us had seen. I said that I had heard that in the stage version Dr. Jekyll had a wife or a sweetheart-I was not sure which. Stevenson was interested to hear of this, and said: "I thought of that, but I couldn't do it; it was too horrible." \Ve went on to speak of Shakespeare, and Stevenson told an amusing story of a per- formance of " 1Iacbeth," by Salvini, SOME RECOLLECTIO S OF ROBERT LOUIS STEVE SO 5 which he had seen, I think, in Edinburgh, in which, owing to some mismanagement, the ghost of Banquo, rising slowly and solemnly, twice appeared prematurely, and had to be lowered again with ludi- crous rapidity; when the proper moment I had intended to pay a short call, not wishing to take up too much of the au- thor's time, but when I rose to go I found I had actually stayed two hours, en- tranced bv the charm of his talk. He made light of my apologies, however, and ;0;" " If..--" '0,.,. '/ Vice-Admiral Sir Edmund R. Pears, R. N. for his appearance arrived the stage-hands, daunted by theirpreviousmistakes, failed to hoist him, and an awkward pause en- sued; the manager behind the scenes must have fired out a volcanic order, for with a terrific jerk up shot the ghost of Banquo, so violently that an effect still more comic was produced. Stevenson's description of this incident, in which he vividly imi- tated the action of the unfortunate ghost, especially the final jerk, which caused his long hair to fly outward, was intensely amusing. invited me to dine with him one evening a day or two later. At that dinner, besides Stevenson and his wife, his mother (the elder l\Irs. Ste- venson), Lloyd Osbourne, and his sister, lYIrs. Strong, were present. It was an unconventional, but most delightful, affair; the men in flannels, l\Irs. R. L. Stevenson in her" holoku," with a brazier burning under the table to keep mos- quitoes away from her bare feet, l\Irs. Strong (whose husband was an artist of San Francisco) similarly attired; the food 6 SO IE RECOLLECTIO S OF ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSO plain but good; the table undecorated; the conversation unflagging and lively. One felt that both food and formality were not worth troubJing one's head about; it was the company and talk that DlaUered. In this Bohemian atmosphere the elder )Irs. Stevenson, a most lovable and charming old lady, neatly, almost primly, dressed in black, with a white muslin cap, looked at first sightout of her proper element; but it was not so in re- ality; she understood her companions and was entirely sympathetic. The strong affection binding the typical Scotch mother to her strange, brilliant bantling, and him to her, was unmistakable and beau tiful. - Stevenson, eager and vivacious, did most of the talking, but entirely without egotism or arrogance. The fact is, it was so delightful to listen to him that no one felt inclined to cut in, unless to prompt or to spur. Dinner over and the plates remo\'ed by the attendant Chinaman (who, I was amused to note, seemed to be as devoted to, and fascinated by, his whimsical master as any of us), coffee and tobacco-jar were placed on the table, and as we rolled our cigarettes and smoked we continued to talk and laugh till a fairly late hour. Much of Stevenson's lively conversation was about his South Sea cruise and the Caseo, but all sorts of things were discussed besides, including experiences with publishers and magazine editors. He was then engaged on "The Master of Ballantrae," which, although not quite completed, was running in SCRIB ER'S. I admitted that I was read- ing it as it appeared monthly in that magazine, an admission for which he strongly reproved me ! Somewhat taken aback, I pleaded that I could not restrain my impatience, but he would not accept the excuse. "What?" I asked, in rather feeble self-defense, "isn't one supposed to read it in SCRIBKER'S?" "Of course not 1" he replied. Still more flabber- gasted, I inquired why, in that case, was it published in the serial form? " Simply as an advertisement," was the answer. I had not, in my simpHcity, realized this fact, which, of course, must be well under- stood in the publishing world, and which Stevenson, being quite a ware of the mar- ket value of his work, could state without vanity. On the other hand, the work would be useless as an advertisement un- less thousands of magazine readers were ready to enjoy it in serial form. But, for the true book-lover, to read a long novel in monthly instalments is neither doing justice to the author nor giving complete enjoyment to the reader, and this would naturally be Stevenson's point of view. Stevenson and Osbourne discussed their jointly written book, "The Wrong Box," which had not long been published, and which I had not read. Steyenson said it was nothing but "wild farce," and we laughed over its absurdities. Appar- ently they had another book on the stocks, for they were anxious to learn something about tidal waves, and questioned me closely as to the localities and effects of these phenomena. I gathered that their intention was to get rid of some of their characters with a tidal wave, but I do not remember if this idea was ever used. Thát dinner was the precursor of many delightful evenings and similar dinners spent with the Stevensons in their cool and pleasant "lanai" by the edge of the sea. I felt it to be a rare and extraor- dinary privilege to be admitted for a while as a member of that charming circle, the more so since they held aloof from society, feeling (to quote from one of Stevenson's letters) "oppressed with civilization" after their free and untranllnelled exist- ence in the South Sea Islands. A quota- tion from the same letter will give a better description of the Stevensons' home at \Vaikiki than I could attempt: "The buildings stand in their groups hy the edge of the beach, where an angry little spitfire sea continually spirts and thrashes with impotent irascibility, the big seas breaking farther out upon the reef. The first is a snlall house, with a very large summer parlor, or lanai as they call it here, roofed, but partially open. There you will find the lamps burning and the family sitting about the table, dinner just done: my mother, my wife, Lloyd, Bella, my wife's daughter, Austin her child, and to-night (by way of rarity) a guest. All about the walls our South Sea curiosities, war clubs, idols, pearl-shells, stone axes, etc.; and the walls are only a small part of a lanai, the rest being glazed or latticed windows, or 111ere SOl\IE RECOLLECTIONS OF ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSOX 7 open space." He goes on to describe the other buildings, including a little" shanty" which was his own particular den. " It is a grim little wooden shanty; cobwebs bedeck it; friendly mice inhabit its re- cesses; the mailed cockroach walks upon the wall; so also, I regret to say, the scor- pion. Herein are two pallet beds, two mosquito curtains, strung to the pitch- boards of the roof, two tables laden with books and manuscripts, three chairs, and, in one of the beds, the Squire busy writing to yourself, as it chances, and just at the moment somewhat bitten by mosquitoes." It was in this room that Stevenson, while at Honolulu, slept and passed much of his time in writing and in playing on his "flageolet." He loved music, of which he had con- siderable knowledge (as of most subjects), and finding I was an amateur of the violin asked me to bring my fiddle with me one evening. Although I assured him I was a very poor performer, he insisted, and I brought it accordingly, expecting that ]\tIrs. Strong would accompany me on the piano. On that occasion, however, I found Stevenson alone, and to my dis- may he asked me to play to him without accompaniment. I did so, feeling that my efforts could not possibly give him any pleasure. He sat by me, leaning for- ward, head on hand, listening intently, and (to my inward amazement) evidently enjoying it. The secret of this (and it was characteristic of the man) was that his attention was concentrated, not on me or my fiddle, but on the music itself, the beauties of which, however indiffer- ently rendered, he appreciated and en- joyed. It was interesting to hear his opinions on contemporary authors. Of then living novelists he held Hardy and Meredith to be the greatest. "I am an out-and-out 1'Ieredith man," he said, and advised ll1e to make the acquaintance of "Rhoda Fleming," which I had not read. I asked him whether \Villiam Archer was a So- cialist. "N ot exactly," he replied with twinkling eyes, "but he has aspir-r-ations in that direction" (rolling the r in the slight Scotch accent which never quite deserted him); he spoke of both \Villiam Archer and Andrew Lang with much affec- tion. He appeared to regard Rider Hag- gard as his own chief rival in popular esteem. He loved a joke at.his own expense, and, when we were talkmg of 110nte Carlo, told me, with great enjoyment, that he had the rare distinction of being refused admission to the Casino, "solely on my appearance!" for no other reason was given. This tickled and delighted him immensely. I have spoken of Stevenson's love for his mother. He was not a man who, as the saying goes, wore his heart on his sleeve, but the deep, understanding love subsisting between his wife and himself was, without any outward kind of dem- onstration, equally obvious and beau- tiful. A look exchanged was sufficient, their minds accorded perfectly. One can imagine what she must have been to him through all the years of ill health and suffering he so bravely bore, and can un- derstand the depth of feeling revealed in those well-known lines addressed to her, beginning: "Trusty, dusky, vivid, true." I have said that in conversation Steven- son did most of the talking, but he by no means monopolized it; he was as good a listener as he was a talker. By this I mean that he gave the closest attention to all that was said by others; he listened with an eager intentness that is as flatter- ing to the speaker as it is uncommon. This impressed me from the first; indeed, it was almost embarrassing to see the actual deference which he showed to the probably quite uninteresting remarks made by one who was fully conscious of mental inferiority to his listener. This was no pose nor mere politeness on Ste- venson's part. The truth is that he was genuinely interested in everyone he met, and hoped to hear or learn something new to him, to get views on any question from different angles, or to discover various phases of human character. \Vhether it was a South Sea Island fisherman, a dis- reputable beach-comber, a Hawaiian king, or a naval lieutenant, he was equally interested, and by a delightful sort of silent emanation of sympathy drew out all that was best in the speaker. I felt this strongly in conversation with him, and I found these impressions of mine confirmed in an article (wIÌtten, I think, by 11r. Augustus 11oore) that I 8 SO IE RECOLLECTIO S OF ROBERf LOUIS STE\YENSO came across, some time afterward, in a London journal, from which I am tempted to quote, for it e presses exactly the feel- ings I experienced. "In all my life, I have never seen a fel- low ,-.ho had such a gift of attracting affection, and the queer thing is that th{' affection once attracted always remains with him, so that he has never lost a friend or made an enemy. I\1or eO\ger , by some miraculous sleight, it happens that in whatever company he is placed he be- comes first, and that, too, without any effort. As soon as he opens his mouth something falls from him which forces you to heed him, and the "intense charm of the talk is so moving that most men do not care to check the magic of it by interpo- lating words of their own; so that at one time I fear that I\Iaster Louis was acquir- ing a trick of monologue which gained upon him. But it did not matter: there was no man whom ever I knew who would not be very content to let Steven- son pour out his indescribably beautifu1 thought. . .. Let me name one very singular thing: you cannot remain long in Stevenson's company without feeli1lg like a good man. You may not be good, mark you, any more than I am, but everything that is bad in you lies low, and every power that makes for kindness, tender- ness, uprightness, and charity seems as if it must begin to flourish." That is a very true and just apprecia- tion of Robert Louis Stevenson as a con- versationalist and a companion. I happened to be spending an evening with the Stevensons on the day on which he finished "The l\Iaster of Ballantrae." He was in the highest possible spirits, de- lighted to have got the book off his mind; both he and Lloyd Osbourne were like a pair of schoolboys just off for a holiday, and we had a merry evening. Stevenson must celebrate the occasion with a "Bis- marck"; asked me if I knew what that was, and, on my admitting my ignorance, eXplained that it was a drink composed of a mixture of champagne and stout, and was so called because it was a favorite drink of Bismarck's. I t did not sound promising to me; but as a matter of fact I found it excellent-a kind of glorified shandy-gaff-stimulating and invigorat- ing. Stevenson asked me to accept a copy of "The I\laster of Ballantrae," which reached me in due course and which I treasure to this day. On two occasions Stevenson and Lloyd Osbourne gave TIle the pleasure and honor of their company at luncheon on board the Cormorant. I need hardly say how my brother officers in the wardroom mess appreciated these visits and enjoyed Stevenson's talk, though only one of them was really a Stevenson enthusiast like my- self; this was the chief engineer, a very original character, who evidently de- lighted our distinguished guest, for he asked me to bring him out with me to see hilll at \Vaikiki. This I did, and my friend the chief engineer took with him, as an offering, a bottle of navy rum, in- scribed with the words, "Y o-ho! and a bottle of rum" (from" Treasure Island "), which Stevenson very joyfully received. Stevenson was, of course, intensely in- terested in everything on board the ship; he loved the sea and everything connected with it, and he was delighted with the offer of some halnmocks which we were able to give him, In one of his letters he refers to these yisits to the Cormorant .- "I have been twice to lunch on board, and II. B. I.'s seanlen are nlaking us hanullocks; so we are very naval. 13ut alas, the Cormorant is only waiting her re- lief, and I fear there are not two ships of that stamp in all the navies of the world." It was at about this time (1\larch, 1889) that the disaster at Sanloa occurred, in which three American and three German Blen-of-war were wrecked in the harbor of Apia, in a terrific hurricanc, the only British man-of-war in the harbor, H. I. S. CaUio pc, e caping by stean1Ïng out to sea. \\ c were specially interested in this event, hecause the three Anlerican ships, the I' audalia, Trenton, and ]Ç ipsic, had :-;hortly before been lying in the harbor at Honolulu with u , and we had many f riel1ds on hoard those ships. On April 10 a solemn memorial service was held in the cathedral in honor and remembrance of those who had lost their lh.es. There were some other American men-of-war in t he harbor at the time, and their ships' companies, with ours, took part in the service. In a letter to I\1r. Baxter, Ste- ycnson thus described this incident: " 711t A Pi if, 1889.-A pretty touch of SOì\IE RECOT.LECTIO S OF ROBERT LOUIS STEVE SO 9 scamen manncrs: the English and Amcri- asked nIe to execute a commission for him can Jacks are dcadly rivals: well, after all there, which, of course, I gladly under- this hamnIering of both sides by the Ger- took. This commission was to take from mans, and then the ncws of the hurricane him a sum of !so to lr. Tati Salmon, from Samoa, a singular scene occurred chief of Pápara, to he expenderl for the here the Sunday before last. The two relief of the people of his district, and church parties sponte propriâ fell in line especially of Tautira, who had suffered together, one Englishman to one Ameri- from the recent hurricane which had cre- ,t t , . ....... - ,,, J .1 1. ' t 1 ." '.t ' .I ;\ ,.Ð, , .p-. .. , t ". t, .-# \ ^ \ ,.'i i " - .,' ., } ! . .t.. .. ". 'f ,t( 1 :1 -, . to <1< '.. ,. M, \ . . L ..... . ...., -'<:8[;.,\ Æ.. " :;;.>>..._-", 0" On the seashore near Papcetc. can, and marched down to the harbor like one ship's company. None were more surprised than their own officers. I ha\Te seen a hantle of the seaman on this cruise; I always liked him before; IUY first crew on the Caseo (five sea-lawyers) near cured me; but I have returned to my first loye." It may be noted, by the way, that Ste- venson was mistaken in supposing that the combination of British and American seanIen in this march to and frOln the cathedral was spontaneous. It ,vas a prearranged matter, intended to mark the sympathy of the British with the Americans in their loss. In l\lay, 1889, the Cormorant receh-ed orders to sail for a cruise round the Pacific Islands and thence to Chili. Ste\"enson was immensely interested to hear that we were to visit Tahiti during the cruise, and ". , '>, .' " ' t. t (0 4 -I' j. I 4' , " " I . '.' " f , ."Jit < , -' . c ..\ . i .\,,*,. .. b' atcd such havoc at Samoa, and which Stevenson knew had inflicted much lo :;; and damage in that district. It was at the village of Tautira, in the house of Ori, the sub-chief, that Stevenson and his party had lived for two or three months during the previous autumn and wintcr, and this generous gift from R. L. S. showcd that he had not forgotten hi Tahitian friends. I have not seen this incident mentioned in any life or letters concerning Stevenson. Together with this check he gave me letters to Tati Salmon and Princess l\Ioë, and earnestly adjured me to go to Tau- tira, if possible, while I was at Tahiti, and to see and give his warnlest remembrances to his old friend Ori. I had reason after- ward to be grateful to Stevenson for in- trusting these wishes to me, for in carry- 10 SO:\lE RECOLLECTIOXS OF ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON ing them out I experienced one of the most lovely and delightful expeditions in mv life, as will be told later. "Stevenson also asked me, if possible, to hear some of the "Himini" singers of Tahiti and to write down for him the words and music of some of their "Himi- ms." I promised to do the best I could, but, having heard this music at Tahiti and other islands, I knew that it was no easy task to attempt. It was in this same month of May, be- fore I left Honolulu, that Stevenson was negotiating for the charter of a schooner to take him and his party for a further cruise among the South Sea Islands; his intended destination was the Gilbert Islands, and at that time, I think, he had no definite intention of visiting Samoa; but as it turned out, the cruise ended at Samoa, where he lived the rest of his life. He was not to leave Honolulu, however, before the latter part of June, and we sailed toward the end of 1\1ay, so it was at Honolulu that I bade farewell to the great writer whom I had learned to love, and '\-vhom I was never to see again. I had known him in his books for some years, and I had found the man even more fascinating than his books. Warm were the farewells from him and his wife and Lloyd Osbourne (the elder 1\1rs. Ste- venson had returned home some weeks before) as I left them, and warm the hopes of meeting again, which, alas! were never fulfilled. I had parted from Stevenson, but not from his paths or his influence. The Cormorant arrived at the port of Papeete, in Tahiti, on June 20, and I lost no time in setting forth on my journey to Tautira, which is about sixty miles distant by road from Papeete. In shape, the island of Tahiti is not unlike a human head joined to a limbless trunk both in outline and proportionate size; it just escapes being two islands by the narrow neck-the isthmus of Taravao-which joins the two parts. The smaller part, called Taiarapu, extends from the larger in a southeasterly direction. Papeete, the capital and chief port, is on the northwestern coast of the larger part, Tautira on the northeastern coast of Taiarapu. The road from Pa- peete-debarred by mountains from cut- ting straight across the island-runs round the west coast from Papeete toward the south, crosses the isthmus of Taravao, and continues along the east coast of Taiarapu, on which lies the vil- lage of Tautira. Before leaving Papeete I ascertained that Princess Moë was living close by that town, and therefore went to pay my re- spects to her and to deliver to her Steven- son's letter. I found her in a tiny house by the seashore, and she opened the door to me herself. It will be remembered that Stevenson, landing from the Caseo a physical wreck on their first arrival at Tahiti, was visited by Princess lVloë, who arranged for his being received in the house of Ori, at Tautira. And Steven- son's grateful poem to the kind little prin- cess may be recalled, of which the con- cluding lines run thus: "I threw one look to either hand, And knew I was in Fairyland. And yet one point of being so, I lacked. For, Lady (as you know), \Vhoever by his might of hand \Von entrance into Fairyland, Found always with admiring eyes A Fairy princess kind and wise. H was not long I waited; soon Upon my threshold, in broad noon, Fair and helpful, wise and good, The Fairy Princess Moë stood." These lines were written at Tautira in November, 1888; it was now, in July, 1889, that this little fairy princess stood before me on her own threshold, and wel- comed me in with all the dignity and grace of any princess in the world. She was a slight, slim little woman, past her youth, but with all that engaging charm of manner so marked in Polynesian women, and perhaps above all in the women of Tahiti. The mention of Rob- ert Louis Stevenson was a talisman; her face lighted up at my mention of him, and she was delighted to receive his mes- sages and to hear I had so lately seen him. I doubt, by the way, if she could have ap- preciated his verse to her in the original, for her knowledge of English was slight and our conversation was in French. But it was quite evident that she had fallen under the spell of Stevenson's charm. The principal lady of Tahiti at that time was l\Irs. Darsie, who possessed a most beautiful home at Fautaua, a few .SOl\lE RECOI.LECTIO S OF ROBERT I.OUTS STEVENSO 11 miles outside Papeete. Her mother was sible. 'Vith the help of Ir. Arthur a Tahitian princess of the old royal family Brander, Mrs. Darsie's son, all arrange- of Teriirere, and had married an English ments were made; and, leaving the ship trader named Salnlon. Their daughter, before daylight one morning, a brother of whom I write, first married a :ðIr. officer, called Bedford, and I landed and Brander, by whom she had several sons made our way to the market-place at Pa- -- "' ., -- ' / T , i ... '!fapeete, and invited us into the house, which was no other than the house of Ori, in which Stevenson had lived, and we found that our guide was Ori-a-Ori himself, host, friend, and brother of R. L. S., to whom he dedicated his "Ballads" in the following lines: and nothing could be too good for us. Re made us at once feel ourselves at home, put a scrupulously clean little hed- room-one of three which ran along each side of the central room or hall-at our disposal, and in a short time placed an excellent meal before us, in which we were joined by Norman Brander and his charming young wife, the Princess Vetua. # . . ... - . .' .!' I I 4f .' t - I : t .'" .n ; , . >. *' -.. , . .' .. , I .... .. . , ... ...... .. ' -" 7J :> I' .1,;1 . '., ....:. -- Of , ' A public meeting-house, Tahiti. "To Ori a Ori. Od, my brother in the island mode, In every tongue and meaning much my friend, This story of your country and your clan, In your loved house, your too much honored guest, I made in English. Take it, being done; And let me sign it with the name you gave. TERIITERA. " Lloyd Osbourne describes Ori thus: "A life-guardsman in appearance; six foot three in bare feet, deep and broad in proportion; unconsciously English to an absurd extent; feared, respected, and loved." To this excellent description I would add that no English nobleman could have treated his guests with greater consideration, delicacy of feeling, and dig- nified courtesy than did this perfect Tahi- tian gentleman, Ori, our host. The fact that we were friends of his beloved" Rui " (Louis) was sufficient to endear us to him, She was one of the royal family of Tahiti, and queen of the adjacent island of Raia- tea, over which she was destined never to reign, for that island was annexed by the French against the wishes of its people. But the tragic story of Raiatea is not to be entered upon here. There, at any rate, sat with us its lovely young queen, twenty years old, with her handsome hus- band, Norman Brander; and a cheerful little party we were, with much talk of R. L. Stevenson, who had the year before occupied that house, and had there re- covered health and strength. It was easy to see how he had won all hearts at Tautira. \Vhile we sat at the table half a dozen Tahitian women sat on the floor, and groups of men and boys stood looking in at doors and windows-a state of affairs thorougWy Tahitian, for Ori, as sub- 16 SO:\IE RECOLI .ECTIO S OF RORFRT LOUIS STEVENSON chief and head of an important family, kept open house for all his clansmen, who seemed to come in and out as thev liked. But what struck us most were the grace of manner and natural refinement of all these simple yil1agers. After our meal, hearing that a practice of "Himini" singing was to take place, we walked in the darkness across the grass to a large hut, illuminated within, whence came sounds of strange and pow- erful music; we looked in at the entrance for a few minutes, but were then led to another large hut, similarly illuminated, where the best singing in the village was to be heard. Here, on the grass outside the wide entrance, mats were laid down on which we lay to listen to the music and to watch the singers. Two rows of women sat on the ground, brightly illuminated; behind them, in semi-darkness, a row of men. In the middle of the front row of women sat a young girl of about twelve, who sang the solos, which led up to the choruses. It is impossible to describe the singing, which was strange, thrilling, and unlike any other singing in the world outside Poly- nesia. The young leader would begin a bar or two solo; then like a hurricane the whole chorus burst in, the different parts rising and falling like waves in a gale- overrunning each other, catching each other up, interweaving, but all in a pe- culiar kind of harmony; some of the wo- men maintained an almost continuous high note; some of the men a low, sus- tained drone. It was like Bach's" Fugue in G l\Iinor" gone mad, or a performance of giant bagpipes. The time throughout was perfect and strongly marked; it was emphasized by one of the strangest effects in the chorus: a number of the men behind emitted, with the full force of their bodies (pressing their waists with their hands) a kind of terrific gasp, short, loud, and on no ascertainable note, accenting each beat of the bar with a tremendous and aston- ishing effect; at the same time heaving up their shoulders and bowing their heads alternately to one side and the other, per- spiring with the force exerted. The ex- traordinary vim and energy instilled into the chorus by this gasping accompani- ment cannot be described. As for the women in front, they sat like so many pretty images of Buddha, their faces fixed and expressionless, except for a pensive sadness, their teeth kept close together, giving their voices a nasal but not unpleasant timbre. \\Te felt we could listen to this strange and enchanting music all night, but it was getting late, and at ten o'clock we bade good-night to the singers and returned to Ori's hospitable house. It was at Tautira that Stevenson had heard this "Himini" singing, and had been so struck by it that he was anxious for me to com- mit some of it to paper; I was equally anxious to achieve that feat, but it seemed to me impossible. One could catch bits of the air now and then, but not much, and as for the harmonies, a ßlOnth of studv would be needed. There was great competition among the districts and villages of Tahiti to produce the best" Himini " singing; and an annual contest took place at Papeete, prizes being given to the best choirs. The word "Himini," of course, is a corruption of "hymn," introduced by the missionaries, but was now applied to all choral singing, sacred or otherwise. We passed a peaceful and comfortable night and rose soon after daylight next morning to find tea and an excellent omelet ready for us. The village, hith- erto seen in darkness, looked beautiful in the freshness of early morning. \Ve walked out to the river we had crossed the night before and had a delicious bath Ìll; one of its deep pools, the water running down sweet and clear frmn one of the loveliest valleys I ever saw, beyond which ran the purple mountains. After returning to dress at Ori's, and a breakfast that would have done credit to a Parisian cook, we walked about the yiUage for a while. One could hardly con- ceive a more delightful spot to dwell in, or a happier existence than that which R. L. S. and his party must have led dur- ing their stay in this tranquil and beau- tiful village. They wore the native dress, mingled with the natives (far superior, it must be remembered, to Orientals in re- finement) and entered thoroughly into the spirit of Tahitian life. No wonder Ori and his people cherished their re- membrance. At I I .30 our equipage was ready for us, SOl\IE RECOLLECTIO S OF ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSO 17 the horse as emotionless as ever. Nor- man Brander and Queen Vetua were to follow, having a good pair of horses which would soon catch us up. \Ve said" good- bye" to noble old Ori, with love and ad- miration; never should we forget (nor ha\"e we forgotten) him and Tautira, though we were never to see him again. we drove on to Pápara, arriving at the hospitable house of Tati, high chief of the Tevas, at 5 P. M. Tati received us with the heartiest wel- come, and introduced us to his brother Narii, as big and handsome as himself. Never, indeed, have I seen men and women so physically gifted as this semi- River near Tautira. The drive back to Pápara was through Tahitian family. If further proof were the same fairyland as before, but this needed, it was soon forthcoming, for while time (to borrow Stevenson's conceit) we we were talking in the veranda two girls, had the added pleasure of a fairy prin- without exception the most beautiful we cess's company, for within an hour of our had seen in Tahiti (and that is saying start Brander and lovely Vetua had much), came out and were introduced to caught us up, and, adapting their speed us by Tati as his sisters, Telaatau and to that of our imperturbable old horse, l\Ianihinihi, otherwise known as Lois and kept us company as far as 1Iataiea. Chick. Both spoke Englis,h perfectly and Often we stopped to pick the sweet juicy had travelled considerably, Lois having oranges, and in one beautiful wood we been educated in Europe and lived in stopped while Vetua Dlade wreaths of a England for some time. They combined certain scented fern, which she placed all the charm of Tahitian girls with the round our hats, Tahiti fashion. At Ta- breeding and education of English ladies, ravao we returned our inscrutable horse to and in their fine and delicate holokus, his inscrutable Chinese master, and went with their black hair hanging in two long on with Tati's horse to the house at plaits, made a pretty picture, while their 11ataiea where we had met Tati. There ease of manner and love of fun soon put Brander and Vetua parted from us, and us on friendly terms. VOL. LXXIII.-2 18 SO lE RECOLLECTIO S OF ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON "'"hile talking in the central room, or hall, a grand old native lady sailed in, whom all greeted with deep respect. And with reason, for she was the great royal chiefess, Teriirere, who had married l\1r. Salmon, and was the widowed mother of Tati and l\Irs. Darsie, and of their brothers and sisters. She was a splendid old lady, a gralldc dame, with whom, un- fortunately, our conversation was limited, for she spoke very little English. After a very excellent dinner on the veranda, followed by wine and cigars, we returned to the central hall, where Tati had arranged to gather the singers of his district together to practise "Him- inis" for the approaching competition at Papeete. The" Himini " singers of Pá- para were generally acknowledged to be the finest in the island, and had won several prizes, so it was a piece of special good fortune for us to hear them. The singers came in and took their seats on the floor, their chief, Tati, sitting in his chair opposite them, and conducting the practice himself, for they were anxious to learn a new piece, and he was going to practice the Toreador's song from "Car- men "-to be sung, of course, in Tahitian style. Another lady now came into the room, and Tati presented us to her; she was his sister 1\larautaaroa, and a very exalted lady, for she was the wife of Pomare, King of Tahiti, who was virtually a state prisoner, living on a pension al- lowed by the French, but who was so drunken and dissolute that it was im- possible for this dignified and accom- plished lady (who had been educated in France) to live with him. She took her seat at the piano and ac- companied the singing. Fifty times over was the tune sung by the patient natives and played by the patient queen, until the former had learned the air; then they retired to practise it with their own har- monies and embellishments in their huts. I had heard them sing also some of the old Pápara Himinis, which I knew Steven- son wanted, and on returning to Papeete was able, with the kind help of 1\lrs. God- defroy, 1\lrs. Darsie's daughter, and some native singers, to write down one or two airs with words; but the harmonies were beyond me. To Tati Salmon I handed the .-Eso Ste- venson had intrusted to him to disburse, and asked him to acquaint him of its dis- tribution in due course. The next morn- ing, after a good night's rest and a de- licious early breakfast, we bade adieu to the kind and hospitable chief and his charming sisters, took our seats in the stage, and returned to Papeete, through the same enchanting scenery, and so com- pleted the most delightful and interesting expedition I have ever experienced, and one for which I have ever been grateful to R. L. Stevenson, who gave me the op- portunity to carry it out. It was a fitting corollary to the pleasant hours I had spent with him in Honolulu thus to trace his previous footsteps in the more beautiful island of Tahiti. In due course I forwarded through a friend of his a report to Stevenson of my proceedings, and the rather unsuccessful results of my efforts to transcribe the "Himini" tunes; but whether this letter ever reached him in his distant home at Samoa I never heard. In Mr. Frederick O'Brien's "l\lystic Isles of the South Seas," published about two years ago, he mentions Ori as still living, and gives a photograph of that grand old man of Tautira, who must now be of a great age; but alas! the handsome and genial chief, Tati Salmon, of Pápara, had fallen a victim, with thousands of his fellow islanders, to the epidemic of influ- enza that swept Tahiti after the war. Tahiti will long be the Garden of the Pacific, but the blight of modern civiliza- tion has attacked it and decay is setting in. It will never again be the Tahiti of the days of Robert Louis Stevenson, when he dwelt in the house of Ori, at Tautira, thirty-four years ago. R , " . .. I - I .' -F ."- . ,.... , '"" J.- - . ., "..,þ 0" '1t.. ....--. - - '- '- .- :_ - ....->. - L" .........7" ,..-.' '\ '- - .,-- { .... .. : .... ......" ... "I think I'll ùrop in at Cook's about our ticket.;." . A Son at the Front B1 EDrrH 'YHARTO ILLUSTRATIONS (FRONTISPIECE) BY FRANCES ROGERS v HE next Inorning he said to George, over coffee on the terrace: "I think I'll drop in at Cook's about our tickets. " George nodded, munching his golden roll. "Right. I'll run up to see mother, then. " His father was silent. Inwardly he was saying to himself: "The chances are she'll be going back to Deauville this afternoon." There had not been much to gather from the newspapers heaped at their feet. Austria had ordered general mobilisation; hut while the tone of the despatches was nervous and contradictory that of the leading articles remained almost ominous- ly reassuring. Campton absorbed the re- assurance without heeding its quality: it was a drug he had to have at any price. He expected the Javanese dancer to sit to him that afternoon, but he had not proposed to George to he present. On the chance that things might eventually take a wrong turn he meant to say a word to Fortin-Lescluze; and the presence of his son would have been embarrassing. " You'll be back for lunch?" he called to George, who still lounged on the ter- race in pyjamas. " Rather.- That is, unless mother makes a point. . . in case she's leaving." "Oh, of course," said Campton with grim cordiality. " You see, dear old boy, I've got to see Uncle Andy some time. .." It was the grotesque name that George, in his baby- hood, had given to JUr. Brant, and when he grew up it had been difficult to substitute another. " Especially now-" George added, pulling himself up out of his chair. "Now? " They looked at each other in silence, irritation in the father's eye, indulgent amusement in the son's. 19 20 A SON' AT TI IE FRONT "\Yhy, if you and I are really off on this long trek-" "Oh, of course," agreed Campton, re- lieved. "Y ou'd much better lunch with them. I always want you to do what's decent." He paused on the threshold to add: "By the way, don't forget Adele." "\Yell, rather not," his son responded. "And we'll keep the evening free for something awful." As he left the room he heard George rapping on the telephone and calling out 1\Iiss Anthonv's number. Campton had to have reassurance at any price; and he got it, as usual, irra- tionally but irresistibly, through his eyes. The mere fact that the midsummer sun lay so tenderly on Paris, that the bronze dolphins of the fountains in the square were spraying the Nereids' Louis Philippe chignons as playfully as ever; that the sleepy Cities of France dozed as heavily on their thrones, and the Horses of lVlarly pranced as fractiously on their pedestals; that the glorious central setting of the city lay there in its usual mellow pomp-all this gave him a sense of security that no criss-crossing of Reuters and Havases could shake. Nevertheless, he reflected that there was no use in battling with the silly hys- terical crowd he would be sure to encoun- ter at Cook's; and having left word with the hotel-porter to secure two" sleepings " on the Naples express, he drove to the studio. On the way, as his habit was, he thought hard of his model: everything else disappeared like a rolled-up curtain, and his inner vision centred itself on the little yellow face he was to paint. Peering through her cobwebby window, he saw old ::\Ime. Lebel on the watch for him. He knew she wanted to pounce out and ask if there would be war; and com- posing his most taciturn countenance he gave her a preoccupied nod and hurried by. The studio looked grimy and disor- dered, and he remembered that he had intended, the evening before, to come back and set it to rights. In pursuance of this plan, he got out a canvas, fussed with his brushes and colours, and then tried once more to make the place tidy. But his attempts at order always resulted in worse confusion; the fact had been one of Julia's grievances against him, and he had often thought that a reaction from his ways probably explained the lifeless neat- ness of the Anderson Brant drawing- room. Campton had fled to Montmartre to escape a number of things: first of all, the possibility of meeting people who would want to talk about the European situa- tion, then of being called up by J\Irs. Brant, and lastly of having to lunch alone in a fashionable restaurant. In his mor- bid dread of seeing people he would have preferred an omelette in the studio, if only 1\1ariette had been at hand to make it; and he decided, after a vain struggle with his muddled "properties," to cross over to the Luxembourg quarter and pick up a meal in a wine-shop. He did not own to himself his secret reason for this decision; but it caused him, after a glance at his watch, to hasten his steps down the rue Montmartre and bribe a passing taxi to carry him to the Museum of the Luxembourg. He reached it ten minutes before the midday dosing, and hastening past the serried statues, turned into a room half way down the gallery. \Vhistler's J\10ther and the Car- mencita of Sargent wondered at each other from its walls; and on the same wall with the Whistler hung the picture Campton had come for: his portrait of his son. He had given it to the Luxembourg the day after JVlr. Brant had tried to buy it, with the object of inflicting the most cruel slight he could think of on the banker. In the generous summer light the pic- ture shone out on him with a communi- cative warmth: never had he seen so far into its depths. "No wonder," he thought, "it opened people's eyes to what I was trying for." He stood and stared his own eyes full, mentally comparing the features before him with those of the firmer harder George he had left on the terrace of the Crillon, and noting how time, while ful- filling the rich promise of the younger face, had yet taken something from its brightness. Campton, at that moment, found more satisfaction than ever in thinking how it must have humiliated Brant to have the A SO AT THE FRO T picture given to France. H He could have understood my keeping it myself-or holding it for a bigger price-but giv-ing it- ! " The satisfaction was worth the sacrifice of the best record he would ever have of that phase of his son's youth. At various times afterward he had tried for the same George, but not one of his later studies had that magic light on it. Still, he was glad he had given the picture. It was safe, safer than it would have been with him. His great dread had always been that if his will were mislaid (and his things were always getting mislaid) the picture might be sold, and fall into Brant's hands after his death. The closing signal drove him out of the Iuseum, and he turned into the first wine-shop. He had advised George to lunch with the Brants, but there was dis- appointment in his heart. Seeing the turn things were taking, he had hoped the boy would feel the impulse to remain with him. But, after all, at such a time a son could not refuse to go to his mother. Campton pictured the little party of three grouped about the luncheon-table in the high cool dining-room of the Avenue l\Iarigny, with the famous Hubert Robert panels, and the Louis XV silver and Sèvres; while he, the father, George's father, sat alone at the soiled table of a frowsy wine-shop. 'VeIl-it was he who had willed it so. Life was too crazy a muddle-and who could have foreseen that he might have been repaid for twenty-six years with such a wife by keeping an undivided claim on such a son? His meal over, he hastened back to the studio, hoping to find the dancer there. Fortin-Lescluze had sworn to bring her at two, and Campton was known to exact absolute punctuality. He had put the final touch to his fame by refusing to paint the mad young Duchesse de la Tour Crenelée-who was exceptionally paint- able-because she had kept him waiting three-quarters of an hour. But now, though it was nearly three, and the dancer and her friend had not come, Campton dared not move, lest he should miss For- tin - Lescl uze. "Sent for by a rich patient in a war- funk; or else hanging about in the girl's dressing-room while she polishes her toe- 21 nails," Campton reflected; and sulkily sat down to wait. He had never heen willing to have a telephone. To him it was a live thing, a kind of Laocoon-serpent that caught one in its coils and dragged one struggling to the receiver. His friends had spent all their logic in trying to argue away this be- lief; but he answered obstinately: H Every one would be sure to call me up when l\Iariette was out." Even the Russian lady, during her brief reign, had pleaded in vain on this point. He would have given a good deal now if he had listened to her. The terror of having to cope with small material dif- ficulties, always strongest in him in mo- ments of artistic inspiration-when the hushed universe seemed hardly big enough to hold him and his model-this dread anchored him to his seat while he tried to make up his mind to send l\Ime. Lebel to the nearest telephone-station. If he called to her, she would instantly begin: "And the war, sir? " And he would have to settle that first. Besides, if he did not telephone himself he could not make sure of another appointment with Fortin-Lescluze. But the idea of battling alone with the telephone in a pu blic place covered his large body with a damp distress. If only George had been in reach! He waited till four, and then, furious, locked the studio and went down. Ime. Lebel still sat in her spidery den. She looked at him gravely, their eyes met, they exchanged a bow, but she did not move or speak. She was busy as usual with some rusty sewing-he thought it odd that she should not rush out to way- lay him. Everything that day was odd. He found all the telephone-booths be- sieged. The people waiting were cer- tainly bad cases of war-funk, to judge from their looks; after scrutinising them for a while he decided to return to his hotel, and try to communicate \vith Fortin-Lescluze from there. To his annoyance there was not a ta:xi to be seen. He limped down the slope of l\Iontmartre to the nearest métro-station, and just as he was preparing to force his lame bulk into a crowded train, caught sight of a solitary horse-cab: a vehicle he had not risked himself in for years. 22 A SOX AT THE FRONT The cab-driver, for gastronomic rea- sons, declined to take him farther than the l\ladeleine; and getting out there, Campton walked along the rue Royale. Everything still looked ,vonderfully as usual; and the fountains in the Place sparkled gloriously. Comparatively few people were about: he was surprised to see how few. A small group of them, he noticed, had paused near the doorway of the l\Iinistry of l\larine, and were looking-without visi- ble excitement-at a white paper pasted on the wall. He crossed the street and looked too. In the middle of the paper, in queer Gothic-looking characters, he saw the words .. J:rø .2\rmrrø br rrrr rt br fltrr. . . :" \Var had come- He knew now that he had never for an instant believed it possible. Even when he had had that white-lipped interview with the Brants, even when he had planned to take Fortin-Lescluze by his senile infatuation, and secure a medical certificate for Geo.rge; even then, he had simply been obeying the superstitious im- pulse which makes a man carry his um- brella when he goes out on a cloudless morning. \Var had come. He stood on the edge of the sidewalk, and tried to think-now that it was here -what it really meant: that is, what it meant to him. Beyond that he had no intention of venturing. "This is not our job anyhow," he muttered, repeating the phrase with which he had bolstered up his talk with Julia. But abstract thinking was impossible: his confused mind could only snatch at a few drifting scraps of purpose. "Let's be practical," he said to himself. The first thing to do was to get back to the hotel and call up the physician. He strode along at his fastest limp, suddenly contemptuous of the people who got in his way. " \Var-and they've nothing to do but dawdle and gape! How like the French!" He found himself hating the French. He remembered that he had asked to have his sleepings engaged for the follow- in.g night. But if he managed to se- cure his son's discharge, there could be no thought, now, of George's leaving the country; and he stopped at the desk to cancel the order. There was no one behind the desk: one would have said that confusion prevailed in the hall, if its emptiness had not made the word incongruous. At last a waiter with rumpled hair strayed out of the res- taurant, and of him, imperiously, Camp- ton demanded the concierge. "The concierge? He's gone." "To get my places for Naples?" The waiter looked blank. "Gone: mobilised-to join his regiment. It's the war. " "But look here, some one must have attended to getting my places, I suppose," cried Campton wrathfully. He invaded the inner office and challenged a secretary who was trying to deal with several un- manageable travellers, but who explained to him, patiently, that his sleepings had certainly not been engaged, as no trains were leaving Paris for the present. "Not for civilian travel," he added, still nlore patiently. Campton had a sudden sense of suf- focation. No trains leaving Paris "for the present"? But then people like him- self-people who had nothing on earth to do with the war-had been caught like rats in a trap! He reflected with a shiver that l\1rs. Brant would not be able to re- turn to Deauville, and would probably insist on his coming to see her every day. He asked: "How long is this preposterous state of things to last? "-but no one an- swered, and he stalked to the lift, and had himself carried up-stairs. He was confident that George would be there waiting for him; but the sitting- room was empty. He felt as if he were on a desert island, with the last sail dis- appearing over the dark rim of the world. After much vain ringing he got into communication with Fortin's house, and heard a confused voice saying that the physician had already left Paris. "Left-for where? For how long?" And then the eternal answer: " The doctor is mobilised. It's the war." 1vlobilised-already? \Vithin the first twenty-four hours? A man of Fortin's age and authority? Campton was terri- fied hy the uncanny rapidity with which events were moving, he whom haste had A SON AT THE FRO T always confused and disconcerted, as if there were a secret link between his lame- ness and the movements of his will. He rang up Dastrey, but no one answered. Evidently his friend was out, and his friend's bonne also. "I suppose she's mobilised: they'll be mobilising the wo- men next." At last, from sheer over-agitation, his fatigued mind began to move more de- liberately: he collected his wits, laboured with his more immediate difficulties, and decided that he would go to Fortin-Les- cluze's house, on the chance that the physician had not, after all, really started. "Ten to one he won't go till to-mor- row," Campton reasoned. The hall of the hotel was emptier than ever, and no taxi was in sight down the whole length of the rue Royale, or the rue Boissy d'Anglas, or the rue de Rivoli: not even a horse-cab showed against the de- serted distances. He crossed to the mé- tro, and painfully descended its many stairs. VI CAMPTON, proffering twenty francs to an astonished maid-servant, learned that, yes, to his intimates-and of course 1\lon- sieur was one ?-the doctor was in, was in fact dining, and did not leave till the next morning. "Dining-at six o'clock?" "1\Ionsieur's son, l\:1onsieur Jean, is starting at once for his depot. That's the reason. " Campton sent in his card. He expected to be received in the so-called "studio," a lofty room with Chinese hangings, Renaissance choir-stalls, organ, grand piano, and post-impressionist paintings, where Fortin-Lescluze received the celeb- rities of the hour. 1\Ime. Fortin never appeared there, and Campton associated the studio with amusing talk, hot-house flowers, and ladies lolling on black velvet divans. He supposed that the physician was separated from his wife, and that she had a home of her own. \Vhen the maid reappeared she did not lead him to the studio, but into a small dining-room with the traditional Henri II sideboard of waxed walnut, a hanging table-lamp under a beaded shade, an India-rubber plant on a plush pedestal, 23 and napkins that were just being restored to their bone rings by the four persons seated about the red-and-white checkered table-cloth. These were: the great man himself, a tall large woman with grey hair, a tiny old lady, her face framed in a peasant's fluted cap, and a plain young man wear- ing a private's uniform, who had a nose like the doctor's, and simple light blue eyes. The two ladies and the young man-so much more interesting to the painter's eye than the sprawling beauties of the studio-were introduced by Fortin-Les- cluze as his wife, his mother and his son. Mme. Fortin said, in a deep alto, a word or two about the privilege of meeting the famous painter who had portrayed her husband, and the old mother, in a piping voice, exclaimed: "l\-no golf or tennis "-and no Americans, '\bo we found the ruins of a wonderful old bridge, a palace and cathedral of the popes, and an old, old town surrounded by ramparts built six cen-' turies ago. f./ ;: IT / 1 -1 f/ I .r ", t ..,.....'\, dts r '-- I .fli f$ ,' tr" A 2J 1 : -' 'I t J.' , - j fit If ___ , f ) f .... --;t., . 1,-.1 r '"Î'-"r-/'2: ' I b..- , ,- r-, "" _ li - ' \ì > 'A -:.dl rl} _, þi.J - J-- . -- _____",\ ...-k r_..... - ; . - 37 .... { 4_ The Rue de la République, which is "l\Iain Street," a prosperous-looking thoroughfare, lined with up-to-date shops, department stores, and business concerns-a sort of "front" to the city which is quite out of character with the time-scarred walls and quaint old shops of the adjacent winding and crooked streets with their traffic of donkey-carts and plodding peasants. ..:: - '--6'::- ..- 3 8 The market square is of unusual interest to foreigners, with its many-colored awnings and stalls piled high with the greatest con- ceivable variety of commodities: regional products such as bread, cheeses, wines, and vegetables; live stock, pigs, chickens, cows, and milk-giving goats. General merchan- dis{'-anything from a remnant of silk to a ,;ccond-hand automobile-may be bought al- most at your own price. -- -=--- The civility shown by shopkeepers is in sharp contrast to the snappy husiness methods to which Americans arc accustomed. "Bon- jour, m'sieur," " Ierci, madame," or "Au re- yoir, m'sieur, m'dame," are in use constantl\". Even in the purchase of postage-stamps one is thanked as profusely as if a large profit was rep- resented in the transac- tIon. 39 The numerous cafés do a rushing business between twelve and two, when the shops close for déjeuner -and a few ganles of cards. Black, strrng' coffee with cognac is the fa- voiÍte beycrage, and is known as ,. un cl1at:d." It. is as popular with the éiite as viith those who sweep the streets. Each café caters, more or less, t.o a certain class. In the large rcstaurants along the Rue de la République one finds mostly busi- ness men and commercial travellers, while in cafés along the smaller streets laborers and t.radesmen meet to drink, gossip, and snloke. \ 4 0 -- Long beards and rich, luxuri- ant "side-burns" are popular, and consequently the cigarette- holder is almost a staple. Bar- ber shops flourish in Avignon, but the real work of a coiffeur apparently consists of inducing growth, fancy trimming, and fin- ishing rather than the actual cutting of hair. The patisseries arc long estahlished, and he- I sides the manufacture and sale of rum-soaked ;jj I cl tarts nd past ies, the making of candy is _! ,I. I 'ct .!,rt. . -:-t lucratIve side-hne. _ t - Seldom is any sweet offered .:; _PAT\ C; .; tn.' \rlæ' f for sale unless it imitates or - - I ,_ l ....!'C represents something. Can- :.. I' \ ,'" ____ dy, musical instruments, and :I i _ __ -:::'. j 1 I W , I \ f what-nots-carcful copies of ;'r -""'-* t. j ''\ "";;:. and of anImals, both wIld --:f '/J I t 'I . - and domestic, are most allur- ( ' . AI \ I, j I ' ,, i g to the l al t st . !he (t ( ) \ J' r l' .r , . chocolate fish IS an InstItutIon, '\ J- \-- _____ I and enorm?us trou serve to I(, _ _ ' attract one s attentIon. '-=";;.. v ___ ___ "- - - ..::---:: - ---....... --- - ---... ---- Tea is served in the larger patisseriC:', due doubtless to the demand created bv the visiting English, and" Five o'Clock;' is conspicuously advertised. The French tolerate the idea, and consume large quan- tities of rich pastries, after e\.amining the wJ.res on display. 4 1 The bicycle plays a large part in the local traffic, and is used by old and young alike. \Yhile sizes and styles vary, it is of small import whether it be a large bi- cycle or a small one-whether "pour homme ou pour dame "-one serves the average workman as well as another. Carpenters, carrying complete sets of tools, pedal to and from work with a care- I ( 4 2 less ease that is most enviable to the amateur cyclist. Women who have any distance to go shopping or selling invari- ably ride wheels; and, if the weather is inclement, holding an open umbrella in one hand is no handicap at. all. Bread goes ramping by, propelled by any mem- ber of the baker's family who chooses to deliver it. Traffic regulations are un- heard of; and, as the sidewalks are so few and so narrow, pedestrians walk in t.he streets among bicycles, farm trucks, and donkey-carts. . The two-wheel cart. is next in popular use to the bicycle, and the biggest and stoutest peasants-often two or three, in a cart with a load of produce-are dravrn by the most diminutive donkeys. r -- 1J""lIr t..iKI'T''''. "'DEW,.,. \... - ,,'<, 1 ,\ -....._ -:l I I) . J': f : :\, ; .... \ '\_-:l r _., , ........-..--- -- -,. . L-"J" ,.: _ . . r. II - .... 1 43 "u nder Glass" BY PERCY l\1ARKS LEANED back in my chair, smiled my most genial now-boys-we're- all-among-friends smile, and addressed the first man, alpha- betically speaking, in the class. "\Vhy," I demanded, "did you come to college?" He replied with unexpected prompt- ness: "I didn't want to come; my father made me." There were twenty-nine men in that class, and I asked each of them the same question. 1 received only one other defi- nite reply. That came from the most brilliant man in the room. He flushed a painful purple and stuttered: "1-1 don't know why I came." The other men-and they were good students, all of them-evaded with vague generalities. One man said that he had come to get an education. "\Vhat do you mean by education?" I asked. "An education is-er, an education is . . ." He was getting very red. " I guess that I don't know just what I do mean by it." After that reply no one said that he had come for an education. However, an- other man said that he had come to col- lege to improve himself. Of course, 1 did not miss the opportunity. "Just what," I asked amiably, "do you mean by improving yourself?" The class waited. The class wanted very much to know. So did 1. " \Vhy, to make me better generally." "I don't quite understand. Can't you be more specific? I'm not sure what you mean by better. I take it that you don't mean it entirely in the moral sense." "Oh, no! I mean-well, just to round me out. I t.hink an education does that for you." "Just how?" He grinned. "I don't know," he said 44 frankly, and his grin added: "You knew I didn't, too." A few of the men thought that a college education" did a lot for a man socially," but they were hazy about what they meant by socially. Oh, not lounge-liz- arding or tea-fighting, or anything like that; but it sort 0' got a fellow into things like-oh, into things generally. And so it went. They had a few fine phrases, such as: "A college education is · of great value in the business world," or "A college education is a social asset," or even, "A college education is now a ne- cessity." Not one man was willing t.o admit that he had come to college because he thought that a degree would help him to make money. All of them said that that was undoubtedly true, and that was one rea- son why they had come, but none of them was materialistic enough to give that as his sole reason. There were other rea- sons-but they didn't know what they were. I was teaching at Dartmouth College at the time I asked that question, and that class was the best one I have ever had in a good many years of teaching. There wasn't a real dud in it, and several of the men were truly brilliant, not only in my work but in all their classes. It was an exceptional group of twenty-nine under- graduates-and not one of them knew why he had come to college. I have known húndreds, thousands of undergraduates, but I cannot think of one who actually had a clear idea of why he had come to college. I hasten to make two exceptions. Engineering students know that they have come to learn to be engineers, but they know that they must learn something more than that-and they don't know what that extra some- thing is. The other exception is the youthful materialist. I met one of them last year. Our conversation went some- thing like this: "Y ou think," I said, "that you will "TINDER GLASS" make more money as a result of your col- lege education?" " Yes; of course." "Just why?" "'Veil, a college man has a better chance than other men because he has had better training." "The word training," I said, "is signifi- cant. You have come to college then, I take it, to be trained as a business man." " Yes. " "'Vhat courses are you taking?" "English, hiology, history, French, and economics. " "'Veil, where does the training come in? " He hesitated, made a few false starts, and then admitted that he did not know. He looked rather disgusted, too, and was yisibly wondering if he hadn't made a mistake in coming ta college. Of course, that lad was getting some training for business, even if he didn't know it, hut what he suddenly realized was that he was spending four years of time, several thousands of dollars, and a great deal of effort to get something which was of no "practical" value at all as far as he could see. 'Vhat I am getting at in a rather round- about fashion is this: Nearly every under- graduate, materialist or dreamer, is doing just what my young materialist was, spending four years of time, several thou- sands of dollars, and a great deal of effort to get something-and he doesn't know what that something is. Neither do his parents. The father and mother talk proudly of gh-ing their boyan education, and ninety-nine out of a hundred have only a vague idea, if any at all, of what they mean by the word. And, indeed, why does a boy, or a girl, go to college? I am talking now of why he goes, not of why he ought to go. There are several reasons. His father wants to give him greater opportunities than he himself has had. (. lost college boys do not have college-bred fathers.) The fa- ther knows that he has missed something, that his contemporaries who went to col- lege have" the bulge on him" in a good many ways. He feels, perhaps, that he might have made more money if he had had a college education; at any rate, he would have had more "drag." He real- 45 izes that friends made in college often prove valuahle in later years. And he feels, too, that a college degree gives one a certain, if undefined, social standing. All this, you will notice, is "practical." He has, however, one other motive: He guesses that his boy is as good as an\ other hoy, and if Billy Jones and Jack Smith can go to college--weIl, he'll be damned if his Ferdinand can't go too. The boy himself? 'Veil, the boy i only eighteen years old and he doesn't think much about it. He may spout grandly about" the advantages of a col- lege education," but he really isn't inter- ested in those advantages at all. I am talking ahout the average boy; of course, there are hoys, especially those who are putting themselves through college by hard work, who feel that an education is a serious business and that it must be taken seriously. But even that boy, who is working twice as hard as his high-school classmate who is "out in business" mak- ing money, does not clearly understand the reason for his own effort. He wants "to get ahead," and he knows that that is the best way to do it. The average boy is fascinated by the glamour of college life, and well he may be. He wants to get into the so-called activi- ties; he wants to make a fraternity; and- I hasten to admit it-he wants to do well in his studies, part Iy hecause he feels ashamed if he does badly, and partly he- cause he wants his parents to be proud of him. Rarely, very rarely, indeed, does he see any real value in the studies them- selves. The faculty tells him that there are certain subjects that he has to take- and the faculty probably knows what it is talking about. At any rate, it ought to, and if it doesn't, who does? Certainly the undergradua te does not pretend to know. He chooses his electives by reputation; that is, if the instructor is known to grade easily, the course is a good one; if the worl is said to bc very light, the course is a good one; if the instructor has the repu- tation of cutting classes regularly, the course is a good one; and if the course de- mands no final examination, it's a great onc. It's a darb! Of course, an under- graduate occasionally chooses a course be- cause the suhject happens to interest him, but almost invariably the crowded courses 46 "UNDER GLASS" are those known as snaps. I t is a rare junior who will elect a hard course with subject-matter interesting to him in pref- erence to an easy course with subject- matter to which he is naturally indifferent. None of this is meant in cõndemnation of the undergraduate. Far from it. He is the salt of the earth-and I am the first to sing his praises in public and swear at him unmercifully in private. He is hu- man, our undergraduate, and very young. Nobody has told him what he is supposed to get out of college. His parents urge him "to do well in his studies and write often"; and his high-school principal has patted him paternally on the shoulder and told him "that the old school is expecting him to make it very proud." Both ad- monitions haye embarrassed the boy- and that is about all the effect that they have had. 'Vhen he gets to college, he is lectured at by the members of the faculty, the dean, the president, the president of the student body, and the football coach. (I have arranged the various notables in the order of their importance to the fresh- man; the most important comes last.) Out of all the many opening lectures he gets just two things: he must attend to his studies, and he's got to get out and work like hell for the team. 1aybe somebody tries to tell him why he is in college, but if anybody does, the effort is wasted. The freshman is too excited, worried, home- sick, and thrilled to have any clear idea of what all the shootin's about. And, pray, just what is all the shootin' about? Just why does a boy spend the four most wonderful years of his life going to college? Why are so many hundreds of thousands of parents making sacrifices, real sacrifices, to give their sons the so- called college education? The question is important. What is the answer? I am reminded of a dinner at the En- gineers' Club in Boston several years ago. Mr. James Phinney Iunroe, a member of the Corporation of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, was host to the English department, of which I was at that time a member. Mter we had made away with the excellent dinner, the talk, naturally enough, concerned itself with matters educational. The purpose of a college education finally became the cen- tral topic. A good many things were said, some of them foolish probably, some of them wise, bu t none of t.hem to the point. The discussion was lost in a fog of phrases and, I am afraid, pedagogical platitudes. 1\1r.1\Iunroe is not a pedagogue; he is a successful business man. I do not know whether we were professionally smug or merely exasperatingly vague. However, I do remember that something excited 1\1r. l\1unroe. He banged his :fist on the table and exclaimed earnestly: "A man does not come to college to learn to earn a living; he comes to college to learn to live I " Nothing happened. Nobody got up and shouted, "You said a mouthful," or even, "That was a most extraordinarily thought-provoking remark." No, no- body was slangy or pedantic; the talk sim- ply continued. I do not know how the other members of the department felt about it, but I was deeply impressed by two things: first, something intelligent had been said after a stag dinner; and, second, a question that had been troub- ling me for years had been settled with a sentence. I never asked lr. l\funroe whether the idea was original with him or not; I really did not. care. I believe that Nicholas l\Iurray Butler said the same thing a few years later, and I do not know whether the idea was original with him or not, but I do know that 1\fr. l\1unroe said it first- and that, to speak unprofessionally, he said a mouthful. In fact, he said about all that needed to be said. Unfortu- nately, however, he said it only to the English department of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology and not to the hundreds of thousands of American un- dergraduates-and their parents. Please remember that I am writing about undergraduate institutions when I mention colleges-and t.hat 1\1r. l\Iunroe was talking about Technology, which does actually train its men to earn a living. As I understood him, 1\lr. l\Iunroe felt that that training was of only secondary importance even at an institute of tech- nology. Certainly it is of even less im- portance at an ordinary college which does not even pretend to train its men. I wonder how ma y fathers realize "UNDER GLASS" that. I wonder how many of them un- derstand that the colleges largely ignore the so-called "practical" phases of life. (I use" so-called" deliberately. \Vhether those particular phases really are the most practical is debatahle.) And I wonder how many of them would hesitate longer about sending their sons to college if they were better informed about the college curricula. Very few would hesitate at all, I believe, because they know that a larger proportion of men who have gone to college are successful than those who have not gone. Statistics say so! The idea is, of course, that men are suc- cessful because they have gone to college. No idea was ever more absurd. No man is successful because he has managed to pass a certain number of courses and has received a sheepskin which tells the world in Latin, that neither the world nor the graduate can read, that he has success- fully completed the work required. If the man is successful, it is because he has the qualities for success in him; the college "education" has merely, speaking in terms' of horticulture, forced those quali- ties and given him certain intellectual tools with which to work-tools which he could have got without going to college, but not nearly so quickly. So far as any- thing practical is concerned, a college is simply an intellectual hothouse. For four years the mind of the undergraduate is put "under glass," and a very warm and constant sunshine is poured down upon it. The result is, of course, that his mind blooms earlier than it would in the much cooler intellectual atmosphere of the business world. A man learns more about business in the first six months after his graduation than he does in his whole four years of college. But-and here is the "practi- cal" result of his college work-he learns far more in those six mon ths than if he had not gone to college. He has been trained to learn, and that, to all intents and purposes, is all the training he has received. To say that he has been trained to think is to say essentially that he has been trained to learn, but remember that it is impossible to teach a man to think. The power to think must be inherently his. All that the teacher can do is help him learn to order his thoughts-such as they are. 47 A man isn't trained in college to earn a living, for two reasons: first, there isn't time, and, second, it isn't of sufficient im- portance. That second statement, I know, sounds heretical, but a moment's thought will convince the reader that it is plain common sense. One cannot he a lawyer, a teacher, a doctor, or an engineer without special training, but one can he, and usually is, a business man 'without that special training. True, there are now graduate schools of business admin- istration, and the college graduate who can afford the time and money to attend one is to be congratulated; but the grad- uate who cannot get the training such schools.-afIord need not be downcast. He can be a business man, and perhaps a good one, without it. It may take him a little longer-that is all. The colleges take graduate work for granted for those men who intend to en- ter one of the professions. Those men must be trained, but that training is not the business of the college; it is the busi- ness of the graduate school. The college must educate the man, and that brings us to the problem of "learning to live." I cannot solve the problem of learning to live, but I can give you some idea of what the undergraduate must become conscious of if he is ever to find any satis- factory solution for himself. A d the making of the undergraduate conscious of those things is, as I see it, the purpose of a college education. Iuch has been written about a college education, and most of it is ponderous and unreadable. Even such essa \"s as Car- dinal Newman's on a colJegé education and Iatthew Arnold's" Sweetness and Light," which, strictly speaking, is about culture, magnificent as they are, are deep- sea swimming for the average freshman- and he is as yet a very feeble swimmer. Arnold tells him that if he would be cul- tured he must learn the best that has been thought and said in the world. That is, of course, supremely true, but it is very difficult to make it seem more than a well-put statement to the freshman- and every man should be made deeply conscious at the very outset of his college career that it is his business to learn the best that has been thought and said in the world, The freshman will quote Ar- 48 CCUNDER GL -\.SS u nold glibly in his final examination-and then cheerfully forget him. AU of which is very human when one is eighteen, and very unfortunate. Furthermore, the freshman docs not see the relation between the best that has been thought and said in the world and himself. To him that best is merely in- formation, information that is hard to get, harder to retain, and of no practical im- portance at all. He doesn't see what the facts about the neolithic age, the distance of Arcturus from the earth, the Congress of Berlin, Aristotle's theory of poetics, and the history of philosophy have to do with his life, which at the time is con- cerned with things very different indeed. Our freshman realizes well enough that his life is the most important thing in the world, but, like the man who was given a whale for a present, now that he has it he doesn't know what to do with it. Ask him what he wants above all things, and he will reply, sensibly enough, happiness. Every young man is essentially a hedon- ist, and as a rule he is a healthy, whole- some hedonist. He wants to grab happi- ness with both hands, but he wants the rest of the world to have at least a finger- hold at the same time. The thing that he must be made to see, of course, is the relation between his hap- piness and the best that has been thought and said in the world; in other words, he must be made t.o realize that the past is significant to him, that his life is a contin- uation of all the history that has gone be- fore, that every discovery of science has affected and will affect him, that every philosophical thought that has ever been expressed in enduring form has helped and is helping to create his own philosophy, and that all the poetry of the ages, whether in verse or prose, is his as his natural birthright, a gift of all mankind to him, and one too great ever to be re- ceived in its entirety, and too beautiful ever adequately to be appreciated. To put it more simply, it is the business of a college education to help a man find himself in relation to the world-and I use" world" in its broadest sense. Our freshman has a life to lead, and that life of his must thread its tortuous and diffi- cult way through the mazes of a very complicated social system. Iore than that, he must, if he is going to find even a little of that happiness which he so eagerly desires, acquire some understand- ing of himself. H Know Thyself" was the motto over the doorway of the temple of the oracle at Delphi, and, being the motto over the doorway of a temple, it quite properly expressed an ideal; that is, some- thing unattainable. Thomas Carl vIe once wrote: "The lat- est Gospel in this world is, Know thy work and do it. 'Know thyself': long enough has that poor 'self' of thine tor- mented thee; thou wilt never get to 'know' it, I believe! Think it not thy business, this of knowing thyself; thou art an unknowable individual: know what thou canst work at; and work at it, like a Hercules! That will be thy better plan. " True enough! \Ve shall never know ourseh"es. I think that we should prob- ably go mad if we ever did, but the knowledge that we can never succeed will not stop us from trying to know ourselves. And to some extent we must succeed-or go mad. Above all things, the freshman is eager to gain some understanding of himself, of his ambitions, his limitations, his abilities, his passions. And his college education, if it is of any value at all, helps him to gain some comprehension of that strange being with whom he must always live, himself. However, Carlyle was right when he said that we must know our work. But what work? That is what the under- graduate wants to know. What is he fit- ted for? \Vhat does he want to do? He feels that there must be some work for him somewhere, but what is it? How can he find that work without some clear un- derstanding of himself-and find it he n1USt. Certainly the varied curricula of our colleges at least give him some idea of his likes and dislikes, his ability to do cer- tain things and his lack of abili ty to do others. His four years at college are a breathing space while he n1arks time look- ing for his goal, that goal which seems so attainable while he is in college and so unattainable afterward. But bigger than his work, bigger than himself, is the man in relation to his world and his God. Above all things, the un- dergraduate n1ust gain some knowledge of .. U ])EI{ GLASS tJ that relationship, so sharply defined in many ways, so tragically vague in others. lIe must, ahsolutely must, find a philos- ophy of living. That philosophy will change as it adapts itself to the experi- ences of life, but without it to begin with the college grad ua te is as helpless as a blind man in the traffic of Times Square-and he is in about as dangerous a position. You must understand that the avcrage freshman has no philosophy of living. He has a code, which is a very different thing. He has been told that there are certain trungs that he can do and that there are certain things that a "real man" or a "regular fellow" docs not do. Some of the undergraduates want to be "real men "-and some of them want to be U regular fellows." It really makes very little difference as far as any philosophy of living is concerned which' our freshman wants to be; undpr any circumstances, his code is very simple, very positive-and very easily broken. No man can quite live up to his code, least of all a man only eighteen or nineteen ycars old, and the breaches that an undergraduate makes in his c?de seem to him very large and very senous. Sometimes they are large and often they are serious, and they play an unnec- essary havoc with the boy's life. I have known undergraduates who were tragi- cally unhappy because they had done something which conflicted with their codes. They could not think around the infraction; they could not view it except as an infraction. [n other words, they had no ideas; they merely had rules-and life is too complicated, too involved to be lived by rule; it must be thought about from many points of view. There is no midrlle ground to the aver- age undergraduate: a thing is either right or wrong, good or bad, glorious or utterly debased. Life is either all black or all white. I-Ie hasn't learned, as he must learn, that it is practically never cither hlack or white, that it is usually some shade of gray, and that it is his business to learn to distinguish the shade. The same thing is true of religion. Again, hc comes to college pitifully equipped with ideas. In fact, as a rule he hasn't any. He has heen, usually carelessly, instructed in some school of YOLo I.XXln.-4 49 theology. I t has not heen his to reason why. lIe has accepted what he has been told-and let it go dt that. But when he comes to college he is just at the age when he wakes up, when he wants to know, when he hegins to ques- tion. \Vhat is the result? Usually he throws away the theology he has heen taught and b left spiritually stranded, worried, and miserably unhappy. His efforts at thinking arc pathetic. I-Ie has no knowledge and no ideas. He has heen told, as a rule, that he should take the Bible as a revelation of God, but he doesn't know anything ahout the Bible. I do not exaggerate; he doesn't know any- thing about it, not even the popular sta- ries. 1 tried last term to get the story of Joseph out of a class of nearly forty-and only one man knew it. Practically none of them has ever read either Testament. They may know a few of the stories, but as far as the philosophy of the Bible is concerned, or any other philosophy, they are totally ignorant. The colleges do not ghoe a man a reli- gion. fhat i not their business; but they do give him ideas and knowledge, and it is up to him to take tho e idea<; and that knowledge unto himself and e\ olve from them at least a working philosophy of living in relation to this life and whatc\"er may come after it. I have said, quoting :\lr. :\lunroe, that a man comes to college to learn to Ih"e, and I have tried to gh.c some idea of the things he must learn. X ow I am dbout to announce in loud, raucous tones that he won't learn them. He will never learn them. No man dOLs. It is impossible to gain e\ en a small idea of the best that ha been thought and said in the world; cul- ture i" an ideal, not a po sihility. ..\ col- lege docs not educate a man; it merely gives him an inde to an education. \Vhat use the man males of that indc in later life will largely determine his suc- cess or failure. The senior on his graduation day is not an educated man; he is an ignoramus. I Iowc\-er, if he has learned enough to know that he i an ignoramus, some day he will probably attain something lile culture, have enough lnowledge to be called educated-as education in thi world goes. 50 IG ITIO I have said nothing about the joy of learning, the pleasure that knowledge per se brings. I have tried to be strictly "practical," but I cannot resist a parting word in favor of the" impractical" value of college life. There the boy comes in contact with beauty, with the most ex- quisite expression of the noblest thoughts ever produced by man. He has, if he is worth teaching, been thrilled by the splen- dor of the past and made conscious of the gorgeous pageantry of the present. Per- haps he has learned that that thrill is as true and as fine as any he can get from, say, a financial coup. If when a man graduates from college he has learned the work he is fitted for, if he has gained some ideal of beau ty, if he has delved deeply enough into himself to have even a vague knowledge of his own soul, if he has learned enough of the past to understand to some small degree the present, and if he has gathered unto him- self enough ideas of life to have a work- able philosophy of living, he has begun at least to learn to live. He can count his years in college well spent. He has the rudiments of an education. If he con- tinues to work, to think, and to learn, he may, by the grace of God, become a man. Ignition BY V ALMA CLARK ILL US T RAT ION S BY o. F. s C H M ID T STRANGE look of " triumph was on Mrs. Prunner's face as she drew up at our gate to stare across at "that foreign woman." Rhona Cabrals sat list- lessly on her door-step and smoked a cigarette; and though the cigarette was her one remaining vice, it alone was sufficient to brand her in Stony- ville. Then l\1rs. Prunner came on, bearing down upon me with a ponderous dig- nity that augured some tremendous pieec of news. "Where's your mother, Raz- zles? " Politely I stopped the lawn-mower to inform her that she would find my mother by following the very audible clattering of the supper dishes to the kitchen. Mrs. Prunner was to our family special intelli- gencer and exponent of public opinion. Through all the twenty years of my life she had been bearing down upon us in this way, with choice bits of scandal. Now as she swept by, ignoring me, I felt the old prickle of resentment against her and the old stirring of curiosity. l\frs. Prunner persisted in treating me like a small boy, and I persisted in responding to the treatment. Beneath the pantry window, where the noise of dishes had suddenly stopped, I discovered that the mower needed oiling. "Look ather-the brazen piece!" came Mrs. Prunner's voice. Clearly she was pointing out Rhona Cabrals, who drooped motionless, all dark, from the rusty black of her cotton dress and the olive dusk of her profile to the intense gypsy blackness of her amazing hair; a still-figure study in darkness, she sat there waiting-waiting as she had been ever since that night nearly eight years before, when the flame in her had been quenched as abruptly as a firebrand thrust into water. "Well, 1vIary, murder will out! They've found his body at last, do in the old Shipman quarry." . "Pedro Cabrals's body?" breathed mother. "After all these years-" "They've been pumping out the water, you know, this last week and to-day they came upon the body sticking head down in the bottom of a hundred-and-fifty-foot IG ITIO shaft. I have it straight fronl Tim Murphy, who's superintending the job. Oh, it's very bad-just hones mostly. But Coroner Bliss says it's been there all of eight years; and they identified a scrap of a red bandanna. There's no shadow of a doubt. . . ." "Wonder if s/zr knows," shuddered mother. "She'll know soon enough," declared l\Irs. Prunner grimly. "She must have drug him there-a good half-mile. A devil, if there ever was onc-and st rong as a man. 1 'm stepping on to ß-liss Tucker's, Iary; you drop your dishes and come along." "Wait then- You hear, Razzles?" 1\[other came close to me and whispered against that still figure on the next door- step. "They've found Pedro Cabrals! I'm going with Irs. Prunner. Finish the lawn before you leave, and careful there of my border-you're mowing down the pinks." So I was alone. But the veil of mem- ory-that soft gray shroud which blurs over the evil nightmares of our childhood -was riddled through; and I was pi unged hack into the most vivid scene of my life. That night in Rhona Cabrals's little house, and my own forbidden share in it, as witness-a share which I had buried deep in my heart and had told no living soul! And now the vision of handsomt' big Pedro Cabrals rotting in the mud of the old Shipman quarry. . .. Nausea seized me. . .. How could she ! Yet speculation held me there, gazing at that creature of inexplicable and foreign mys- tery t hat was Rhona CabraIs; and curi- osity drew me. I told nlyself that some one should prepare her-warn her. But it was the old lure of her--compound of fascination and danger-that pulled. "Good evening," I muttered, standing uncertainly hefore her. She accepted nlt', moved over indiffer- ently to make room for me beside her, for- got me. Dusk had taken her, brooding over her, I thought, like a nlother. 1 sat staring at her averted head, and watcht'd a wisp of moke, white against the crow's wing of her hair, melt into darkness. Just as she had always been able to im- pose her moods upon me, so, now, she cast oyer me the spell of her lethargy. 51 Hut, though I stayed silent, I wa remem- hering that other Rhona, who was to thi one as a live coal is to a dea(l coal. Sharp pictures, that sto()(l out from the re ula- tion black-and-white scenes of my boy- hood as though stamped in red ink, came hack at me. There was m,' first encounter with Rhona CaLrals. -I must have been twelve at the time. I had flung myself out of hed and into the warm July night to the aid of Pat, my fo),.-terrier, who was bark- ing furiously at some enemy. I kne\\ that trangers had moved into the house next door, which was quite the mCdnest house in our pleasant, elm-shaded street, the only house, in fact, which had not a front porch; but I was unprepare(l for the spectacle of a woman standing in the back door against a lamplighted interior, hurling missiles and oaths, English in de- nomination but foreign in their fluencv, at my dog. I stood \\ ith my mouth open, until I became aware that my father was beside me. "Stop that, Pat!" he ordered sharply. Pat cringed and the ama7ing flow of language ceased. The woman, who had o,per her white nightgown a clinging scarlet shawl of a tuff like velvet, only softer and mor{' lustrous, which I afterward learned was chenille, slowly raised her arms to her hair, and suddenly I disco,-erecl that she was young and strangely beautiful, with the supple, slim length of a runner. . . . Only somehow she did not look like an athlete. . .. She was miling out at us now, and there was an odd sparkle to her e,.es. "that woman!" muttered mv father, and hurried me into the house I cast one lingering 1001. hack and saw behind her, shadowing her smile, the face of a swarthy man with anger on it. In my 0\\71 bed again, through the open window, ] heard ,"oice') raic;::ed in fury, heard sobs that would not let themselves be wholly sobs, heard a udden c1.1ttering -and then silt'nce in the hoxlike littlc house across the way. From the adjoin- ing roonl my mother's "ords reached me: "Looks like we\-e drawn a "ife-lx>ater ne\.t door." "Looks like we\.e need of a wife-beater next door," aid my father dryly. From the tìr t Rhona Cabrals was for- 52 IGNITIO bidden to me, even as were the quarries; wherefore I secretly explored both. As well tell the boy of a seacoast town to stay off the wharfs as to tell me to stay away from the quarries-that place, by day, of magical heaving derricks and sweating, gabbling men, swearing oaths in many languages . . . place, by night, of lighted, filthy shacks and mouth-organ music. Those great pits, yawning red from the peculiar reddish hue of the sandstone which they gave forth in blocks and bricks and broken chips, were the single raw sore on the monotonous rolling green perfection of this western New York country; their murky, reddish wa- ters were unexpected blood pools on a tranquil surface, crude realities that called for probing. As for Rhona, with her black eyes and her lithe body, her swift angers and her 'wild mirths, she was the scarlet lady of forbidden novels, the Spanish dancer with the castanets, the mysterious Oriental seducer stepped forth from Arabian Nights. . .. The quar- ries and Rhona-they were adventure in Stonyville, and, utterly different as they were, were yet bound together through Pedro. Almost at once Rhona took me into her confidence and told me much-more than a boy of twelve could understand. Even then I instinctively knew she tolerated me because I was a boy; if I had been a girl she would have shooed me off with the neighbors' chickens. " Bah !" she said. "That Pedro-that gorgiol I don't know why I stay with him-it smothers me in a house some- times. Before he came I lived the gypsy life and travelled the roads in a great van. \Ve sat over smoky fires and talked-my mother is old now, but she was once a girl in 11adrid, and the tales she can tell! \Ve danced and sang and stole and made love, and the men they fought over me. Then Pedro came and followed me and fought the hardest. . .. It is fated per- haps. But always he is mad with jeal- ousy and always we fight, tooth and nail, and hate each other. Bah, that Pedro! Some day I leave him and go back to the open road-to my people-and the duk- kerin'- "Ah, the dukkerin'! I had forgotten. I dukker with the palm, the cards, the coin-what you will. I dukker for you, my Razzles boy!" She swept up a deck of dirty cards, flashed upon me her smile, for, lacking larger game, she was not above putting forth her fascinations for me. "Past, present, and future, your wish an' all ye want to know!" And again, a later time: "They call me , foreign' and they think I am like those vermin Dago women, your mother and your father and all those other gorgios. Fools! I spit upon them! I am Span- ish-you hear? Spanish, and free." It was true, both ways. What Stony- ville never could forgive the Cabrals was their invasion of our respectable- neigh- borhood; for Stonyville has its slum, its foreign section-isolated like a pest-house -where Rhona and Pedro might have loved and hated, hurIed china and flour- ished knives to their hearts' content, with- out exciting more than passing notice. They were foreigners, weren't they?- \VeIl, then, let them stay down on :\1yrtle Street, where they belonged. But it was equally true that the Cabrals did not be- long on Myrtle Street any more than they belonged up here. One had only to see Rhona Cabrals moving freely and scorn- fully past groups of squat, pudgy Italian women with babies clinging to them . . . Rhona, wearing larger earrings and dressed in bolder colors than those others . . . to realize that she was of an- other mould. And Pedro, too, though he was given to the same red bandannas for work and to the same purple serge and red neckties for holidays, was of a race apart from the other laborers. I watched him at work at the quarries and saw that he was larger and handsomer and stronger in every way than his fellow workers-a king among them. I remembered what Rhona had told me, that Pedro was a Portuguese out of Provincetown; bred from great able-bodied men who followed the sea, thrifty owners of their own ships and their own homes, Pedro had some- how cut loose and drifted inland by way of the Great Lakes. And though he had shaken off the salt of the sea for the land dust of the quarries, he was not as these born grubbers in dirt, who were content to take orders from others and to be ten- ants. Pedro had kept Ius freedom, IGXITIO'J" \\ hen he reared back his shoulders there was no stoop to them, and you could pic- ture him standing at the helm of a ship. It was so I saw them apart. But just put them together-well, that was some- thing to see! Fireworks is the word for it. For Pedro was jealous-jealous even of me at twelve-and certainly Rhona did not spare him. There was sleek little Johnny Hines, who worked in the can- ning factory, and hig Chris Polizzi, who was foreman over Pedro, and Tim O'Sul- livan, and Fred Schwartz-but I forget them all. For as fast as Rhona could toss on the chips Pedro hlazed to them, and as fast as she could snatch them up, Rhona tossed, until I see her as the storm centre of an untidy house, the nucleus of tortured struggles and flying dishes. No wonder Stonyville turned down its thumbs, when it wasn't busy peeping and turning up its nose! Rhona Cabrals was the wildfire in a mild gray town, which otherwise had only such small, controlled conflagrations as occasionally come to a town which is the county-seat. She was the scarlet-fever sign of contagion in an impeccable neighborhood. And if all I can find to describe Rhona is figures scar- let and fiery, it is easy enough to guess that the several ministers in Stonyville found figures more scarlet and more fiery. As for the good wives of the town- however much of truth there was to other charges against Rhona, there was cer- tainly no fiction in their charge of untidi- ness. Rhona had no genius for house- keeping. She cooked in temperamental spurts messes of meat and potatoes-poo- 'l'cllgroes she called them. As she flaunted her colors down our tame little streets, she left behind her dirty dishes and a ragged yard, in which wild poppies struggled against the weeds-this in contrast to our smooth lawn with its prinlrose borders and its lilac bushes, of that soft smoky- blue in their flowering. No, the Cabralses were certainly undesirahle neighbors. But to get on-I recall the quarrel over Johnny Hines's pipe. The pipe had Johnny's nlonogram in silver on the bowl of it, and Johnny smoked it with his head up and his teeth firm, so that the mono- granl would show. 1 don't know how he e\ er came to leave the cherished pipe in Rhona's kitchen, unless it was the sneak- 53 ing kind of trouble-making he liked to indulge in. At any rate, there it was, and there Pedro found it when he came home that night. He came stamping up the back steps, and his very shadow, momen- tarily darkening the doorway, loosed the forty little devils in Rhona. They in- variably had that queer effect upon each other; when they came together, it was as though each set going in the other some dangerous chemical reaction, and you simply held your breath and waited for the explosion. Pedro slung down his tin dinner-box and took up the silly pipe, and his heavy eye- brows came together. "\Vhat's Johnny Hines wantin' here?" he snarled. Almost eagerly Rhona leapt to his chal- lenge. She faced him, half smiling, a negligent hand on her hip, while two fires sprang up in her black eyes and her breath came faster. Dark though they both were, Rhona's darkness, as against his swarthy darkness, had color beneath it, and she was never more vivid than when Pedro was behind her glowering. Pedro was the black curtain against which she sparkled. lIe was the thunder to her lightning. The pipe snapped in Pedro's hairy, blunt-fingered hand, and the pieces dropped to the floor. He repeated his question: "'Yhat's that skunk doin' here? You tell me!" " Guess he comes to make lo\"e to me," drawled Rhona. There was an awful moment in which they still faced each other and 1 clutched Pat by the neck and shrank back. Then Pedro caught her arm and twisted it bru- tally. She fought him like a madwoman, but at last Pedro had her down on the floor at his feet. He was still twisting the arm untill thought he would break it, though Rhona was scorning to cry out under the pain of it. Abruptly he flung her off, lunged out of the house. Rhona sat back on her heels, jabbed hairpins into place, calmly adjusted an earring. 1 was ama/.ed to disco\.er that she was smiling. " You see-he is mad with this jealousy. But I'll show him!:' She got to her feet, turned on me fun- ously. "Docs he think I stay with him easy then? Let hinl fight to keep me, as he fought to get nIc! See, he's out 54 IG ITIO there no\\-feeding his black temper with a fire. It's what he always does when he's worst-builds a bonfire and bums off the rubbish. 'Tis a witch's peak, that one--burns straight up to a point. Ah, now a ,,,ind !-See her curl over and lick her red tongue. . . . "Come on!" Suddenly Rhona was laughing. "\Vhere's my shawl? No matter, this will do." She snatched up the fringed red table-cloth, wound it about her, posed, twisting before the cracked kitchen mirror. "Johnny Hines 1ikes me best in red; he says it's the devil's color and my color. You, too, you like me in red," she charged, catching sight of my face. "Perhaps Pedro likes me in red! Come on-we see!" She caught my hand, swept me out to Pedro and the bonfire. Suddenly she be- came a fiend: in the lurid light she danced, stamping and \\Tithing, mocking Pedro, taunting him with words of Johnny Hines. Pedro. flung down his pitchfork and caught her. "You-you-I'll kill John- ny Hines-I'll kill you-" He must have been hurting her with the fierce grip of his arms, but she did not whimper- " Raz-zles !" called my mother. Then I saw Rhona's face, and I knew that she liked being hurt by Pedro. " Raz-zles !" As I made a cautious alley détour, which would bring me home from the opposite direction, I puzzled over it; if they loved each other, it was a queer kind of love-part hatred. . . . Though our shades were always drawn on that side of the house now, mother used to watch from behind them, and sometimes 1Irs. Prúnner joined her with her sewing, and they watched together. I would listen hard and catch shreds of their conversation. " Little Johnny Hines again. . . . Yes- terday it was Fred Schwartz. If we had a man for sheriff-" " Just let hint catch her ance-that ugly big Pedro-" Rhona had a secret sickness then, and from the darkened parlor mother and 1Irs. Prunner watched the doctor come and go and their whispering grew unin- telligible and more mysterious. "Too bad," said l\Irs. Prunner. "Temper, of course--a woman who carries on like that- But it might have tamed her." In two days Rhona was out again, with a color like a sickly olive and with startling black circles beneath her eyes. But she was unquenched, for she flaunted a pink waist with a scarlet ribbon at her throat, and from her gate I saw her wave to Johnny Hines. Other scenes in the history of Rhona and Pedro Cabrals-conflicts, all of them, more or less violent-pass before me, as vivid as the floats in my first city parade. But I come now to that last big quarrel. Rhona was alone that evening, and I sat with her in the stuffy, littered kitchen, watching her slash a weird garment out of some purple stuff, when Johnny Hines loafed in. Rhona merely glanced at him and kept on with her slashing. Since no one sent me away, I stayed in my corner. while he teased at Rhona's work and she ordered him to keep his hands off and finally jabbed at him almost viciously with her scissors. He had been there no time when all of a sudden I glanced up and saw Pedro's face in the open window. Although her back was to him I think Rhona became aware of Pedro's presence at that same moment. She had risen to stretch her- self, and now her yawn turned into a smile and the sparkle leapt into her eyes. Deliberately she leaned herself against Johnny Hines's shoulder, tilted back her head, and laughed at him through her black lashes. And J ohnny- Johnny was the only one of us who remained uncon- scious of that lowering face--sleek, blond little Johnny went a quick pink and his hands found her shoulders. . . . Now Pedro was on the door-step, his big fingers working so that, for a moment, I thought he would choke little Johnny Hines, who had gone weak-kneed and ashen before him. Instead he came rather heavily into the room and began to swear at Johnny in Portuguese--thick, slow oaths that somehow made you feel sorry for him. I don't know how long that monoto- nous cursing would have kept up if Rhona had not struck in with a zest. She caught his wrath from Johnny Hines as a ball- player might stand on tiptoe and catch the other man's ball, for the pure joy of it. "Spy on me, will you!" she spit at him. " Well, you're paid for it-you know now! ....., ;' / f /,<>' ... .. "t . 1-: f::--- ' , . r '-i ) I t '1' .j f f f'''' ' 1 .... I f:; \,f ..: i " : t I, ._ fl- . ( , ì "! , \ ' . .. . " j.' , '. - \ f:' ' .J\ -; , . 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It was as though the fierceness of his feeling held him speechless. It was sinister. Rhona turned back to Johnny with a smile-and found him vanished; little Johnny Hines had saved his own skin. At that an anger caught Rhona which matched Pedro's own. " You men-a curse on all of you! All I ask is to be let alone-let alone, do you hear?" " You-mean that? " Pedro panted. Some resolution seemed to be working in him, like a slow yeast. "All right. I call your bluff. I'll make you so no man will ever look at you again." He was moving clumsily toward the kitchen cabinet, but even then I did not realize his intention- not until he grasped the sharp bone- handled carving-knife firmly in his hand. Still Rhona stood there scorning him, mocking him. He struck out at her blindly, missed. Rhona laughed aloud. It was only then that muscular control returned to Pedro; he was wild-eyed with his purpose, but he was suddenly as sure and swift in his movements as those full- fighting ancestors of his back in old Por- tugal. The struggle lasted only a moment, and the scream which the neighbors heard on that night was my scream, not Rhona's. Pedro fell back from her, the front of his shirt as red as the bandanna which he wore. And Rhona- I cannot describe Rhona as I saw her. fIer cheek lay open in a long gash, from which the blood spurted; but for all the spurting blood, her head was up, and worse than the mutilation was the deadly glitter in her eyes. " You'll pay for this night, Pedro Cabrals," she spoke. I was suddenly afraid of Rhona-horribly afraid. I co\'- ered my eyes against her and slid out. . . . Home in my own safe bed I crouched, listening in dread for sounds from that other house, which did not come. All was silence over there now. I suppose I wore myself out at last and fell asleep. They were talking at the breakfast- table, dad and mother, when I came down the following morning: That foreign woman next door had been cut up in a knife fight. . .. The husband had dis- appeared. . .. She refused to talk. . . . They hushed it at my appearance. ".1\Iercy on us, Razzles, what's the matter with you!" exclaimed mother. " You look like you've been dreaming ghosts." "Nothin'," I muttered. The Cabrals belonged to the forbidden part of my life, and my habit of secrecy on them held. During those next days, that uncanny stillness continued to hang over the Ca- brals place. Pedro had disappeared com- pletely, and Rhona must have sat in the house alone, for I saw nothing of her. Some nights a light burned in the kitchen window, though again the house would remain in darkness during the entire eve- ning. Nothing could have induced me to go near there. I knew what folks were saying as time passed and Pedro did not return: that Rhona had killed her husband . . . had somehow disposed of the body. . .. I hugged my secret knowledge tighter. Had she, then? I believed her capable of anything-anything [ I grew morbid at this period, speculating upon gruesome ways. . . . Then one Sunday afternoon, when I was exploring the quarries alone, I round- ed a heap of rocks and came upon her, sit- ting quiet, her hands loosely clasped, her eyes on the ground. At :first I did not recognize that listless, black-dad figure as Rhona's. When she raised her head J think I should have turned and run from her if astonishment and curiosity had not held me chained to the spot. Her eyes were still black pools, like stagnant water that has been dead a long time, and she looked at me without interest, even with- out recognition. " Hello!" 1 stammered. She shrugged, returned to her perusal of the ground. I don't know what I had expected, but this was disappointment. It was like finding wet wood where you had been ac- customed to leaping, crackling fire. Stillness in Rhona Cabrals was uncanny -it was not healthy-and her face was the stillest thing I had ever seen. It was IG!\"ITIOX incredible that a person could change like that. \Vhy, this creature could not have killed a chicken. I sat down hy her, and dropped stones into the pit below, and tried to talk to her. At last I gave her up and wandered home, puzzling over it. "Conscience, my dear," was the way ::\Irs. Prunner accounted fo!' the change in Rhona, hinting dark things. "Or possi- hly shame. . . ." But young as I was, I intuitively knew that :\lrs. Prunner was wrong-that there was neither shame nor conscience in Rhona Cabrals. She must ha\'e known what the town was saying of her, yet she offered no explanation. In her s.ilence there was no fear. neither was there sul- lenness nor disdainful pride. \Vhat she had done she had clone, and she cared nothing for the opinion of others. No, it was simply the dead stillness of a void and a waiting. I had plenty of opportunity to obsen"e her at this tinle, for I was no longer afraid of her, and she allowed me to sit and talk to her as of old, though she sel- dom made the effort to answer me. Re- membering Pedro's threat, I thought once it might be the scar which had taken the life out of Rhona, but I rejected that theory. It had been a clean cut and it had healed quietly, in a thin white line,- a \"ery still scar. Rhona was beautiful yet. Besides, the scar seemed to make no differ- ence with Johnny and Fred and the others. One by one they drifted back. Johnny Hines came first, bold by night. She sat on the door-step in that waiting attitude which had become characteristic of her, and I crouched in the darkness and bra- zenly listened. "It's all right," he as- sured her. "There's no evidence of- murder. I'm not afraid-I'd marry you to-morrow, Rhona. Besides, you were justified. . . . Self-defense.... I told the sheriff myself. It'll die out; it's dying out already. 'Vill you-?" " No." "I'd treat you right, Rhona-a black beast, that Pedro. I'd give you clothes and jewelry; we'd go to the city-" "No." There was no feeling, not even contempt for him, in Rhona's monosylla- ble; he might have been so much putty placed before her. 57 Still hc persisted in a rather \\eak pleading. 1 must have stirred then, for Rhona turncd her head-" You Ra/./.les boy-come here." I oheyed, heepishly cnough. "Sit here hy me," she commanded. "Oh, if you mcan it . . ." mutten.'d Johnny. "I mean it," she answered listlesslv. So Johnny I-lines went off doWIÍ thc street. Separately the others tried her, hut she must ha\'e treatcd them to the same in- difference, for gradually they dropped away and did not return. Since that challenging fire in her had gonc out, they werc content to let her alone. For me, too, the danger, and thereforc the zest, had gone from Rhona Cahrals; and-I may as well admit it-manlike, I dropped away with the rest of them. fhis crca- ture, aftcr that other Rhona of the cra7.\" moods, was tame. So Rhona bccamc fO'r me an unsoked, but no longer very in- teresting riddle; and I found other rid- dles, more urgent and more e'..citing. Then, too, Rhona wa no longer for- bidden to me. The shades had long since gone up on the Cabrals side of our house, and my mother did not object to my passing the time of day with her. If folk... shunned Rhona from hahit, they had ceased to look upon her as a dangerous in- fluence, and their interest had passed on to other things, even as had mine. For in the eight years which had elapsed since Pedro's disappearance, Rhona had ap- proached near-respectability. Gone "ere the picturesque, colorful clothes, the beads, and the earrings-changed for th(' shoddy black coUon garb of a store clerk. Though Pedro, with his Portugucsc thrift, had owned the small house, it was neces- sary now for Rhona to make money for food, and she had gone into the Five-and- Ten-Cent Store, whcre she sold glittering baubles without interest. The" eeds and the poppies were kept partially do\\ n in the Cabrals yard; the vcry hou",c, though unpainted, had taken on a scmblance of neatness-the neatness of an empty shell, from which lifc has dcparted. Rhona e\"cn went through semi-annual rites of house-cleaning-though with the air of one performing trivialities to lill time. She grew, in hort, into the passi\ e 58 IGNITION woman who now sat beside me-common- place enough but for her sinister darkness and that odd air she had of waiting through an intermission that would some time come to an end. That other Rhona-and this Rhona! \Vere they actually the same person? I stared hard at her through the dusk and tried to penetrate the mystery of that still profile. Had she ever really been what she had seemed to me, or had my boy's imagination invested her with strange, mysterious qualities, even as it had in- vested with romance the quarries, which had since dwindled to stalest prose? Then I remembered the ugly thing that had brought me. I fiddled with my pipe, finally plunged: "They've found some bones-a man's body. Down in the old Shipman quarry that they've been open- ing up again. They're saying things-I thought I ought to-warn you-" "Bones? "-indifferently. "They say they're-Pedro's body," I told her bluntly. " Yes?" She shrugged it off, as though it did not concern her. Then I asked the question which for eight years I had been wanting to ask. "Look here, Rhona, did you-do it?" But she let that pass too. She tossed away her cigarette, rose. "I've had no supper. Will you have some tea?" I stammered an excuse and broke away. Tea! I recalled how once, when I was twelve, she had given me raw gin and laughed to see me choke over it. The rest of the tale, until the trial, is quickly told. For Mrs. Prunner had pre- dicted true; they came for Rhona the fol- lowing morning, and I saw her pass out of the house between two men and move off down the street, calm and detached. This was Stonyville's own private murder and naturally excitement ran high. Ru- mor had it that the" foreign woman" re- fused to talk. I fought it out with my own conscience and then with my mother, who wept and begged me to keep out of it. Incidentally Irs. Prunner looked at me with new respect. "A deep one," she was heard to mutter. uTo think he could have given us side-lights all the time!" As the only person who had seen the fight preliminary to the murder, I was to be an important witness; that was how I happened to be let off at the bank, where I work, and to be present for the astound- ing climax of the trial. I saw Rhona once at the jail, in the presence of her guard; tried to move her. "Look here, I'm testifying, Rhona. I saw him slash you, you know. If you did it, you did it in self-defense. But you've got to open up and talk to your lawyer- tell him how it happened-" I grew wrought up over it. But Rhona had nothing to say. I don't know why I championed her against the town and my own family, for I believed she was guilty. The trial lasted through a week, and, except for the fact that the whole town turned out for it and jammed our sleepy little court-room, was much as other trials. Rhona made just one statement, which was exactl contrary to all the elaborate case of self-defense which her lawyer had built up for her, namely, that she hadn't killed Pedro. Who had killed him then? She couldn't say-wouldn't say anything else, in fact. They examined her and cross-examined her, subjected her to a grilling that would have broken a sensitive woman. Rhona remained unmoved. "Vhat had hap- pened on that night? They had quar- relled and Pedro had left-that was all. They followed up the scent, led her, step by step, through the stages of the quarrel, endeavored to worry her down and wear her out; but an inquisition that would have brought out a cold sweat on any other defendant under trial for murder left only the prosecuting attorney mop- ping his face. They tried to get at her emotions, pricked her for resentment, anger, hatred, but no insult was strong enough to make her flare back at them. As far as any feeling went, she might have been drugged. She remained the listless, in- different woman which she had been ever since the night of Pedro's disappearance. It seemed that nothing could rouse her- not even a murder trial in which her own life hung in the balance. There was delay while Johnny Hines was summoned from Pennyslvania, whither he had gone. Johnny-a sub- dued and rather decent little Johnny- would have talked to her, but she merely C. ,(,'Y:\\ b?\ ,. > _"" /{r .:e\ :. <-(ç ::-, -:7fJ, ? ."} ,--: . ' 11 ./ --.po c..;p' --0 , . " //;I' I ( . ' ';:I} \ :f ' rr" '>. ?:. "'j-. , , 'I r. ' --: . ' J f" " - Îf, 1 ; ' . " , .... J / ./ 'l ,; "\ " ' ',.\. t: . . J ' . /,'. 1 . 1 I. :}- ". , i / . : I,t .' ..-- - t - 1 j t ,- . I s , . '.. i t .' " . IF - j . ... , I} '. I I ' t .., .';',. (.. - . .. .' .' . A t \6. ,. f>,t", J" " i " .' '. . t.., .I' j é ,', /' ,I. , \oli,,. t ' , t. '-'1/ .., .' . 41. ..... .,.; J ...- " \!'- . r' ,f \, , " :.::/ no , . '- { I , . "" ...,... - -- ',. -- ."".,... -=--. "... .. "' ....,.;' , --' ... .... ..... . . - ---....:: " Drawn by 0, F, Sd"niJt. That odd air. . . of ",ailing through an intermission that woulll some LIme come to an end.-!>age 58, '\ 59 60 IGNITION turned her shoulder to him and went on studying the lines in her own hands, which lay palm upward in her lap. Her one change in facial expression carne when they produced the shreds of the red bandanna which had been found ,vith the body. 'Vas it curiosity or doubt that flickered for a moment over her face, as she obediently took the evidence and examined it? But she relapsed into her wooden stare, passed back the red tatters. Had she seen that handkerchief before? She shrugged. Corne, now! the attorney for the prose- cution would be answered! Could she deny that the handkerchief had belonged to the deceased-that it had been knotted about his throat at the very moment that she had-stabbed him to death? Objections from the defense; objections overruled. Still she shrugged. How could she tell? A red bandanna was a red ban- danna. I t was true, the evidence was not strong, but Rhona's refusal to talk was against her from the first. If she had spoken frankly-had looked them in the eye and said something-anything. In- stead, she looked down at the floor and said nothing. What horrible things did her silence cover? That was the ques- tion, you see. To me, as I sat there day after day, studying her averted face, Rhona Cabrals was more than ever an enigma-inexpli- cable, unaccountable. While she half listened, \\-ith that air of a grown-up in- dulging children, to their horrible accusa- tions against her, what was she thinking? Sometimes I had the feeling that she was stone dead; it carne to me, shudderingly, that the thing she had done, the emotions she had passed through on that night, had drained her of all subsequent feeling. . . . But you could not wonder that her un- natural indifference infuriated them. Even Judge Carmen grew exasperated at last, and turned on Rhona sternly in his final charging of the jury. So they rose to file out, and it was over-all but the verdict. Things looked bad for her; one could only hope for a recommendation of mercy. It was at that precise and dramatic mo- ment that some one entered the back of the court-room and a scared, small voice said: "Wait, please. There's-a man- here-" The members of the jury halted uncer- tainly, the judge looked frowningly up, we all turned in our seats. He was a big workingman, with his slouch hat pulled down over his eyes and the dust of the roads on his clothes. He was Pedro Ca- brals himself-Pedro, looking sullen and dazed, stoop-shouldered now and cer- tainly no longer the king of laborers that I had remembered. It was that old, fa- miliar expression of black jealousy, slowly concentrating on his face and aimed at a definite goal, that pulled me back to Rhona. And Rhona- This was the old Rhona of the scarlet shawl and the snap- ping eyes. The scar on her cheek, which had never been anything but pallid, had suddenly leapt out red, as though a whip- lash had been laid on her. She had risen to answer his challenge with her own flash of fire, and they stood there, the two of them, glaring at each other, with the whole crowded court-room become a mere background for this strange tingling ha- tred of theirs. Her first words to him were an invec- tive, hurled forth with all the passion of an emotion too long bottled: "Bah! So you decided to corne back! It is duty, I suppose. You read in the papers and you corne back to save me?" "No, I just--came back. I haven't seen any papers. l\let old Forsyth on the street and he looked at me funny-and sent me up here." "Where've you been?" "Down state, workin' on roads." "Some woman-yes?" He denied it sullenly: "I tell you I've been on the roads, bunkin' with men." "Why did you corne back?" she in- sisted, tense. "I didn't want to corne. It's you- you devil-" I t was as though this confession, dragged from him, restored to Rhona her old self-respect-that ruthless and superb insolence of hers. "So," she gloated, "you couldn't stay away! You think you can run from me and forget me--me, Rhona! And now you corne crawling back. Doovel-you men!" There was \ tv 'j .r . , III 1 , . r \ \ .- \ : I L :}' " . .- . . " "';- ..' , ",," \ r -:'\ \ /> , I. - . . , \\" " . .::. f..; a \". '; ! " /.. if " l-t \ ,. " . . . . ;)>>, , ': . ' ,J.,: !, 1 _ .J \ or : , '. \ ) ':- '\ , : \À: .' ,.': . . ,"" "' '.:.!- , . "'.' _.. ---.. ... r. ',- "Po.. ,. . -: . \. 4Þ' .-t Drawn by O. F. Schmidt. " Fools and pigs! ::\1ay the cvil eye take you I "- Page 62. 61 62 THE OLYl\IPIA S more-a torrent of it. She stood there before him, taunting him, sneering at him, goading him. It was only when Judge Carmen ham- mered for order that she paused for breath, turned from Pedro, and, hammer- ing back at him with her bare fist on the table before her, amazingly let loose that wild flood of raw emotionalisnl against the judge, the jury, little Johnny Hines, the court room, and the whole town. It seemed that all the disdain and contempt that had been festering in her heart for eight years suddenly boiled to the surface; and she treated us to such an eruption of temper as quiet little Stonyville had never before witnessed. "Fools! And is Pedro the only working man who wears a red bandanna? I told you- I told you I didn't kill him. You wouldn't believe me, eh? \Vell, there he stands-perhaps you believe me now. Fools and pigs! l\Iay the evil eye take you! I spit upon you-and you-and )'ou- And you, Johnny Hines-worm, caterpillar! You would kiss me when Pedro is gone; kiss me when he is here, if you dare!" But Pedro had reached her now, and his hand was on her shoulder. Abruptly the court room was forgotten by Rhona. There before us all, with no sense what- ever for the decencies, Pedro investigated the lurid scar with a rough forefinger, and suddenly laughed aloud-an ugly sound. It was then that Rhona melted, clung to him. "Take me away, Pedro! I've wanted you. I thought I should be hung and feel nothing of it-" I overheard Judge Carmen's informal observation after court had been dis- missed: " Whew! That woman! If he'd strangled her, I'd acquit him." So Pedro had won after all, I reflected, as I struck off for the bank. In the end, he'd subdued Rhona:. .. But had he? It was at that moment I saw them come from Thompson's Emporium. Rhona paused to jab into her black hair a glitter- ing rhinestone pin, which was clearly Pedro's peace-offering to her. They went off down the street together, toward their little box of a house, but I saw her turn her head and fling big Chris Polizzi a glance that was a challenge and a dare. The Olympians BY E]) IUND \YILSON, JR. THERE were no gardens there like those No Ganymede, denlure and frail, That, tapestried with courteous trees, The satyr crouching at his flank; Rose-clouded with the laurel-rose, Hung high above blue distances. There were no fountains dolphin-fed For idle eyes to drift upon, 'Vhere gold-fish, flecking green with red, Drift idle in the eternal sun; No Homer smooth on creamy skin, In gay blue-gold embroidery cIad- The black and dingy boards of Ginn 'V ere all the dress your poets had. In bare-swept houses, white and low; High stony pastures ne,'er ploughed; No sloping alleys sliding smooth The pure thin air; the frozen snow; Through velvet glooms or golden 1ight, And the sad autumn dark with cIoud- Round-moulded like the marble youth 'Vho stops the alley-vv"ay with white; No naiad satyr-sprayed and pale; No lap-dog lions poised in rank; Here, setting bare feet on bare wood, They came who late in silks had gone; \Vhi te candor by your desks they stood, Austere to wake the winter dawn. From Immigrant to Inventor BY :\IICITAEL PUPIX ProCessor oC Electro-l\lechanics, Columbia 'C'niversity, :\e\\ York V.-FIRST JOURNEY TO IDVOR IX ELF'.EN YEARS T was a beautiful June afternoon when from the gay deck of the State of Florida I saw the low coast-line of Long Island disappear in the distance. \Vith it disappeared the land the first glimpse of which I caught so eagerly on that sunny l\Iarch morning nine years before, when the immigrant ship Jrestplzalia carried me into New York harbor. \Yhen I approached this coast my busy imagination suggested that it was the edge of the cover of a great and mysterious book which J had to read and decipher. I read it for nine long years, and my belief that I had deciphered it made me confident that I was quite rich in lparning. Besides, there was my Bachelor of Arts diploma and my natural- ization papers, and, of course, I thought, they were the best evidence in the world that I was returning to see my mother again, rich in learning and in academic honors as I promised her nine years before in that letter from Hamburg. The sky was clear, the sea was smooth, and its sharp and even horizon line toward which the ship was heading promised a peaceful temper of the powers which con- trol the motions of the air above and of the waters below our ship. The comforts of the ship and the fair prospects of a fine '"oyage were recorded in the smiling faces of my fellow passengers. A group of lively schoolgirls from \\Tashington, mak- ing their first trip to Europe under the guidance of an old professor with long gray hair and shaggy beard, looked like so many nymphs playing around a drow- sy Keptune. They formed the central group of the happy passengers. There were a number of college boys on board. Some of them had friends among the \Vashington nymphs; hy c1eyer manæu- ,ering it was arranged that the college boys, including myself, should sit at the same table with the playful nymphs. The gray-locked professor, whom I called Father Neptune (and the title stuck to him), was somewhat reluctant at first, but finally he gave his consent to this" won- derful" proposition, as the girls called it, and he sat at the head of the table, pre- siding v..-Ïth a dignity which fully demon- strated that he desen"ed the title" Father Neptune." The jolly captain assured us that his good old ship never carried a more exuberant company of youngsters across the Atlantic. But this was not the fierce Atlantic which I saw nine years be- fore. It was an Atlantic which appar- ently studied to please and to amuse. All kinds of pleasant things happened dur- ing the voyage, as if arranged purposely for our amusement. l\Ianv schools of porpoises approached the mérry ship, and I suggested that they yisited us in order to pay their respects to Father Keptune and his beautiful nymphs. This sugges- tion was accepted with yociferous accla- mation, and it was agreed that free play be granted to our imaginations. Let your fancy take any course at your own risk was our motto. "Then the vi iting porpoises hustled off like a squadron of reconnoitering horsemen leaping gaily over the smooth wa ,-es, as if in a merr steeplechase, it was suggested by one of the girls with a li,"ely imagination, that they were anxious to report to the chief of staff of a great host which, hidden in the depths of the quiescent Atlantic, con- trols the ocean wayes. She, the oracle, as we called her, prophe jed that when these heralds had delh-ered the report that Father Xeptune and his fair nymphs were passing in triumphal proces:,ion through their watery realm, then all things in the hea'"ens above and in the sea below would bow to the will of Xep- tunc and his playful cre". Two spouting whales appeared one d.lY 63 6.t FRO I I L\IIGR:\ T TO INVEKTOR in the distance, and our busy imaginations suggested that they were two men-o'-war ent bv the friendlv submarine host to pay their homage *to Neptune and his nynlphs, and to sen-e as escort to our speedy ship. Nothing happened which did not receive a fanciful interpretation by our playful imaginations. The won- derful phosphorescence of the waves, which were ploughed up in the smooth sea by the gliding ship, supported the illusion that our voyage was a triumphal procession along an avenue illuminated by the mysterious phosphorescent glow. \\Te were headed for Scotland by a route which passed to the north of Ireland, and as our course approached the northern latitudes the luminous twilights of the North Atlantic made us almost forget that there ever was buch a thing as a dark night. Good old Neptune had quite a job to round up his nymphs in the late hours of the evening and make them turn in and exchange the joys of the busy days for the blessings of the restful nights. His job was hopeless when the northern midnights displayed the awe-inspiring streamers of the northern lights, and that happened quite frequently. Those won- derful sights in themselves would have made it worth while crossing the Atlantic. On such evenings the exuberance of the college boys and of the schoolgirls from \Vashington was wide awake until after midnight, watching the luminous and con- tinuously changing streamers of the polar regions, telling stories, and singing col- lege songs. These evenings reminded me much of the neighborhood gatherings in Idvor. One of them was devoted to original stories; each member of the gay party had to spin out an original tale. I y story was called "Franciscus of Freiburg," and it related to Bilharz, the Greek gouslar of Cortlandt Street. The disappointments of his youth, the calm resignation with which in his more mature years he passed his hermit days on a top loft in Cortlandt Street, and his search for consolation in the poetry of Rome and Greece Inade quite an impres- sion, and to my great surprise there was not a single giggle on the part of the irre- pressible nymphs. This was the first story that I ever composed and it made a hit, but its success was completely ruined when, prompted by modesty, I suggested that any tale describing disappointments in love is sure to be taken very seriously and sympathetically by young girls. A violent protest was filed by the girls, and I pleaded guilty of the offense of disturb- ing public peace. A mock trial, with Father Neptune as the presiding judge, condemned me and imposed the fine that I tell at once, and without preparation, another original tale. I described the first speech of my life on St. Sava's day, and of its unexpected effect upon my mischievous chums in Idvor some thir- teen years earlier, comparing it with the unexpected effect of my Franciscus story. I regretted it, because the fairies from \Vashington had an endless chain of ques- tions about Idvor and my prospective visit to it. Never before did I have a better opportunity to observe the beauti- ful relationship between American boys and girls. Its foundation I recognized to be the idea of the big brother looking after the safety, comfort, and happiness of his sister, the same idea which is glori- fied in the Serbian national ballads. One pleasant incident followed another in quick succession during our triumphant procession over the northern Atlantic, and all the powers which control the temper of the ocean were most kind and generous to us, just as our fair oracle had prophesied it. When the cliffs of Scotland hove in sight, reminding us that our voyage was approaching its end, there was no thrill of joy such as there was when the immigrant ship, which first took me into New York harbor, approached the Long Island coast. Not even the countless sea-gulls which gracefully circled around the black cliffs, and with their shrill notes welcomed us to the hospitable shores of Scotland, were able to dispel the gloom which the sight of land produced among the members of Neptune's table. Nobody in our con- genial company seemed to be anxious to say good-by to the good old ship and to the golden atmosphere of the sweet-tem- pered Atlantic. 1\lost of them had never crossed the Atlantic before, and since the voyage was practically over I thought that there was no harm in describing to them some of the terrors of the Atlantic, which I experienced when I crossed it nine years before. The pictures of those experiences were like the pictures from another world, and not from the same FRO:\I L\I:\II(;IL\:\'T 1'0 I \.E"TOR Atlantic which thrilled us with its sun- shine, twilight, phosphorescent glows, and glorious streamers of the northern lights. fhe comparison between DlY wretched fellow passengers on the storm-tossed im- migrant ship and the radiant company on the ship which brought us to Scotland afforded me a splendid opportunity to thank Father Neptune for permitting me to join his beautiful court. His favor, 1 said, was almost as great as the favor of the immigrant officials at Castle Garden, who allowed me to land with onlv five cents in my pocket. The professo; com- plimented me upon my word pictures which showed the glaring contrasts be- tween the two voyage , and then he re- ferred to two pictures which, he said, he had in his mind. They also showed, he said, in glaring contrasts the difference between a certain youngster on the immi- grant ship to which I referred, and a Co- lumbia College graduate, who contributed his share to the comfort and happiness of Neptune's court. '''hen he suggested that he would give much to be with mc when I met my 1110ther, and that he Won- dered whether she would recognize me, my young friends suggested, quite seri- ously, that they would all go to Idvor if I joined theill in their continental tour. I replied that their tour was along a meandering line through the great places of Europe, whereds mine was a straight line from Greenock to little Id\-or, so little that it cannot be found on any map. There was just onc thing which delayed my straight-line journey to Idvor. A visit to Cambridge was neces:->ary in order to arrange for my work at this university during the coming academic year, and J lost no time in reaching it. The sight of the Firth of Clycle, with its wonderfully green slopes, of Greenock, of Glasgow, and even of London nlade feeble impres- sions. ßly mind '\-as centred upon one thought only: the speedy return to I(h.or. This also explains why my first sight of Cambridge impressed l1le much less than my first sight of Princeton when, eight years Lefore, I enjoyed my loaf of bread under an elm-tree in front of assau IIal!. F. Iarion Crawford, the novelist, had given me a letter of introduction to Oscar Browning, a fellow of King's College, and George Rives, the latc chairman of the VOL. LX."\:IlI.-s 65 Board of Trustees of Columbia Univer- sity, gave mc a letter to \\. D. Niven. a fellow of Trinity College. Rives, after graduating at Columbia College, won a priLe scholarship in classics at Trinity College, and gained therc many schoiastic honors. The man lt the ancient gate of :King's College informed me that 1r. Oscar IJrowning was away n his summcr vaca- tion. At Trinity College I had bcttcr luck, and the man at the still more ancient gate of Trinity College took me to 1\lr. Kiven, who reminded me much of I>ro- fessor Ierriam, the great Greek s(holar of Çorumbia College; the same kindly ex- pression of a l1l0st intelligent face, and the ame gentle light from two thoughtful eyes. :\s J looked into his eyes I felt that I was catching a glimpse of a world full of those beautiful things which make life worth living. I informed Niven that I wished to come to Cambridge and stud) under Professor James Clerk l\laxwell, thc creator of the new electrical theory. Niven looked puzzled and asked me, wl;o tuld nle of this new theory, and when I mentioned Rutherfurd, he asked me what Rutherfurd had told 111e about it. ., That it will probably gi\'e a sati factory answer to the question: 4 \Vhat is light,' P I answered, and watched for hi reaction. U Did not )1r. Rutherfurd tell you that Clerk )Iaxwell died four years ago," asked Niven, and when I said no, he asked me whether I had not ecn it in the preface to the second edition of 1\1axwell's great book which Niven edited himself. This question embarrassed me, and I confessed frankly that Rutherfunl's son, my chum \Vinthrop, presented me with this book on the ..ample of their father and mother and their uncle, \rilliam Xelson, who had been an artillery colonel in the Confed- erate armv. It was "['nele \\ïlliam's" custom to'" "read prayers" to the assem- bled family each morning and eyening; and he went with them on Sundays in such a "country carriage" as is descrihed in "The Old Gentleman of the Bl.lCk Stock," through aU sorts of weather, to "Old Fork Church," where as lay-reader he conducted sen-ices. He was a militant Chri tian, and had t Lken his IIano'"cr .\r- tillery to the front in 18óI, when he was fifh'-six 'Tars old--a command that was never pároled. His nephcw was fond of telling how after the war thc old gentle- man would rel.Ltc to the .. O lkland" oo\"s stories of the great trugglc and of Leé's army, and picture to them thc places of 78 THOi\IAS NELSO PAGE his guns in battle with the old silver salt- cellars and pepper-cruets, bearing the Nelson arms and crest, while he marked on the table-cloth the lines of the con- tending forces with crusts of bread. In his "Two Little Confederates," an early copy of which "Tom" Page took pride and pleasure in sending to a friend of his colIege days whose experiences of the war had been not unlike his own, with the inscription "From one little Confed- erate to another," he told the story of the lads at "Oakland" "amid the camps" and within the sound of the guns; and " Iarse Chan" and "J\leh Lady," are both memorials of that tragic time. His father, " who among all men" whom he knew in his youth was the most familiar with books, and who "of all men he had ever known exemplified best" for him " the virtue of open-handedness," taught him a love of the classics, ancient and modern, and wrought into his heart and mind the virtues and magnanimities of a lofty race; and from his gentle and accomplished mother he learned those amenities and graces that were his through life. If authors write themselves into their books, he did even more.. He \yrote into them, unconsciously it may be, but none the less inevitably, himself, }-js old home, his father, his mother, his "Uncle William," his brothers and cousins and friends; and " My Cousin Fanny," to whom, when he was learning his Latin lesson, he would sometimes read "line by line Cæsar or Ovid or Cicero," lying down before the fire, is a biography of one who not only taught him Latin but was also his dancing-teacher. And the black people on the plantation, whose affection for their" white folks" illumines his Virginia stories, and whose thoughts and emotions he transmuted into their language with faultless skill, likewise move through the pages of many of his books. \Vith the end of the war poverty came from the scarred battle-fields to nlost Vir- ginia homes, and the boys -at "Oakland" worked on the farm and milked the cows and looked after the live stock, and read and studied their lessons at night by the ligh t of "tallow-dips" and "light-wood" torches; and the essence of all these things too got in to the stories. After a brief season at a country school five miles distant from" Oakland," taught by one of his innumerable" cousins," to which he walked daily, he entered \Vash- ington College. This was in 1868, when he was a lad of not yet sixteen; and at Lexington he came in personal contact with General Robert E. Lee, then presi- dent of the college, who left with him in- delible memories. At Lexington, too, he exercised his pen with contributions to The Collegian, the students' paper, of which he became edi-- tor; and he practised speaking in one of the literary societies with such assiduity and success that he won the "orator's medaL" The exigencies of the lean years in the "Old Dominion," led him, upon gradua- tion, to school-teaching for a year. He seJdom recurred in conversation to this experience, save to deplore the necessity of any youth of eager ambition and energy having to teach school. During his stay as a teacher in Kentucky he sent a story to The CO'ltTier-J o'ltrnal which was "de- clined with thanks." In later years he jestingly reminded the managing editor of its declination, who promptly and diplomatically told him that "it had never come to his notice." At the University of Virginia, where he became a law student in 1873, he re- mained one session, graduating bachelor of law. His life there was studious and uneventful, save for the making of a few lasting friendships, which he thenceforth cherished till death. He lived "down- town" in Charlottesville, with a Nelson kinsman, walking daily a distance of more than a mile to his classes; and be- yond occasional social visits in the town and its vicinage, and writing now and then an article or poem for The University J.,I agazÙze, he permitted nothing to stand in the way of his getting his degree. In the early summer of 1921. on a visit to the university, his way led him one day in the direction of one of the old Virginia homes near by where he had been a wel- come visitor in his student days; and he turned in at the gate" to see the old office again where we had such happy times," and to cut a bud from the bush of nearly fifty years before. It was the scene of his poem, "The Apple Trees at Even," and he recited a verse of it, as he gathered the rose. \Vhen he went to Richnlond after his graduation and opened a law office, he underwent the usual waiting period of the TITO:\I:\S EI SO:\' PAGI: young lawyer of his day, and in the ah- sence of an influx of husiness and fees he occasionally turned his attention to ama- teur journalism and wrote for the local press. In these early years one of his college intin1ates, then living in Char- lottesville, got a commission from a Kew York new=-,paper to "report" an "ad- dress" that Ralph 'Val do Emerson had accepted an invitation to make at the university, and Page came up on a similar errand for a Richmond dailv. 1\lr. Emer- son was then quite an old. man, and the lecture was delivered in so Iowa tone that few heard it. The two young" repor- ters," when it was concluded, approached him with the deference due his age and reputation, and civilly prayed the tem- porary loan of his manuscript. lIe re- plied that he "wanted nothing to do with them-that he was at war with newspaper reporters," and refused the proffered re- quest. The disappointed youths, the value of whose reports depended entirely on what they might give of the sage of Concord's essay, retired in high dudgeon, and together concocted a letter to the Richmond paper which dealt with ::\lr. Emerson in a manner not at all compli- mentary. The article appeared next day in the paper, and created consternation among the university authorities who threatened to debar the offenders thence- forth from the precincts. The matter, however, was soon forgotten except by the disappointed "reporters," and Page was wont to say in after-years, with a chuckle, that he had come to regard it as one of the most impudent and outrageous performances on the part of himself and his coadjutor of which he had ever known. The devotion which he felt for the univer- sity was returned with interest by its alum- ni and facultv. Re was a trustee of its en- dowment furi'd and president of its alumni as ociation. He frequently came back to make occasional addresses and to dcli\"er lectures on literary topics-his last J.ppear- ance in this rôle having been when he lec- tured on "Dante" under the Barbour-Page Foundation, which had been established n1any years before by his second wife. In 1877 he puhlished in the "Hric-à- Rrac" department of the old Scribner's ..lIon/illy "Uncle Gabe's \Vhite Folks," a dialect poem which was his earliest magazine contribution for which he re- 79 cei\ ed compen:;ation-a tender storv in the negro vernacular, depicting the a.fTcc- tionate relations between the races as he had known them on the old plantdtion. "l\IarseChan" followed in 1881 in theCL"ll- tury, the successor of Scribner's J.1 101Itlùy , which had been accepted by the editor two or three years hefore its actual appear- ance in print. It was among the first of the dialect short stories of the perio(l, and won immediate recognition with n1aga7inc readers for its charm of sentiment and fi- delity to nature; but it was not until its re- puhlication four years later in Scribner's "Stories by American Authors," that it hegan to be widely and generally known. Two years afterward" In Ole Virginia" came from the press, with "l\Iarse Chan " leading a notable procession of five other stories-" Unc' Edinburg's Drowndin'," "1\Ieh Lady," "Ole 'Stracted," "1\0 Raid Pawn," and "Polly," all previously published in magazines,-and obtained a wide yogue, estahlishing his fame as mas- ter of an inimitable art. In 1886 he married Anne Seddon Bruce, the lovely young daughter of Cap- tain Charles Bruce of "Staunton Hill," in Charlotte County, Virginia, and sister of Philip Alexander Bruce, the 'ïrginia historian, and of \Villiam Cabell Bruce, re- cently elected United States Senator from Iaryland. She came of a gifted family, and was herself the possessor of unusual talents and accomplishments and of an in- tense ambition for her husband's literary success; and it was during their brief and happy married life, which was terminated by her death in 1888, that he did some of his hest work, including the story" )Ich Lady," which he wrote for her. About this time he gave a series of public readings from his stories in various South- ern and \Yestern citie , which met with much fa"or and extended his popularity. His soft and t1e:\.ihle voice, pcculiarly Vir- ginian, was one of singular sweetness, and he read with an intonation and expression that lent beautr and charm to e\'cry en- tence. His pcr onality wa::, always pll'a:,- ing, and his raccful hearing and captivat- ing smile enhanced the romance and senti- n1ent of the unaccustomed stories. The impression they produced is rctlected in some lines printed in a newspaper in a far Southcrn citv bv an entranced auditor who heard hÍm read í. Iarse Chan ": 80 THO IAS I"ELSO:N PAGE "To us of younger years that sad romance Seems like some legend of the days of old, .\s when King Arthur and his knights drew lance Ere yet the flame of chivalry grew cold. To elder hearts it brings a joy, half pain, A gleam by sorrow's shadow darkly crossed, As if the ghost of youth came back again To vex us with the things that we have 1051." Five years after the death of his first wife he married 1\lrs. Florence Lathrop Field, widow of 1\1r. Henry Field, of Chi- cago, and grandniece of James Barbour, governor of Virginia, secretary of war i3 the cabinet of John Quincy Adams and minister at the court of St. James's, and of Philip Pendleton Barbour, Justice of the United States Supreme Court. She was a woman of social charm and of great intelligence and culture, and in her companionship the last twenty-five years of his life were happily spent. Soon after this marriage he abandoned his law office in Richmond, and removing to \Vashing- ton applied himself exclusively to literary work, and stories and novels came from his pen in frequent succession. His house in Washington was the cen- tre of much that was best in the social, diplomatic, and literary life of the nation's c3.pital, and in it his wife and himself were the dispensers of a hospitality that must remain unforgetable by those who p::trtook of it. But his heart never lost its love for" Oakland" and his" people," to whom he had dedicated his first pub- lished volume. The place remained in the ownership of himself and his two brothers, the younger of whom, Rosewell Page, continued to reside there with his family after the death of his father and mother, and his visits home to the kin folks and neighbors and friends, white and black, of his earlier years were con- stantly recurrent. These visits were al- ways hailed with pleasure by all Han- overians, and a few of the older darkeys, after he went to ROD1e, regarded him with mingled devotion and awe. One of them, "Aunt Charlotte," a former slave at "Oakland," who lived to be a hundred and whom he had pensioned, sent him a message while in Italy: "Tell him, while he's settin' up by earthly kings, not to forget de Heabenly King." His devotion to his State and its story was a part of his larger love for America and of a catholicity of spirit that was more than cosmopolitan. \Vhen he was sent as ambassador to Italy, in 1913, he de- termined to "celebrate" the event by taking his brother Rosewell and one of his earliest friends as his guests on a visit to the Greenbrier \Vhite Sulphur Springs, where he had spent many delightful hours in the years of its charm as a favorite re- sort of the Virginia people. Here he showed the joy and enthusiasm of a school- boy in his walks about the place and in the rekindling of youthful memories; and when, after a few days' stay, he left it for his post of duty abroad it was with high hopes of serving his country, though with little anticipation of the coming tremen- dous tragedy in which he was so soon to bear a devoted and significant part. Of that service it is needless to tell here. It now belongs to history. Upon his return to America he again took up in Washington the threads of his interrupted literary work, and wrote the story of "Italy in the \Vorld \Var" and his lectures on "Dante and His Influ- ence" which were published in his last book. After taking part in the centen- nial celebration of the University of Virginia, in June, 1921, he went back to his summer home in 11aine to find his wife mortally stricken. Her death broke up his domestic life in \Vashington, and he finally determined to return to "Oak- land" to live and there devote himself to the composition of his "Recollections." Two days after his arrival he paid to nature the debt that is charged against mortality. The story of his end is such a one as he might have woven into some tale of his about" his people." The" Old Virginian," after a time of early hardship and struggle that finally had brought him a fame beyond that of most writers of his generation, had come back to "fall on sleep" amid the loved home scenes, in the kindly presence of those who were his nearest and dearest. On the first day of November, 1922, he was in the garden at "Oakland," in com- pany with his brother Rosewell's wife and two faithful servants of many years, engaged in the planting of shrubbery. To one of them he had just said: "Take the spade and do a little digging," when he sank to the ground and his heart was stilled forever. " . . The Home-Wreckers BY BADGER CLARK Author of "The Gumbo Li1r," etc. ILLUSTRATIOXS BY JI"XRY PIT7. IIA T better housekeep- er do you want than me?" asked Rider, dropping a few slices of bacon into the skillet and 'wiping his hands on his overalls. "\Yhat better home do you want than this log house? \Vhat's got you lately, anyway, Haley? Ever ince that rock rolled on your foot last week you\-e sat around here and sighed and moaned like the ridge pines on a fall night. I'm doing all the work these days, but I'm satisfied." "That's because you never had any dif- ferent kind of a life," said Haley, shifting restlessly in the home-made pine morris- chair which was his by right of his tem- porary inyalidisnl. " You never got married and had a home." "Home! \Vhat's this?" said the other, waving a greasy fork. "House, spring, and fire-wood-garden stuff from our own patch, eggs and chicken from our own hens, trout from the creek and deer meat hanging up in the lean-to all winter. .And besides all that, liberty-no shift boss and no woman." "No woman; that's the trouble with it," complained Haley. "No wonlan; that's the beauty of it," retorted Rider, flipping the writhing bacon into an enamel-ware plate and stirring a spoonful of flour into the hot grease of the killet. "A woman would call my liberty laziness, and be nliserable hecause I was so comfortable. She'd nag, rag, pester, and everlastingly aggravate me until she got me back where I was four years ago-twelve hundred feet down in the belly of the earth, with dark and damp and sweat and candle grease and stuttering machine drills for com- pany, eight long hours a day." VOL. LXXIII.-6 "She'd make a man of you," declared Haley. "She'd make a mutt of me," rejoined Rider, snatching up a kettleful of boiled potatoes and carrying them to the open door to drain them. He interrupted his discourse with a brief imprecation as the steam from the kettle scalded his fingers, and then continued. "It's so long since you were married that you've forgot. You're in vour second childhood. You're like a twe;lty-year-old kid-all sentiment and no sense. Think Remember! A woman looks nice and in\'iting, don't she? Oh, yes; he puts in all her single life trying to look sweet and trap one of us-sling your eye over the ads in that woman's magazine on the floor and see if she don't-but later in the game she biteth like a serpent and stingeth like an adder, as the prohibitionists used to say. You're too old not to know that." "Oh, it ain't just the being married,.' said the invalid. "It's having a woman around the house. It's enjoying her ways of doing things. For instance," he went on maliciously, as Ri(kr jerked a pan of hiscuits from the o\.en and dumped them in a heap on the oilcloth-covered table, "for instance, a woman don't set the table that wav." Rider was"' not above th feminine weakness of being sensitive about his housekeeping, and he glared at his part- ner a moment before he tossed the bis- cuit-pan hehind the cook-sto\'c with a tinny clash. He picked up the skillet and, giving the gravy a final swirl, began scrap- ing it out into a bowl before he ans\\cred, with an obyiously labored calmness. "Listen, Haley. You haven't crooked a finger abou t this cooking for a solid week. I've done it all. I'm sorry you don't like m\" stvle of sCfyice, but if you want things doné woman-fashion) ou can 81 82 THE HO:\IE-\YRECKERS just hoist yourself on them crutches and crow-hop down to the widow's for din- ner." "I'd be right glad to have him," said a cheerful voice, and Rider, startled and abashed, nearly dropped the skillet as he looked up and found the person he had just mentioned in the doorway. The widow was a pleasant sight even in a mountain country, where pleasant sights are scattered about everywhere and piled half-way to the supreme beauties of the sky. Her eyes were bright, her expression good-humored, and her teeth-a point which Haley and Rider, as experienced horsemen, had often remarked upon- were notably sound and white. Her face might be forty; her starchy attire sug- gested a bride of twenty-two and her feet looked about seventeen, as all women's feet should. F Haley's bronzed face shone with plea- sure as he hastily buttoned his flannel shirt, a detail of his toilet generally neg- lected. He was one of these lean old- timers whose salient features are a hawk- like nose and a prominent Adam's apple, and, though his mouth was completely concealed by the huge, drooping mus- tache so popular in the West during the vogue of the heavy, single-action six- shooter, the sudden appearance of many little lines around his eyes indicated that the curtained lips were smiling. "Hello, 1\1rs. Mead," he cried cor- dially. "Come in I Come in, and have a bite of chuck. Rider's got it all ready." "Oh, I couldn't do that," replied the widow. "I was just baking some sarvice- berry pies, and Sonny and I," playfully twisting the ear of a ten-year-old boy be- side her, "took a notion we'd run up and bring you one and see how you're getting along. How's the bad foot these days?" " Fine!" said Haley with enthusiasm. " Since I put on that liniment you sent up day before yesterday it hasn't made a bit of fuss." "Except that it kept both of us awake until nigh daylight this morning," Rider murmured absently, as he placed the bacon and potatoes on the table. "It was too bad," said the widow quickly, as she saw the glance Haley shot at the apparently guileless cook, "too bad that the accident happened just when you were getting along so well with the tun- nel. " "Oh, don't worry about that," an- swered Haley. "\V e only peck away at that tunnel to fill up time in our lonesome, good-for-nothing days. If we did make a million-dollar strike in that tunnel what would be the good of it?" "He means since prohibition," amend- ed Rider, in the same absent manner as before. "No," said the widow to Haley, ignor- ing Rider's remark, "there isn't much to work for in a lone life. If I didn't have the children, I believe I'd just naturally cave in. They'll keep me interested un- til I get them raised and educated any- way. But you men-in a world as full of women as this is-" she laughed, with a flash of her excellent teeth and a slight deepening of the healthy color under the smooth brown of her cheeks. " Well, I must run home and finish my baking." Haley dismissed her with effusive thanks for the pie, in which the misogy- nous Rider found grace to join rather per- functorily, and then she stepped briskly down the trail from the cabin, with her hand on Sonny's shoulder. "Well," said Rider with an air of re- lief, "hitch up your chair, Haley. I take notice," he went on, glancing out the door, "that the county has sent a gang of men down to build a new concrete bridge across the creek. This tourist business is making a lot of difference in the looks of the roads-and the county treasury." Haley showed little interest in the good- roads movement. He ate with a hearti- ness that should have flattered the cook, but replied only in monosyllables to the latter's remarks on subjects of public in- terest until, at the end of the meal, Rider picked up the butcher-knife and pro- ceeded to cut Mrs. Mead's pie. "The widow's a nice woman," he said, as he watched Rider's blade sink through the flaky crust and then rise again, drip- ping with the sweet purple juice. "She never comes near this shack but she brings that kid with her, so as to have every- thing proper." "And to make you notice her niceness and her properness," replied Rider, with evident distaste for this turn in the con- versation. "She's nice enough, but can't 1,liJrr l I / . r \ (. í " . I,.. ' I I I I I ' , . \ ' I I I ! I,ll ,. , III d l l' ' j '" ',/, \ I \ :' ', " " ' ":,'fl' ll /';",;, " . t . j 1 ' :\: I ' '1 1 . ;.';(.; \\,' y: ,7 I ..i i:t 1 lf' I ./ /. 1;. r ' 11 , ':" , } , fl '. ' ;.... .. .-. t ) . \\'I \ ! ' -;'. - , . ':' , f I . ,. I, I .J · .' , oi' .', I .I r ::,;r.': '/ ,, \/( :'(: , :"'.. '. J: ':.' A , ',. ,.:: Jr , > , I ' '\ 't-, JII , I " I I' '. ,:, .t , . p, ,/., I , ' , /I, I 1\ , '-' J I ' Jr I' ..... I ".( . 'l , I. .. ì I ":. II, .#' \ 'i .' .-. ,I t; I ,: ";, :' ! I I I " : " J ' ',' J! '1, I" - ,." :'t. . 1 ' tj. _ _ _ :.' ::ti \j - ' _ . ",= . " '(> ii" /' -; , ; :'.' 'r I, I _, i1 . r 1 - _ , - - - -- . '!i""" ;-:- - -' > ".- i' ;;\(\"" ,"'.,._" III t _ _ _ ___" I .',' I, - ".1 ., . ',; dj i '\. . . '.' II '".,. 'r - _ ':, " ' · r I :: "' ;.i' ..: , -., ,",' - 'ft' . : II;, ' : ,, ' ' ,,':' Iii I , . 1 lfI'W ." ," , _... , < ::,,-=:. ,I M .:;_ --,, ,:I. \,..' , . ':., "': _ .; -=- _ .----,..:.. _ . f:"" _ - - _ _ ....... ' - , ' . ., \ . ' ' I ; ;.is __ . "=.; :;. . . _ -=--.,.. _ \ . . ...; ... . ... ,1:.. ... . ........ -,t IJ ',II I i t.l I! rllll , 'tt , r , ;, ""'Ii ? / , , ':i ' ' ;ÅJ"-: l\ , :1 \ t I\, :' "1 , J. 1m;" I I 'I 1lllf/lmll 'Wl .'dlill ! ,/ , ",. ,I ,t! " .,..., ': -, 1r . ;t- . 1,1,' ,v I , I I) I '1"'. ..' .e;;.. " 'I f ,: . ...:. " 'I , '..""-..' ", ..' , J.,. . .' I" ,I', \, "";'''. , .. ,I, þ ,'f , I -::-...... //";,, . ' , I . , ' I , ; I . , .' f ---- . "...--- -- , . . ': ,. ,ø' ; , <" "Xo woman; that's the trouble with it," complained I1alcy.-Pagc 81. you See why? She's heen aiming for the last year to break up our home. It al- ways hurts a woman to see any man run- ning around loose without a halter on. She thinks he ought to be at \vork in s9me woman's harness-feels just the same about it as we used to feel, in the old days, when we'd see wild horses on the plains. " " \r ell, what of it?" Haley argued. "The widow has got the ranch to look after and _ the children to raise, and it's lonesome in these hills. She wants a pro- tector." "Or a cheap ranch hand, mehbe," neercd Rider, "and I reckon you'd like to qualify for the job. You were married once, IIaley, and you\'e told me that you used to get drunk e\ cry ot her pay-day regular. \Vhy was that? " "Oh, that was the style then," an- swered Haley uncomfortably. "Style!" snapped the other. "Own up that it was because vou had to case the strain on your disÍ)osition some way. .And now, after being single five or six years, you've forgot your lesson. The widow's a good neighbor. Leave her that. " e're well fi).ed, free, and happy. I eave us that, and don't go dreaming around until, the first thing you know, you find yourself down in the dust, hog-tied and sentenced to the collar for life. You-" 83 8 THE HO IE-'YRECKERS "Oh, hold on !" interrupted Haley with impatience. "\Vho's getting married, anyhow? I just said, and I stand to it, that it's good to have a woman around the house-brightens things up and makes a man more contented. She don't have to be vour wife-mebbe it's better not- but a sister, say, or a daughter." Rider hesitated over his reply to this, as a kind-hearted gambler might hesitate to show a winning hand that would leave his opponent bankrupt. He had ''larked and" bached" with Haley for four years. They had long ago battered down each other's reserves, as men in such a situa- tion do, and in their frequent arguments were customarily as courteous and con- siderate as a couple of bear cubs in a scuffle, yet the real affection that existed between them made Rider look vacantly out at the pines in the gulch and speak slowly as he said: "You lived with your daughter about a year after your wife died, didn't you?" Haley admitted it with visible con- fusion. "And you got drunk even then, didn't you? " Rider purposely kept his eyes turned away from his friend in the moment of painful silence that followed. "Oh, well," said Haley finally, "that was a pioneer picnic. An old-timer had to celebrate and do honor to the old times the best he could." "And you came home from that pic- nic," pursued Rider, like a lawyer prying a damaging admission out of a witness, "and showed your real, natural feelings about this woman business by throwing your daughter out of the house." "I didn't!" said Haley indignantly. "I just took her by the shoulders and pushed her out. I remember that much. There wasn't nothing rough about it; I just sort of eased her out, and if she'd have been most women it wouldn't have mattered. But 1Iyrtie was high-strung, even higher than her mother, so she only came back long enough to pack a suit- case while I was asleep, and I've never got track of her since." "'V ell, it happened for the best all around," said Rider who, having made his point, was willing to spare his partner further confusion. "If 1\lyrtie had stayed with you she'd be married by now, and then she and her husband would sort of ease ')'021 out of the house. I've seen that done. There's nothing that makes peo- ple meaner than what they call being in love. They never think of anybody but themseh-es. As it is now, here we are, easy and independent, and everything's all right." "I wish I could get some word from 11yrtie, though," faltered Haley, with a wistfulness that always made Rider un- easy. "No need to worry about her," he re- assured. "1fyrtie was smart in a dozen ways, and a manager. She'd be as happy in a big city as a coyote in a hencoop. All girls are. There's so many men there to pick from, when they throw their rope. That's a woman's business in life, to catch and break a man, just like men catch and break horses. But you and me have hit a high range, where we can eat free grass, and stomp, and snort, and run maverick to the end of our days. Well, I guess I'll let these dishes go until night. I've got to hoe that garden pretty soon or we won't be able to find it. Get up and I'll drag your chair out on the porch where you can watch the cars go by on the road. There's more of 'em every summer." Rider worked all afternoon in the garden, hoeing the rich black soil that sparkled with mica and stopping at in- tervals to roll a cigarette and lean medita- tively on his hoe while he smoked. Rider had been born with a hearty dislike of routine and hard work, yet without that chronic restlessness which makes the hobo. As a young man he had drifted from the paternal ranch into the hills, drawn by the idea that high wages and the eight- hour day made mining a more genteel and pleasant occupation than ranching. Thereafter mere force of custom had kept him working, a secretly unhappy and re- bellious conscientious objector in the ranks of labor, until, in his late thirties, he had formed his connection with Haley and stumbled into paradise. The life with Haley in the cabin realized many of Rider's dreams. He enjoyed the leisurely prospecting and the hunting and fishing, while the necessary evil of a few weeks of regular work each year in mine or logging camp, to maintain their cash, only added THE HO:\IE-\YRI:CKERS "t'i. .' \ \. Ø1.1 -;. ' . \-, , ,,-::! I -. ""'"':II' /Ii - - : I ,,' . --JI .i . . - , . \ ' \ .' . :':-,s;(J; ..... ø '. þ _. \ :;. ' ., - \' " '4---: . ,,''(: A "'{: \ '" '- ....,.[/ "::;1/.' \ p;r....- ' - --- ........ , \' \ . r " '" - __L- · -\ I . . " $ . ; ' \ " t \\A -If ;;: .:t\ t If -..: ;,'.() ' .: ':f /' ::.:. . . I (: f Q ø . i ('. . '. ,/J ,, , /': ., , ""rtm .,," Haley, . . , one of these lean old-timers.-Pagc 82. zest to the abundant and luxurious loaf- ing among the changeless, silent hills covered with slow-growing pines, where time move(l only at the easy gait of the sun and the seasons. \Vith a different early environment Rider might have be- come a poet. He had always distrusted marriage be- cause it mani- festly involved work and re- sponsibili ty, and with him the usual you thful es- says in love had been half- hearted, hesi- tating affairs, uniformly end- ing in the tri- umph of some more venture- some wooer. lIe had borne these disap- poin tments philosophi- cally, and if his philosophy did not immediate- ly heal his wounds, the contempla tion of his success- ful rh'al's way of life a year or two after mar- riage generally accomplished it. As he grew older and fe\\'er women looked at him with interest he felt a certain satisfaction in the lessen- ing danger that some woman's fancy might conspire with his own occasional romantic impulses to kidnap him and carry him over the dread border of the state of matrimony . Now he was far more content than most men, and, know- ing it, was as vigilant as any jealous wife to guard his winnings. Haley seemed essential to his happiness, for he did not wish to live in solitude, and if Haley were taken from him he felt it would mean a return to town, the drab bondage of reg- ular employment, and probably, as a final rivet in his fetters, marriage. ;,. 85 "The old man's getting worse," he re- flected, as he leaned on his hoc and hlinked in the brilliant mountain sunshine, "These spells of his are getting longer and closer together. lIe's an old-time married man and being married i" like any other bad habit-you never do get clean shut of it and it's always likely to come back on you. And then, he never gets through feeling cheap about his daughter. Can't blame him much, and I oughtn't to rub it in on him like I did to-day, bu t I've got to jar him out of these fi ts some way. He'll be better when his f 00 t gets well and he won't have so much time to mope around and read love stories in the magazines. I've got to keep him amused. \\T e might go down and chin with the widow to- night-but no, \\"orst thing in the world. I guess I'll take him up to the ranger station for an hour or two. If the ranger's wife should take a notion to haze her man around the way she does sometimes, it would be a mighty healthy thing for Ha- ley. If women only showed their daw3 oftener, they'd be a heap less danger- ous. " Rider suspended operations in the gar- den early enough to gather a few wild raspberries and catch a few trout from the creek for supper, to please Haley, and, after that meal was over, proposed a \"Ísit to the ranger station. Haley, it seemed, had heen considering a call on the 'widow, but he yielded readily, adjusted hb , . -' 86 THE HO:\IE-\YRECKERS crutches, and they made their way up the with women folks don't dare." Then gulch just aft.er sunset. The mountain his sternness vanished and he began to twilight was yery still and very loyely, chuckle. "Haley, I never took notice and they did not break its charm by dis- until the last few years how many of the cussing it, but trudged along in silence. human family are Low-legged. Óld cow- Now and then carne the distant \vail of a punchers and old Sioux Indians average coyote from the dim pine woods, which pretty high in that Jine, Lut I'll bet they máy haye given a thrill of wildness and assay considerable less, by the hundred, freedom to Rider or a shh'er of longing to than-" Haley, but was too familiar for either to "Say," remonstrated Haley, "ain't comment upon. Presently they heard an- you got any ideals at all? Ease off on the other sound, quite as familiar but far less women and cuss the government awhile." primitive-the purr of a gasolene motor- 'Vhen they reached the ranger station and saw the last light from the west flash they found the ranger, in his worn uni- on the windshield of a car coming down form of forest green, sitting before a table the road. As it approached them it with a pair of telephone receh'ers on his stopped, and a woman in knickerbockers ears and fussing at an odd-looking box. slipped from under the steering-wheel and His wife, who stood beside him, nodded to stepped to the ground. A man, appar- then1 without speaking, and the ranger, ently her husband, sat in the front seat after waving a friendly greeting, held a with a small child asleep in his arms, while stiff palm toward them to enjoin silence. a little girl shared the back seat with a "Radio," he explained briefly to the pile of camping impedimenta. The lady surprised prospectors. "Just about to stooped to inspect a tire and then kicked get someting. Wait a minute." it thoughtfully with the toe of a business- Haley and Rider, removing their hats like laced boot. as if in church, stood watching with wide- "Need aD-Y help, ma'am?" asked eyed interest, and for se,'eral minutes the Haley, lifting his dusty black Stetson. four people in the room made neither "Oh, no, thank you," she replied, with- sound nor mO\Tement. out looking at them. "I was a little "Damn the static!" snapped the ranger doubtful about that tire, but I guess it suddenly. will stand up for another ten miles." " 'Gene!" chided his wife. They stood aside and watched her as "Oh, the kid's asleep," he protested. she sprang back to her seat, switched on "But I'm not," said she. her lights, and got away in a little swirl Rider took a soft step nearer Haley in of dust and gas. order to nudge hin1, and again all speech "Pants!" said Rider, gazing at the and motion were suspended. Presently diminishing tail-light. "The sceptre and the ranger's face brightened, and after the pants are departing from man." another careful touch or two at the "The widow ne\ er wears pants," re- knobs in front of him, he smiled. turned Haley, "except when she's driv- "Coming in good," he said. "Here, ing the hayrake or riding." Haley, sit down and get an earful. "Don't you worry!" said Rider. "She There's another receÍ\"er for you, Rid- everlastingly wears them on her mind, er." like all women do. \Vhat a smooth bUl1ch A moment later the two friends were they are! For a thousand years they've listening with awe to a woman's voice bossed men with gentle words and a light which mysteriously sang into their ears hand on the bit, but now they're getting from the black rubber receivers, for in reckless and beginning to use quirt and the more remote districts of the United spur." States there are still a few people who are "Seems to me you have lots of hard capable of wonder. They had read about things to say about them," c01nmented such things in the magazines, of course, Haley mildly. but the singing ,"oice was yastly more """,Tell," said Rider, with the light of marvellous than any amount of black militant reform in his eye, "somebody print. Rider sat rigid with attention for ought to say such things, and the men' some time and then, on turning to look , 'OØ! ..... "...... II ..:, . ,' .i'Ã. t\ " 'I" ' ,,1-- · ".,/b.. 'i'" , "" 'l:. \ t, ...- 'Å,--- . 'It" fli 'j. ,..' fJ: #"\\i' -: _ "'- r f\ "io. , 1,1 " .. . . . . :íI ,, ..., " ,. .11.. !. ... . ': 'lL. . r .. \. . åf.r; ..... T [}..' , oJ. .,I, . """'t I. . It . ,\ 't 4..,'. .... j . ...- '.1 1 '. ' I, . .. ..:, ". ,...... ." I. I . ." .. ":-" , to .' ' . . I , If \'.A , 'f , ,) . 1 .... \.:.. þ ..... ' '.." i' ' 1'" .... (, . , II . r "..,;."ç. .... . 'I r , . ....; :::,-. "". f.: . '1' \t .,.. . ,.., ' '. , · ',. i. · · ," ' r. ,. . ',,\ '. . , 'f....... \:--....r .-!-" , \ r.þt " t,'" J..,." " · O' . ;0 4 . I ' I 't/1 -' . '... ' , I', (t . t . 1ø , A, . "'" ':1( \, : - I \ ' ,,; ,, tI: A ".. ' '..'. .." \i.. . . " : ': '1.'C' ,.... t. .' \.. :,.' ,., ,)tj.. " \'., \, .... \ \I -' '\j:' '" I\' ,." .'t t':'\',. .':t.'''' \ ,þ,.... 9' \ " . ' '1\ :4I' : · ø : I ' ' I ' t \ , \ . V . '., ," I , '. ". " \ . ., l' . I . I .' ; \, , , . " . )t . , J'l' \, I ''\.\. " " ' 4:f ' / '\ ". :1:: I ' \ . t \'\ r.' ' \\ , . '. "J . \ t' ". J ,i . \ " t .,!", '- . ,(>f;:,:";'Ø'J' "'Ai;' ;t i' ,- - ,.'-':" . - ".<:: -' ) . ',t. ",.".-- - ; ' 4 ,.... 1." ;" \.j'r O f \ 11 " , r,tft ' i.. '\',;;\, \ : \ , J '., J1.t ( " I ' \ r +- \fit fP I ". :r ç------- 10<"" . 'þl f . '. i "\' A':. ..:-..;., ' O':', , I ' .'" \--.:' J", 'J' , I. J;. . 'f' , ..,_ 01- - 1 f' . JI .",r , ., t 1 'Q . .. . .... .. 0( :... , . \; .t t"I:( , ':í\ ( . . " - f'''' 'i: r , 'Ñ- ' d 'b. ."':z:- _-= . j, t ' .,: ( \ fl I': IJ .. "I '\ tt'I 't . ':....., J. -,tJJ1? - - t -. ,, \ } r ..; , --'. \ .- " rfJ't /1' , . p . ,r -.. i'-' :.,.( 1:- / ',f I I L ' .Já , ' ';...... '/'" ., _ ... -.I. ' - ", ' I 'I' '" ' I," "" 2:: . L.. ",:;" \', \ .! t-,s. , J " '--l t- c:::- [ .. 11/ I .I!þ , 1 ' r- l' . r+ J, ;f" .. " t ' I ,/' . . ,I II I" " -' .; . "L.: _ -" /1 .z:t: ;- '0'":'- I l ' \ \ I , ;f . 4-4. "?-' ! ,.. .' -=,.-- =-- "",: . , -=- .-------=- . ...... ..,. j __ -- , :.. _ ., - ;- 7\- - - '" ;o> : , '.- , ' , - -- '1_ _ l - . I _ _' __ _ -:-:_ _-;;" --- , .." , L : ;a --" "' ==--- -- -::-- , .." tit '........ 'J- -" _--. i ,..:=;; --{ . .... _' -"" .J' ,I :::-" ' 1 _ .1\ --,,\: = .; .. -:'.,. f , - ;I' ,-:.. ,',\ " --. 1,\ . 1; , - --:-- -- ...r - , Drawn by IlelJrY Pil;.. Rider worked all afternoon in the garden, . . . stopping at intervals to roll a cigarette nnd lean mt.'Òit.lth el} on his hoe", hile he smob.t.'Ò.-1' o1ge 8... !{ ".fH/ - -t" 1i. L 1}; . 1i; \II,,", J\1a 'e'. \ . 'J ,\ .;; ' . ... 4 t''t 1, : .. l' ' 111.-,... .' \. '..'. t -I. It \. " ", f: l þ\t \:" (}f 10/" '" "1 .:(Ji '.J.. )". . 1. ...--\:' . . i I fl. " 11 t :. "', " , , . ,. J 11) , . , '-: " ',- :' ..1. ., t. ' \ \ '4. " " . .. ! ..... , ., t" "'; '.' \ , ,Þ t.. . :..;. ,: .:r. ,. '/i'ÞJ " '. ." '.. . ,' " .... . 1,.... ,1, J ." i- . \ ; '-:'t:.t . J. ...., . . 1 ':: ' :. . ;, \ '! . , . :: , . ifJ ' . .......1 ;- ... ; \ - , 1 ib-t{ I . \ '-. "- rtr,. þ ( J , ' ...::. . 87 88 THE HO:\IE-\YRECKERS at Haley, he gave a violent start. The older man appeared to be very ill. His eyes were staring and the blood had sunk away from his face, lea\-ing it a ghastly yellow_ . "Oh, Lord!" Rider heard hil11 mutter weakly_ "Oh, Lord, have mercy on my wicked soul!" Then the red came back to his face with a rush and he reached forward and began twirling the knobs of the apparatus, with the result that the singing "oice died in a sudden squeal. He fumbled eagerly over the cabinet in a yain search for something and then, snatching the receivers fronl his head, placed a calloused thumb over the orifice in one of them and shouted into the other: "Hello, 1\1 yrtie! heJIo! hello!" "Look out, there, Haley!" interposed the astonished ranger. "You'll bust something. This is only a receiving set. 'Vhat's the matter with you?" "It's 1yrtie, I tell you," cried the prospector. "It's 1\lyrtie, my girl!" " \Vell, 1'11-" the ranger glanced to- ward his wife and hesitated. "'VeIl, I'll declare! The announcer said sOl11ething like that-Bailey?-Haley? Yes; it was - Iiss Nlyrtle Haley!" "Of course it is," insisted Haley. "'Vouldn't I know? How far away is she? Deadwood?" "And then sonIe!" said the ranger smiling. "The sending station is a good four hundred n1iles from here, air line." "Do you know- her address?" "Why, yes; I guess I can dig up the address of the broadcasting people." "All right," responded Haley, his eyes glittering 'with excitement. "I want you to phone a telegram into town for me. I'll go in with the mail nlan to-morrow morning and catch the train. I got six hundred in the bank-" "Aw, slow down," said Rider, who had listened thus far in a condition resembling paralysis. "Y oU\Te got too much to say for a telegram. There'll be lots of ex- planations- " "I'll make 'em when I see her. I'n1 going to-morrow." "But she may not want to see you," Rider argued desperately. "It's been four years since you heard from her. You say she's high-strung-" "Oh, shut up!" said the father, chuck- ling. " I'll go down on my marrow bones to her if it's necessary, but I know it won't be. '\Thy, didn't you hear her song? She was singing' Dear Old Daddy Dear.' " In a daze Rider went home that night and helped Haley with his meagre pack- ing. Several times during the hours of darkness and before the time for the mail in the morning he feebly attempted to dissuade his precipitate partner, but Haley disdained argun1ent and simply laughed him do\vn. The hour of parting drew on with amazing swiftness, and then Rider helped his friend into the pal- pitating little car of the mail-carrier and they clasped hands. "Good-by, old socks!" said Haley heartily. "I'll see you sometime. I'm going to my own women folks. Good luck! " Rider went back to the c bin and spent an idle morning on the porch in com- pany with an aged and sinful pipe. The sunny mountains, with their drifting cloud shadows, ached with silence, and the l11usty cabin behind hinl was like a tomb. "And a \voman got him, after all," he soliloquized bittedy. "Here I've guarded him away from women all this time, and then a WOluan got him-shot him by wireless at a range of four hundred miles. \Vhat's the use?" He took a cold snack at noon and then climbed up to the tunnel where he and Haley had centred their rather languid hopes of fortune for the past year and tried to work. He was a miner of long ex- perience, but never before it seemed had he been in an underground working that was so full of ghostly, growling echoes when he llloved or so horribly still when he was quiet. After an hour he gave it up, dug a few angleworms in the garden, and fished out the afternoon along the clear, rushing creek, which was more cheerful. He came home late in the day with a good catch, but instead of preparing supper lounged on the porch, listlessly smoking and gazing down the gulch to- ward the widow's place. He could see a rich little field of tall, green wheat, bor- dered, right and left, by the creek and a THE T-IO:\IE-\YRECKERS thicket of birches and quaking asps; be- . yond that was the garden spot, and still beyond was the house, a low, comfort- able-looking structure snuggled among a group of spruce, with a wisp of blue wood smoke curling from the chimney, while all was guarded on either hand by the towering slopes of the hills, shaggy with pine. From afar he could hear the shouted laughter of a child and the playful bark- ing of a dog. Then a nearer sound made him look down to find that the cat, a plump, pampered animal, had seized one of the trout by the tail and was endeav- oring to drag away the whole catch. "\Yoman!" growled Rider, rescuing the fish, "woman! I reckon you're bound to get what you're after anyway, so I might as well give it to you." He detached one of the trout from the willow switch on which they were strung t 'a,t . -.,' f \ , I , :_ 1 ,,' ,. -=-- . : ....... 8(} and tossed it to the cat just a... Sonny came scampering up the trail. "l\Iother sent you this glass of pin- cherry jell for your supper, .:\Ir. Rider," panted the boy. "She reckons you mu:'\t be lonesome ,,;th .:\Ir. Haley gone." Pin-cherry, the queen of all jellies! It was no common gift. The last ra) s of the sun through a gap in the western hills made the glass glow like a great ruby in Rider's hands, and he considered it a-; Inight a crystal gazer trying to fathom the future. Thi was a moment of destiny and he reali.l.Cd it. Then, quickly and quietly, as most of the truly gredt deci- sions in life are made, he picked up the string of trout and hande(l them to Sonny. "Takp that rues:; of fish down to your mother, son," he said gently, almost sadl) , "and tell her I aim to drop in thi e\'ening and visit a peli. " \ A.\.\ ,, j. " \9 ," " c. . . " . , - t 0\-, ---t - ---- - -- ---- A low, c0mforto.lùlC'-loo\"'ing c;tructure, !muKglt."(1 among a group of :.I,ruce "Mainsprings of Men" BY 'YHITING 'YILLIAMS Author of "Horny Hands and Hampered Elbows," etc. I. \YHY DO \YE FEEL THAT'" A Y ? c; Ä 5 Ä 7Ç1Ä E are now eight thou- sand feet above sea- level," the guide ex- plained to his party. "Beyond this altitude you will see no more trees.' , Two hours later they paused again for breath. "\Ve have now reached nearly two miles of elevation," the leader informed them. "From now on, we shall encounter no more vegetation." Almost worn out, the group paused a few thousand feet higher up as he pointed to the heights above. " You must now make your final prepa- rations for the night upon the summit. Beyond this level you will find no more- picture post-cards!" It is useless to make a more serious at- tempt to remind us how completely it is our associations with each other that con- stitute the real bread and meat and cake of the meal of life, with shelter, food, and raiment serving as the mere cups and saucers thereof. l\10ther, child, home, fatherland, friends, honor, God-all these call forth our energies up to that last full measure of devotion which reaches beyond life's farthest limits. Each is a name for a par- ticular kind of bond between one person and another. Together they make the upper part of that frame of relationships with our fellow humans within which all the action of our life's drama finds its setting. A fourteen-year-old lad in France has described the distances these bonds or barriers are constantly establishing for determining our group, as well as our in- dividual, points of view: "It was only a little river, almost a brook; it was called the Yser. One could talk from one side to the other without 9 0 raising one's voice, and the birds could fly over it with one sweep of their wings. And on the two banks there were millions of men, the one turned toward the other, eye to eye. But the distance which sepa- rated them was greater than the stars in the sky; it was the distance which sepa- rates right from injustice. "The ocean is so vast that the sea-gulls do not dare to cross it. During seven days and seven nights, the great steam- ships of America, going at full speed, drive through the deep waters before the light- houses of France come into view. But from one side to another hearts are touch- ing. " With these distances that mark the wars of nations, we have, unfortunate- ly, been long familiar; the catastrophes they threaten were never better known nor better feared than to-day. But meanwhile, nearer and more disconcert- ing threats have arisen from the new Y sers which separate industrial and social group from group with a distance greater than the distance of the stars of the sky, inside the various national boundaries. Within the last twenty years it has been my fortune to enjoy exceptional oppor- tunity to pass back and forth between the lines that divide the common laborer from the captain of industry. Whether here in America or in Britain, Germany, or France, each crossing of this "N 0 Man's Land" has brought a fresh though paradoxical surprise-surprise, first, at the sharp concreteness of the bristling differences between group and group; and, next, at the amazing though in- tangible power of the similarities which, deep beneath the surface, bind the fac- tions unalterably to each other. It is bad enough that to-day in America group stands opposed to group with such distances as only our Civil War revealed. It is infinitely worse that each group cc i\lAIKSPRI"\GS OF :\IEX" seeks to justify its stand hy putting the blame on "human nature." According to all the contestants it is "human nature" that causes the blood- shed of interclass as weIl as international warfarc--and, of necessity, always will. It is "human nature" that causes such unmitigated loafing as surprised me in the labor gangs of the steel plants, and always will. "IIuman nature," it is, that bars the way-and always \,"i1I-against all ef- forts to secure reasonahle reactions fron1 Glasgow's dockers or the" \\Tobblies" of the 1"\orthwest's lumber-camp or, speak- ing fron1 the other side, from the capital- istic owners who control them. "IIuman nature," of course, takes always the line of least resistance_ \nd so on without end-according to this effort at self-justi- fication. I will confess that I have returned from some weeks an10ng the strike-breakers in the recent railway strike more shocked than ever hefore at the depths to which human nature is capable of going. Never- theless, I insist that it is time for e\"ef\" able-minded non-contestant to protest against those who, in order to win a short- Jived victory, insist on befouling the" na- ture" that must remain, after all, the one and the ultimate tool of humanity, be it asset or liability. Luckily, the philosophers are running to the defense on all sides. Thev are an- nouncing this or that disco,-ery.intended to set forth as the cause of the present dif- ficulties something that will explain our near-deadly differences and, at the same time, furnish a means of their o,"ercoming through the saving grace of our equally fundamental resemblances. " Yesterday, and e,"er since history be- gan, men were rc1atçd to one another as individuals," so our Ex-President \Vilson gives his diagnosis of the trouble. "To- day the e,"ery-day relationships of men are largely with great impersonal con- c<'rns, with organizations, not with other indiYidual men. " Now this is nothing short of a new social age, a new era of human relation- ships, a new stage-setting for the drama of life." Is he right? If this is the cause of our disquieting enmities and distrusts, doe it mean that ( 1 these must be endured until we can some- how get hack to the old incli, iclual sim- plicities by cutting ourseh es off from the local Chamhcr of Commerce, the Fedcrd- tion of Labor, or The Rotary Ciub ac; well as from the steel trust, the '\Ionroe Doctrine, or the commonwe.L1th of na- tions? ..\re we searching to-day as never before to find some fairly simple rule he- neath our dealings 'with others because we want to disco'"er some Korthwest Pas- sage which will enahle us to move around this new and chilly Continent of Imper- sonal Organization? Or are we hopin against hope to find somewhere some- thing that may simplify the morning paper's report of yesterda)'s nip-and- tuck comhination of pain and plea ure which poets call "this pleasing an,iou't being" and we call life? I. Ioslem 'VorId IJreams Conquest." "Lloyd George Troubles \\ïfe Less ".hen Fighting" " " Homelv Youth Stabs Handsome Ri\-al." "Dog D.ies to Saye Boy :\Iaster." ".l\Iother of Kine Jumps into Rh"er." l\Iy friend the locomoth"e fireman gloriés in the fact that his job, at least, frees him from all necessity of searching for any explanation of such an absurd ag- gregation of human doings and misdoings. "Yau see, an engine's all-fired tempera- mental," so he explains after he has stud- ied his fire-Lox carefully and, with a twist of the wrist, has slid the coal off his sho,"el into exactly the right black, and there- fore burned, pots in his fire. " You gotta study her, and humor her. She always wants coal 'iJ..'/rfll she wants it, amI 'iJ.'IU'Tr e.rart. You can ß1ebbe fool a fellow hu- man-thev're all cas'", eems like. But, belie\"e mé, you gottå go some to fool a fi I" re. l\Ianifest Iy enough, both he and the en- gineer feel the thrill of working, not with the intangible spiritualities of influence, but with the law-ahiding certainties of material and measurable, and hence con- trollahle, forces. It is because the e forces know and obe," their master's ,"oice that the finest traiñ on the road hauls it thou- sands. So, like all scientist , these mas- ters ha\"e .l mild contl'mpt for all thcir higher ups and e,ecuth es -not to mcn- 92 u ì\IAI SPRI GS OF rvIEN" tion all teachers, preachers, lawyers, and other thinkers who can't boss shovels and throttles themseh-es and so are forced to earn their living by getting other people to boss them. If the fire isn't doing its job, there's the steam-gauge to tell you all about it before the whole show lies down on you, cold. But when it comes to getting other people to do the right thing at the right time: "\Vhy, man alive! how're you goin' to know ? You can't put no gauge on 'em, can you? And there's no signals to give you a 'Fair Block!' or a 'Slow with cau- tion' nor nothin'! It's all just guesswork -it's gotta be-with people so fickle and fancy-free like 'n' everything. Nothin' 0' that in mine, thank you!" The strange thing is this: most of the foremen, superintendents, and other lead- ers of present-day industry and business -not to mention those in many other fields-like to feel that while their dealings with things represent science, their deal- ings with "tlzingers"-with people-rep- resent mystery and magic. " \Vell, you see business-business is business.' , So the captain of commerce is likely to insist that the doings of the store, the of- fice, or the factory are entirely too diverse and subtle ever to be asked to submit to the same kind of study by which we may hope to understand and control events in other fields. "What you don't know, sonny, won't hurt you!" so my foreman used to employ the same alibi in his effort to hold onto the" mystery" by which he was foreman, when I would ask why the steel sheets for the automobiles were begun in the steam and smoke and sweat of the "hot rolls," but had to be finished in the grease and grime of the "cold rolls." In the same way labor-unions are apt to write into the law of various lands that no one shall become a mine manager without the actual experience of an excessive number of years-with the resultant serious dis- couragement of all scientific training. "But people are so different you can't apply the same rule twice," is another de- fensive alibi for safeguarding the mystery and side-stepping the "science" of deal- ing with people. "\V e'll do anything for our 'hands' that other people tell us is practical-that gets results. But we can't take time to look up the theory." Unfortunately, such a stand does not prevent any of us from having our own pet theory. 1\lost of us are apt to follow our boast of practical hard-headedness with what serves, to be sure, as the most common explanation of human conduct even though it remains nothing but pure theory: "It's all in the pay envelope-without more and more money, you can't get any- body to do a blessed thing!" "It's all politics!" so other millions of us with equal suavity and certainty habitually assume to probe the source of some far-reaching decision which may have come only after nights of sleepless heart-searching beneath the \Vhite House roof. "Ignorance. It's all ignorance!" or "sin and selfishness!" Thus the educa- tor or the preacher is likely to apply his pet hypothesis-and so to condemn us all to a long, long wait before we can hope for any substantial improvement in the headlines of the breakfast-table thriller. An amazing amount of the present highly disturbing bitterness between moneyed and moneyless, patriot and for- eigner, orthodox and atheist follows upon this practicalist habit of checking up our people by our theory instead of checking up our theory by our people. "For twenty years," so the employer is likely to explain, "we have always paid our men the highest-going wage. And yet the moment some leader calls a strike, they lay down their tools and leave us flat. Beyond understanding, they are. \Vhat's the use of trying to get along with them? " Or, according to a union mem- ber: "Here's the employer. He lets us work for him year after year, and then the minute we get into a jam, he turns us out of the company houses, and into the snow. Just in order to get a few" scabs" who will work for ten cents an hour less. \Vhat can you do with such a boss but fight him?" "This idea that the coal-miners want the money of regular work every day is all wrong," protests another. " Why, at our mine we can't possibly keep them steady-and away from their constant CCl\IAINSPRIXGs OF :\IE " weòòings or funerals, fishing parties or holidays. They're simply impossible. Y ou\'e got to 'treat 'em rough.'" Such failure of a particular theory to explain the facts results in the ahandon- ment-no, not of the theory, hut of all helief in the other fellow's susceptibility to any fair or logicaL appeal. \Vith that the stage is set for tragedy and war: a fellow clansman has been proved a Bar- harian and Philistine-impervious to all accepted human motives. To distrust him and to fight him is, therefore, not only unavoidable but a conscientious duty to the rest of a sane and reasonable man- kind! I n fairly recent times such loyalty to a single-track assumption, as to the proper means to the salvation of our souls, made a work of grace out of the slaughter of her- etics and witches. To-day it enables mil- lions of us to enjoy the gracious glow of virtue's warrior as we hear the name of the particular band of outlaws our reasoning has thus put outside the pale. "Organized Labor," "OrganiL:ed Capital," "Bour- geoisie," "Bolshevist"-who of us is so in- significant as not to condemn others or be ourselves condemned by others, to membership in one of these? Unless the "new social age," with its so-called "impersonal concerns," is to be accepted as nothing but a fabric of such frenzied affiliations or bloody antipathies as were demonstrated by the \Vorld \Var abroad or the "LaLor \\Oars of 1922" here at horne, we must find-and find quickly-some explanation of the doings of others to which we can pledge our loyalty, without taking on so much of armor and acrimony, and taking off so much of human reasonableness and hu- man dignity. SurcIy, there is hope in this: that no one can pass from sympathetic atten- dance at the camp-fires of the conflicting social or industrial armies without being certain of one thing; namely, that each army is hugging to itself a certain line of thought or impulse which more than justifies its action to itself. To miss that line is to miss all, and so to close the gates and declare the war! Some years ago, in the Philippines, the murder of our army officers hy haIf- crazed nativcs became serious. }'rom C)3 week to week it was helieved the depreda- tions would cease because every offender had either met immedi "DIG DILL" BY JIE:L\H.Y II. CI1HH-\N Author of "I1er, Toolan's !\Iarchin'!" <-Le. ILLUSTRATIOXS BY TIIO IAS FOG\RT\ " . it:: " S Patrolman John . . " Kane, Traffic A, went ! A on post in Fifth A ve- L A J ' :;;:1 nue, somewhere soulh -rr,Q of Fourteenth Street, _ I he drew on his gray WW gloves quickly and stamped his feet on the cold pavement. The early morning sun was squinting over the housetops, but t here had heen four days of cold April rain, and the clouds swept in from the west in great low billows that kept back the sunshine except for a flashing glimpse here and there, The storm was stiJI in the air, and the sharpness of l\Iarch was in the wind that whirled around the comer. " Ugh ! Not much spring in this!" shivered the traffic-cop, as he waved a solitary truck on its lumbering cross- town way. He looked down, as though something in his uniform were nlissing, and shivered once more, as he realized the loss of the overcoat that departmental orders had just banished for the season. ""'rong again!" he commented, in recognition of the departmental wisdom that annually picks the coldest day in April for the shedding of overcoats. The seasoned cop instinctively crowds sweat- ers and newspapers to his bosom, behind his hrass buttons, when the overcoat or- der appears; for he knows that a cold snap is coming. ...\nd, once the overcoat is off, he knows it will not be ordered on again, though blizzards blow and snow- flakes fly. Ofticer Kane was not the only doubter of spring. :\len hurried arounil the cor- ner with coat-collars turned up, and a pair of stenographers stopped and turned around for breath as they came suddenly into the teeth of the wind. Tommaso, who had cleaned this block for many years, came by with head lowered as he doggedly pushed his broom over the pa\ e- ment hefore him. lIe wore a black ruh- \.OL, LXXIII.-7 her coal, rubher hat, and ruhber hoots. Only where the coat was unhuttoned at the neck did the white of hi uniform show. h Hey, Tom, wha' d'yer do \\ith that hot spell?" hailed Kane. The cleaner stopped, looked up, and meditated; then, \\ith a ,;hrug of hi<; shoulders, went on. "Feel in' good to-day, Tom?" Kane threw after him, with a grin. On the idewalk a knot of ta"i-drivers huddled behind the line of ta"is, wherc there was shelter. The storm awning that ran out from the high building flapped and snapped in the wind. Kane looked o\'er the taxis, then turned around in a circle as he surveyed the street cross- ing horizon that would hold him in its grip until sunset. Kothing- unusual, he registered, as he beckoned on the first office-bound limousine from the north, ,\ ith hi hest " good morning" grin. There was a shume among the ta).i men, and he looked again, more sharply. " Hey, come back here! " a "oice shouted. "Come here, you rat!" 'nlere was a scufile, and one of the drh.ers suddenly shot out from between the taxis, with hands outstretched, and cigarette fIying off at an angle. Ahead of him a small yellow dog hounded o,'er to Otìicer Kane in joyful up-and-down le..ips, took up a position the other side of him, and turned around "ith head lowered, while he breathed defiance at his pursuer, from hehind the blue-clad legs of the la\\. "L""r-r-r !" growled the fugiti\'c fero- ciously. "IIey, come out 0' that " Then the driver looked up at the officer and laughed. " G r-r-r ! " The yellow fore feet were wide apart, the brown eyes were glaring from between them, and behind the up- lifted back a crooked veil ow t.iil '\.13 wagging yigorously. . 9ï 98 Kane looked down at the warrior at bay and gave a comprehending grin. " A reg'lar yeller dog," he said. "\\'here d 'yer get him, Jake?" "Oh, off a truck, 'bout an hour ago. They threw him off at the corner-you know how they do, when they want to get rid of a stray. He's been hangin' around here eyer since--haven'tcha, y' rat!" The rat shifted sideward a foot, in recognition of the challenge. "Here, let's have a look," said Kane, as he bent down. "Give us a paw, now." He tousled the top of the yellow head with one hand, and lifted a paw with the other. The warrior stood up on his hind legs, with tail wagging harder than ever, and placed the free paw, with its pawful of pavement dirt, on a spotless blue trouser. "Hey-y, there--wha'd'yer think I am -a doormat?" Then he turned to the driver. "W'y, he's a puppy, Jake--Iook at those legs. He hasn't even found 'em yet. He makes me think of-" The sen- tence was left unfinished. "Ah, you poor little devil-" he put his hand gently on a broad scar that had scarcely healed across the shoulder. The puppy began meditatively licking the hand. "And that tail-it's crooked as Pearl Street!" The last three inches of the yellow tail veered sharply off at an angle of thirty degrees. Kane looked again at the dog's head. "Yes, you're just a yeller dog-a mute You're lucky to be alive." He put the puppy down, brushed off his trousers, and straightened up. "Looks just like--" he started to say, then changed his mind. "What do we do with him?" asked the driver. "Guess we gotta fix him up." Kane thought a moment. "I got it. You fel- lers keep him on the sidewalk for a while, where he won't get hurt. I got a buddy on one 0' those big trucks that makes the night run to Baltimore, and he oughta be comin' by soon. He can take him along and drop him at some farmhouse where they'll take him in." He pondered a minute. "'''ish I could take him my- self," he added. "But he ought a get out 0' here quick-the society '11 have him before noon, if a truck don't get him first. A dog hasn't a chance in this town." The yellow pup had a different plan for his immediate future, however. He had " UFFS " definitely left that sidewalk, and was al- ready on post; in joint possession of the crossing with the officer. He had found the friend he had been looking for since early morning, when they threw him off the truck; and all he asked of the world was one friend, to whom he could return his dog's allegiance, in full measure. Kane's efforts to transfer the pup's post were doomed to failure. He would shoo him away, with a great show of severity, and the puppy would go bounding off a few feet, in high glee, with head bobbing up and down in the most ridiculous fash- ion, hind quarters hunched up, and tail between his legs in mock subjection, only to execute an excited detour and come bounding back to the crossing. I t was a great game, and, just because the small dog entirely understood the big cop, it could not be anything else. They were an unexpected pair, as the early limousines saw them. Kane was six feet of brawn, with light hair and the pink cheeks he had brought home from France. He pulled twice his weight on the tug 0' war team of Traffic A. And his cheery grin was known to every car that passed his post. The yellow pup came to his knees, as he squatted on the pave- ment alongside the cop, shifting here and there as Kane waved on first the cross- town traffic and then turned to release the north-and-south-bound. The faces that peered out of the limousines looked startled as they discovered the cause of their sudden slowing down; then, as they looked back and caught the cop's grin above and the serious demeanor of his yellow assistant below, an irresistible burst of laughter would possess them for blocks to come. It might not be spring, but the day was starting right. "Look here, old mastiff," said Kane, as the traffic grew thicker, "you'll have to handle the sidewalk sector now, or there won't be any yellow pup pretty soon." The puppy's eyes looked as though they were trying to understand, while his tail wagged acquiescence in whatever his new master might decree. Kane looked at him thoughtfully. "It's funny," he said, "you're a ringer for him-poor little Uffs. I think we'll call you UfIs." The dog was still wagging his tail, but the cop was looking back two, three, nearly four years. He was looking again ';;111;;;;'" "If II '/ 1 1 1 (lf 1111' .('- ) , If I I , I ""i 'I J:/I [, 'I I - - j I I ,I ! J ." , ' I 0 ' f J 1 11 A ;; I ., --1 /,1 1 1 J: _ I I , It tl .1 I ;11 1, IJ - " . J ' ,1 I N / ,'It ,'JI" ! ,I II I f r II ' I I I I ;, I 'I Þ I J 1 , illi III 1. I I J ) - , I / : Id tl ,{:'i\l} Jp I '. I I · I"'" I I I I ' :'1/ 1 ; ;1:11 m : ,'/1 I J' r I /)'1/ " :", e 1, / r r L I " 'I r/II I I ' ./ ! IIII " ,r! t_. r I -- ,IIJI! qr L':" ] "II! ' 11<1 I u, I' ' ',' '.(! __I I ' "' I I I J II. ' ,. 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I i'l I: .j i l I;, 1 i( 'I j " :;,/{ A Ii; I : I [!:t I ; 1, rIM :lt, ) '1 Or :: ); ': ÖIMI i"j !;jll . jl, . ::\;! I itij' U i , ! I \ / Drawn by Thomas Fogarty. Thl'}' ,..ere an unexpl:ctcd p.dr, a:ì the t'..rly Jimoll incs S.1\\ them. -ra l" 9 . C)Q 100 at the ruined village in Lorraine that had come as the first sign of real war to the wide-eyed Dlen in olive drab who filled the big truck. There was a church with- out steeple or roof, and with holes for windo"\vs; and the usual piles of brick and plaster and half-standing houses lined the little winding streets. They had stood like that, a scar against the sunlit hills, since that first August. But to the men in the truck they were new, and strangely different. Here and there a Frenchwoman stood in a doorway, with children clinging to her skirts as she took wondering note of "les Américains," at last, on their way to the front. When the truck stopped at the cross-roads, a small girl had picked up a yellow mongrel be- side her, and in dumb show proffered the gift toward the big men in the truck. " Pennee ? Pennee ?" came the under- standing chorus from the doughboy. The little girl had shaken her head. " Come on, I'll take him," and Sergeant Kane had reached down and gathered the pup into his arms. "He'll get nothing to eat around here," he said, "he's all skin and bones now. All right, little girl-com- pree. Partee now." The truck rumbled off to the north. "You said it," cor- roborated a private, "no uffs in this country-no nothing." Although not referred to in the field-service regulations, the existence of "uffs," which is accurate doughboy French for eggs, is an impor- tant test of countryside possibilities. "'Bout as big as a couple of uffs, him- self," came disparagingly from under a tin hat in the back of the truck, as the small balJ of yellow Dlade himself at home. From that moment he was "Uffs" to the whole company. He was even accorded the freedom of the battalion, for it is a natural bond that draws one stray to an- other-and the soldier is the saddest stray of them all. "Uffs" lasted two happy months. That was a fair average. \Vhen he had gone, the sergeant found a hole in his affections that was never quite filled. As Sergeant Kane came back to the world of Patrolman Kane, of Traffic A, he picked up Uffs, dirt and alJ, and rubbed the yeUow head with his big hand, until the puppy's delight was beyond all bounds. Then he called toward the taxis. "Jake! " U UFFS " " Yeah ! " "Come here a minute, will yer?" "Sure! " "Take care of him, will yer? All of yer, together-he can't stay out here. I'll have him out 0' your way soon. Go ahead now, Uffs, it's all right!" He handed the dog over to the driver, brushed off his clothes, and turned to the traffic that had waited patiently while he journeyed across the years to France and back. Uffs looked doubtfully over the driver's shoulder as he was borne away, but the discipline of trust was there, and his master had spoken. There was no "higher authority" on the sidewalk, however, and those curious driver folk were rightly regarded by Uffs as no more than so many instruments of a morning's enjoyment. He went at it with the zest of a man who has made his pile for the year and is off on a long vacation. First there was cab inspection. No recess of those dismal interiors was too remote to be thoroughly sniffed out, nor was there robe too sacred to be chewed-if he could get away with it. There were sud- den leaps, here and there, with those clumsy drivers in headlong pursuit. Sometimes the puppy legs floundered, and a pair of strong hands closed about the panting yellow object and pulled it back to earth. It was in one of the lulls of the campaign that a daintily stockinged ankle stepped up from under the flapping awning and was foUowed into the taxi by its daintily stockinged mate. With a desperate plunge, Uffs leaped in, a good third, just in time to escape the closing door. "Oh!" There was a little scream from the interior. "Hey-y, you mut- come out 0' that!" And, by hind leg and tail, a baffled driver puUed his gratuitous passenger out of a hastily reopened cab- door. There was a guffaw from the drivers who had escaped this particular form of catastrophe. "Say, Officer, he's in again!" bellowed Jake to the traffic-cop. "Better get a halter for that dog-he's orful strong!" From time to time, Uffs would appear between the taxis and bark hopefully at the cop; he made a hoarse little noise that sounded like "uffs, uffs!" When Kane waved him back, he would wait there, with longing look and argumentative little whine, until a more forceful gesture sent him scurrying to the sidewalk again. Only once did he gain his objective, and that was when he attached himself, by dog's right, to a small boy and girl whom Kane was convoying across the street. That children, as well as soldiers, belong to stray dogs is well understood in the brotherhood of "muts"-and UfIs was clearly a "mut." It was with an air of easy assurance that he trotted along with the little convoy, his tongue lolling forth importantly, as he did his part in the job. "hen the expedition had passed, he was unceremoniously chased back again. As the morning wore on, the gray clouds above were followed by great dimpled masses of snowy white, driven low and fast, and covering the sky \vith the sweep of their advance. Patches of blue began to appear, and then the sun shone warm and clear. Below, there was just a hint of green in the brown of the bushes that still live, south of Fourteenth Street. A truck rolled by toward \Vash- ington Square, 'with a swaying load of park benches, newly painted in bright green. The first flower-wagon was going slowly up the avenue, along the curb, starting and stopping as the red and white gleam of its geraniums and hya- cinths brought customers hurrying out of doors and down steps to see if summer were really coming. An umbrella-mender came singsonging through the side street, and, to make assurance doubly sure, a hurdy-gurdy, manned by a swarthy at- tendant, was standing in front of the high building, and grinding out the "11arseil laise" with a gusto gloriously attuned to the charging clouds above. "Aux armes, citoyens !" A man walking south straightened up and walked faster- " Ah !" he breathed, and there was a new light in his eye. The drivers looked up, and the cop started as though something had corne back inside of him. Under the arch in the square a twirl of color flashed and vanished, as the wind played with the nlCmorial flag that streamed from the white pole beyond. And then a great patch of blue let down a flood of sunshine to reassure every living thing. Spring had come, in lowcr Fifth Avenue. There was no doubt about this, in the mind of üffs. His day had arrived. lIe capped the climax of his ecstasy when he bounded into the hallway of the high U { 'FFS " 101 building and, by way of self-introduction began pawing vigorously at the long tail of the doorman's brass buttoned coat. That was his big mistake. Perhaps spring had not penetrated the carpeted aisle') of this temple of propriety. Per- haps it had come only to the doorstep. Uffs did not know that. The doorman turned and shot an exasperated kick at the yellow object, then pursued it out of the door, down the steps and across the sidewalk, to the very end of the long awn- ing. At the curb he let go another kick, that grazed the hind-quarters of the puppy, who was scampering for his life now, with tail between his legs in genuine fright. "Damn yer- I'll teach yer ter come runnin' 'round halls!" As the yellow fluff flashed into the street, there was a yelp of fear, and then the puppy pulled up just short of the wheels of a passing car and stood trembling, in panic-stricken uncertainty. There was a quick look from the crossing, and a quicker stride to the curb. The doorman was still glowering, when a heavy gray-gloved hand fell on his shoul- der and pushed him back, back toward the steps, while a pair of blue eyes looked something not far short of bloodshed. "There, stand up now!" The hand shook the doorman's shoulder as though the bones would rattle out. "Stand up, and fight with your fists-if yer got any!" The cop dropped his hand. "Kickin' a little dog around like that"-he gave the doorman a look of slow disgust-"you- llmke--me--sick! I\-e a good mind ter lock yer up, for cruelty ter animals. Ko," he reflected, "a punch in the face 'd be better for you." His fist closed, and there was the slightest approach toward draw- ing back his right arm. "Kow leave 'im alone, d'yer hear me? It'll be healthy for yer!" He turned and walked to where the puppy was waiting, squatted on the side- walk and much subdued. .. \s the crooked tail Legan wagging uncertainly, Kane gave the upturned head a reassuring pat. O' rretty near gotcha that time," he com- nlented. Then he looked up quickly. ..\ big truck was grinding through the side street. The drivcr was enclo ed in a 00),.- like compartment that looked like the cab of a locomotivc, l11tl the body of the truck 102 almost darkened the street in its im- mensity. Across the great side appeared the words "11ammoth Express" in gold letters against the. green background. And there were two number plates, one in red for "D. C.," and the other in bIce, below, for " Iaryland." Kane made the middle of the street in two jumps, and held up his hand. The truck monster stopped with a grumble of resignation, and a head appeared at the cab window, with another close behind. There was a grin of recognition. "Hello, J ohu-thought you was off to- day. " " No, I was busy for a minute over there." The cop jerked a thumb back- ward at the awning. "Say, J\ilac, I got a job for yer-it's a queer one. Y'see that yeller mut there"-he pointed toward Cffs, watching from the curb- II \VelI, I gotta get the poor little devil out 0' here, quick. Somebody threw him off a truck this morning, an' he's been here ever since. He nearly cashed in under a car only a minute ago. Will yer take him along an' drop him somewhere in Jersey, at some good-Iookin' farmhouse, where they'll take him in?" Kane called to the curb. "Hey, Uffs, come here!" As the puppy loped across, Kane picked him up and looked at him. "Not so bad, for a mut-" The driver had been gazing curiously at the dog. A queer expression came over his face, and he started when Kane called to the puppy. "That's a funny one," he said. "He made me think 0' somethin', an' then you called him 'Uffs.'" He looked again, and srrùled. "He's a ringer) John." The two men were silent as they grinned at the dog. \Vhen the big truck had rumbled off, Kane walked slowly back to his post, and he was Dluttering to himself. " Well, it's better for him," he said. " 1ac'1l put 'im in a good place-an' he wouldn't last another hour here." But he felt lonely, as he had felt four years ago, when for a day the whole company had been un- happy. Above, the April sky was cloud- ing over again; the street seemed bleak and wintry. At the crossing Kane found the man on patrol, filling in as traffic-cop. " 1\1 uch obliged, Ed." " UFFS " "All right, John." The patrolman stood hesitating. "What's up?" said Kane quietly. " laybe trouble, John-I dunno. Y' know that new special deputy the mayor just appointed? Made a lot 0' money out 0' the war-fancy dresser-little Dlustache- I forget his name." II Rothstein?" "That's it. He went by while you were after the dog-I was on the other corner. He puts out his head and looks around, then he tells the driver to slow up, pulls out a pencil and makes a note on a piece 0' paper. Looked good an' sore. Y' know, he's stuck on bein' saluted-" "Yes, I know," interrupted Kane, dis- gustedly. "They say he's in strong at City Hall- nothin' but a fad with him, but-off post, an' all that-you know. An' that dog story won't stand up. When he'd gone, I come over-might cover yer if any more come along." . Kane looked serious. "See if yer can pick up anything, Ed," he said. The man on patrol took up his beat again, with a nonchalant swing of the dub, as though there had been nothing of import in the conference. At the end of an hour he had been in communication with individuals at headquarters, at Traf- fic A, and the precinct station-house, and at the City Hall. Also, he had been in touch with Big Bill Baker, his best bet over in the Municipal Building, who be- sides being a friend of the young cop from Traffic A, was a messenger in the service of the city government-which gave him unusual opportunities for "picking up things." These communications were neither official nor of record, nor did they interfere with police duty. But they were valuable. They were the "grape-vine." At the end of anothcr hour, a big-boned man, with gray eyes and heavy grayish mustache under a black slouch hat, was casually crossing the avenue at Patrol- man Kane's post, on traffic. "Hello, John," said Big Bill quictly, as he stopped for a moment. "It's bad- you're reported in for transfer." Kane's eyes kind_cd. "I've got a hunch, though -I'll tip yer off later. Leave it ter me." Having passed the time of day in this routine fashion, Big Bill went on, with every appcarance of unconcern. It was better not to he seen talking lon to Kane. Not that it mattered to Big Bill. He was regular and he had a leader; Tom Dono- van could handle any trouhle that would ever perch on his doorstep. But Kane was just a cop and a soldier, who didn't know a leader from a wooden Indian. And Kane was in trouble. The fewer people he was seen talking to on post, the better. Kane knew that he was in trouble. The grape-vine had yielded messages from several directions. At headquarters the special deputy's demand for his transfer was being held for investigation; there were no enemies in that citadel. But special deputy police commissioners are powerful persons, and the last man to in- cur the displeasure of one of those irre- sponsible satellites had been taken out of Traffic A, and sent to patrol the !:andy wastes of City Island. Kane's heart sank as he thought of that. He had just moved the wife and kids out of the flat in Charles Street and down to Staten Island, where they could all live in the country. His savings had gone into the first payment on one of the tiny, tax-exempt "bunga- loos," that were beginning to dot that rural borough. He was happy, and fixed, and broke. City Island! That was half a day's journey from his new home-he would be lucky to see his family once in a month. As he glanced at the yellow wheel with the horse's head on his left sleeve, he pictured the change from the regular hours of traffic duty-nine to six-thirty, with Sundays and holidays off-to the long and short "swings" of patrol, with its night work and long stretches on re- serve. But, back of all that, it was like ripping off his chevrons-and for what? Because the special deputy had lost a salute-for that he was to be disgraced! lIe handled his traffic automatically, as he turned the thing over and over in his mind, but as the afternoon grew late, his face hardened. Patrolman Kane was as ordinary a commuting husband and father as any other bundle carrier on the cross-bav circuit. Under his brass but- tons and blue the same sort of human heart registered the same job lot of vir- tues and faults, smiles and grouches, that it registers under civilian garb. There was the added tradition of courage that inhabits Xew York's ten thousand cops, t( UFFS" 103 that might be called different. But, bv and large, he was the same as any othér man, and he could not understand the kind of " justice" that was now overtaking him. Neither had he any idea what to do about it. Big Bill was more resourceful. ',"hile Kane, on post, was shrouded in gloom, Big Bill was hasking in the soft lights of a banker's parlor in Pine Street. lIe was talking earnestly to a well-set-up young man who had met him there by appoint- ment. The young man listened atten- tively but doubtfully. "I tell yer, he can do it," repeated the messenger. "This feller Rothstein's al- ways skatin' on thin ice down here, an' your uncle's different-why, he could buy that feller out an' never miss the changé! He only needs ter say the word, an' its done! I got enough dope on this 'Vall Street bunch ter know what Van Tassel & Tobey says, goes--down here, anyway. If yer put it up good an' strong-an' you're alderman, Jimmy, an' supposed ter look out fer your friends-why, I know the kind your uncle is-he's one 0' them thoroughbreds that'll go the limit fer a man like Kane-he'd be glad ter do it fer him ! " "Oh, Uncle Bob's end is all right," laughed the Honorable James Van Tassel, who, for many seasons now-save for his own two years in the army-had repre- sented the 75th Aldermanic District in the city's councils. "He knows Kane just as I do-every one who goes by that corner knows him-and he'd be only too glad to help. But I don't see why this man Rothstein should-" A door opened, and the senior partner of Van Tassel & Tohey entered, tall, spare, and alert. "Oh, good morning, Jimmy, what's up?" "Goodmoming, Uncle Bob. Thisis Ir. Baker, who helps me in the district--" " Ha, ha, politics again? Glad to meet you, 1\lr. Baker-sit down and be com- fortable-now, fire away!" The alderman e plained his mission, with sundry interpolations from Big Bill, and one interruption from the banker of, "Oh, yes, I know him-fine-looking chap -soldier, wasn't he?" ""hen they \\ere through, the senior partner looked puz- zled. 10-t " \Yell, I could do it-" he smiled quizzically, with the tips of his fingers to- gether before him, as he hesitated. "I'm not anxious to ask fayors of that fellow- but-\vell, I guess there's no harm." He turned to the telephone. "Quite a drive on Sunset Oil to-day," he solilo- quized absently, his fingers drumming on the table as he waited for the call. "Rothstein caught pretty bad, they say- don't know if he'll get out." Then a secretary came with a message, and he disappeared behind a glass door. In ten minutes he returned, chuckling. "Well, I talked to him about your precious cop, Jimmy. He seemed to have forgotten all about it, at first. Then he remembered-said he bore no ill will-it was just a disciplinary threat-whatever that is. Said he'd fix it up if he found time. And then he said some other things -about Sunset Oil. He's very busy to- day! " The banker chuckled again. " Well, perhaps we can help him a little," he added. "Thanks a\vfully, uncle," said JiDllny. "Say, 1-1r. Van Tassel, that's a white thing yer done," burst in Big Bill. "Y er '11 never regret it-take it from TIle! That's white, that is!" He gave the banker a grip that made him wince. "Say, he's a reg'lar feller, that uncle 0' yours," he said to Jimmy, admiringly, on the way out. "Now, I gotta get busy -no tellin' what that guy'll do unless we keep after 'im-yer ain't got nothin' till yer got it." Bill said good-by to his aldennan, and went on the circuitous ways that some- times accompany the carrying of munici- pal messages. \Vhen Kane went off post at six-t4irty, he had no further light on his impending punishment. Even Big Bill had not re- ported. As he sank wearily into a seat in the smoking-cabin of the ferry-boat, he wondered how he would tell " the wife" about it-that was the next hur- die! If he had something definite to tell, l'tIaggie would understand; but this was different. He could wait until to-morrow -no, she'd be sure to see it in his face to- night. And then she'd begin to worry about the house. He thought of how she had hugged him when he first showed her the little home, of how the COIOf had come (( UFFS " into her cheeks, and the cough had nearly gone, since they had lived there, and he fell into depths of despair. A cop from the lower Fifth Avenue precinct, off duty and homeward bound, sat down next to him. "How'd'yer make out, John?" "Dunno yet." "Big stiff. It's bad enough, the way they got the lieutenants buzzin' 'round now, without shoo-fly deputies buttin' in." Kane was silent. "l\1ight as well spend all yer time in the trial-room, an' cut out patrollin' altogether. I'm ready to chuck the job." "You're not married," said Kane. They finished the trip in silence. "\Vell, good luck," said the man from the precinct, as they parted at the ferry- house, and hurried off to their different cars. "Wish I could help." On the front porch of the "bungaloo" that was sixth in a closely set row of two- story frame houses, ]vIrs. John Kane, with a small Kane in plentifully patched breeches alongside, was waiting as her husband came up the road. As she came down the steps, there was a whoop as the patched breeches made -a rush for the blue uniform. "Johnny, be careful-baby's asleep! " \Vhen the big man in blue let her go, she looked at him curiously-he had seemed to hold her longer than usual. Then she remembered. "There's a message for you, John- telephone, at the drug-store- I nearly forgot. Want you to call up at eight- it's nearly that now. Here's the nunl- ber. " U Say who it was?" inquired Kane, as carelessly as possible. "No, just the number." She searched his face with her eyes. "John, there's something wrong," she said. "Is it bad? " " No, it's all right, l\lag. I'll tell yer when I'm back-I'll only be a minute." But she looked long after hinl as he went down the road. [n the drug-store at the corner the clerk yolunteered: U He seemed awful, anxious -wan ted you to be sure and call him." U All right," said Kane. "\V ell, here goes," he added, to himself, as he got central. The connection to the place oa }ïrst Avenue, in :\lanhattan, was poor, , '''f / PI- fir I!dl\ ' I II ; , 'f :JJ'lI. · J t J ' I l 51 1 I /1;, · 1 , .. t r; ""! 'i 'þ ijJ 7 /IH' t"" I ,I I J!tè /(j .JJ ik 1fff ' ,''';1 - . { ( ! : t 'r ',:'f , /- r = - I '/j r. ----- -' ....---. I . It': I 1. ".:., I ___.....--,;::::::;- t.- .' I ' I r '., d. t I ---- ----_::. _", ,ri., 1' I.t r1" \-d .Ji!..{ ;A ! ' ! " ,I! '" ,,\ '11 f -- c::- ' {:: f. :- J)I -I! I ' ':. \ J '- - q - "'-. ' f" / · · \ ,:,-' t,ll ,;: I I, ' t I . ' .ç , ,. \ \_; >iL i lif\II:'IIII J '; 'It;, / I : c A :1 / ,1 ' I - \!: 1 \. '\ ' "? I, tæ'I .lj:I r.: ,i .-\, II - - "' ,\\ R'\' · '. \ \1 1/ ,,111. ' , , \ 'I, f i , - r ? .\ :' ,/ ,, ) ' : \\i ' ! 2 1 l 1:JIl ".: 'f "\ ; .' ' .. I. lil, \ : /;.- , !}" I .I f 'II ". oz.;:;", -4: y 1 /'I " I ..- \.:... ",Ilf' ,\,' I. ... , ')0 f __ . "- I '.- ' +-< I ;:, . Jfì '- t! t.' , .., . 1r7 \.. _ II, 17 0 .'.' . , '. -' ,.... j I " - ..J' \ ',' . . 'f", ,:;;._ .' , . ,. I J . ./,.' .... . i" ' -'!l '" -: I ". ., ,. f. " . :. 'J I' Ij '( -- \ ,t '-, . - . .'1,... .; t., "' f -t,'. Mil', ! I I l' . I, J. ,.',......... '- .. .r' ' . ';:;fI '- -- I ; \ I ' ' ' # ''''' . 't 11' :. i 'f! :" ri,., \I 1 1 '1 , '''ilJ.' 4/a .,..'I{<,-t \: t I \\' - . "11:- .-c,- - .. l \ " 1 / 1 J ' ,,\ : ,! "'I.fi v; ' -' '-... -"'- 0 ï ì(1J ,1; fJ "\\ \ ::- : - .. -- - ,:' .-' ...:t1Ij , t ; I , : , 1 ''- \\ :. f . _ I'll /I....... - ! . ',{iJ - ..:::iæ::: ... . -- "" cll, I could do it-" he :õmilcd quiZ/i,ally, \\ ith thc tips of hi lingl'r togl'thcr, . .l he h<".,it.lh_"tI.-P.lgC 10-,. hut this much hc managed to get: .. Thi you, John? \\Tell, I heen waitin' for ycr. Yeah, this is BilI-yer gue cd right. Here's what J got. 1 t's all fixcd up. I say it's all fi\.ed up-can yer hear mc now? That's all. I tell yer it's all fixed -don'tcha believe me? oHm,. about the deputy? I caBed 'im off. Yeah. \\Tell, nevcr minel how I did it. ] 'II tell yer tcr- morrer. Yeah, it's 0 K--on the level. He didn't come acro s till late, or I'd ,t' told :} er-headquarters only had it an hour ago. \w, ferget it-you know TI1C. Ferget it. Go home an' tell thc wife. I'll see yer to-morrow. S'long." .. \s Kane walked ha/ily out of the drug- store, and started to cross thc turnpike toward the side road, he was still trying to grasp this sudden tun1 in his afTair . It was hard to belicve. .. \n' ? == r------1 . r---r' F EI>W.\RD LIYER:\IORE BURLIXG.\ IE EDITOR SCRIB:\ER'S )L\GAZIXE, 1886-1914 != I I tc I == I 51 120 Edl\Tard Li,rcrmorc Bllrlillgan1e ] S-! '-) - I !) E D\\ .\RD LI\"ER:\IORE BURLIXGA:\IE, who died on Xovember 15, had been connected with thi puhlis ing house since ( 7Q. "'he.n the plan for SCRInXER'S :\[AGAZIXE was formulated 111 1886 he became Its first edItor, and he held that posi- tion for twenty-eight years; and those volumes of the :\IAGAZIXE show the taste, the per- sonality, and the wide interests that adapteù him so well for his position. The contacts of his formative years gave him an unusual equipment for editorial work. His early surroundings were Boston and Cambridge, and he naturally ,..ent to Harvard. His father was Anson Burlingame, the congressman from Ic.lssachusctts dis- tinguished as an orator and for his vigorous resentment of the assault on Charles Sumner by Preston Brooks. Lincoln made .\nson Burlingame minister to China in 1861. His son left llarvard College early in his course to become his father's secretary there, and followed him when Anson Burlingame was made ambassador extraordinary of China to negotiate treaties with the United States and the European powers. This gave him the abundant opportunity of studying in Paris, Heidelberg (where he tool the degree of Ph.D. in 1869), Berlin, and S1. Petersburg. :\ot only did he become acquainted "ith the language and literature of France and Germany, but his father's position brought him in contact with important personages. His natural aptitude and taste for lettcrs thus had just the right nourishment for youth and ambition. His view of literature was thor- oughly cosmopolitan. In the prospectus of SCRIBXER'S IAGAZIXE the founders expressed the belief that there was a distinct :field for" a magazine of good literature in the widest sensc-a maga- zine for the intelligent and entertaining reading of those things which they believe most interest a very large part of the \merican people." Looking back at the end of twenty-five years Ir. Burlingame wrote that the en- deavor of the management had been to make it "a mine of reminiscences and autobiog- raphy of important and interesting men and women; to print in it thoughtful and seri- ous, but practical and not academic, discussion of public and social questions by men whose opinions were real contributions to their subjects; to make it interpret the gre lt working life and practical achievement of the country by the articles of actual experts; to maintain on its artistic side a really artistic standard, with the aid of the foremost artists and the best modern means of interpreting their work." The things that he sought in carrying out this broad programme brought him man warm and lasting literary friendships; notable among them were: Stevenson, '[eredith. Barrie, Page, Hopkinson Smith, Brander l\[atthews, Edith "'harton, Robert Grant, F. J. Stimson, Bunner, E. S. )Iartin, Henry van Dyke, and many others whose names have become familiar to our readers. rany, in the newer generation of the early years of the IAGAZINE, owe their first recognition to the keen discernment of )lr. Burlingame. For him the discovery of a real poet or the writer of short stories in a new and unusual field was a great delight. His judgment in these matters was severe, and, to use one of his favorite expressions, his "geese were not all swans." To his patient suggestion and encouragement young writers have often paid tribute. His discernment was amply jus- titied by the enduring fame of the authors whose work first appeared in these pages. His own taste in shori. tories was revealed in two standard collections which he edited -one, "Stories by American ...\uthors," made before the founding of the :\IAGAZIXF; the other, "Stories from Scribner's," compiled after many years. ::\[r. Burlingame continued until his death to be a literary adviser of this house and a. member of its board of directors. For forty-three years he was intimately concerned in its publishing projects. His taste, wide knowledge of men and affairs, and the severity of his standards are stamped on many important volumes and collections. Bis col- leagues, old and young, consulted him with a surc.lnce of receiving well-balanced and well- informed opinions. He stood for what \\as fine and permanent in literature. In this house, where that right feeling e"-pressed itself, his daily presence and counsel will he long missed and his friendship long remembered. III TI-E POINT OF VIEW N OT long ago there appeared in an American magazine a noteworthy article which carried the title" The Deserted Temple." Its theme was a la- ment over the fact that the mighty cathe- dral of literature now has few worshippers. This prose elegy was a noble one, Gambols in the Temple and it merited solitary eminence; yet I, having a similar lament, in- tend not to permit this voice crying in the wilderness to be a lone voice. 1\1y song of grief has for its theme the extraordinary approach of modern youth to the great shrine in question, and the unseemliness of its behavior before it. To me it appears that the temple is less deserted than it is desecrated. Let us say that one gorgeous oriel in the dim cathedral is the shrine of l\1ilton; and before it now is grouped a class of American schoolboys or college boys-half a hun- dred gay, attractive, ruddy-faced, obvious- minded young moderns. They should come here to worship, or at least to show some spirit of reverence for the Great Tra- dition; but they seem unaware of the fact that they are in the presence of austerest majesty. And their ideas about l\Iilton's work and about the meaning of his poems are-. But they are speaking for them- selves. "L' Allegro loved jollies," one youth exudes with solemn :finality; and, "This character hated droll nights," another as- sures his comrades ,,,ith great earnestness. It must, in passing, be admitted that the phrase "droll nights" has its possibilities. "Cassiopea was a colored lady" is Young America's conception of "that starred Ethiop queen." Commentators on the genius of l\lilton should hereafter not fail to give him credit for the dexterity which this description makes so clear: "The poet in- troduces Y esta by bringing her in by her golden hair." For those to whom the true meaning of masque may remain a little ob- scure, this definition will prove quite satis- factory: '" Com us ' is a masque; that is, a paregorical play." \V c also learn this: 122 '" Goshen,' to which the poet refers in 'Para- dise Lost,' is a strong exclamation-the an- tique plural of gosh. It is most emphatic." Finally ,ve have this grand summary of the whole business: "l\Iilton was a very great poet; nevertheless, he had his good points." Lea ving this interesting group, we ap- proach a second, gathered before the shrine of Shakespeare. Here, perhaps, the talk is not a whit less startling. " Shakespeare was born to his father and mother" is the first daring bit of iconoclasm to reach us and to move us. "Ann Hathaway was eight years his superior" is a method of descrip- tion which will delight the heart of every feminist-and possibly every wife. Jealous lovers of Shakespeare's fame will be some- what dismayed to learn this: "The man who, probably more than any other, col- laborated with Shakespeare in the writing of these great plays was Homer." It is like- wise interesting to know that" Shakespeare used Robinson Caruso in one of his epics." As we turn away we overhear: "None of these plays, of course, ought to be called poetry; they are too sensible for that." The Temple, therefore, is not really de- serted; but there are in it many profaners. Some of these arc unconscious of any sacri- lege; others show no reverence here because they have never sensed it anywhere. Here and there in the noble edifice will be seen a genuine pilgrim. But most of "those present" are hasty tourists into literature; and, now that they see it, they understand of it only those meagre phases which they understand of life. They are sometimes honestly curious to fathom the mystery; but, as Johnson said of Garrick and Goldsmith, who had been discussing foreordination: "They could make nothing of it. 0 noble pair! " Gambols, especially of the mental variety, are permissible, I suppose, especially in pri- vate. But in public aÌld in a temple they are dangerous; for such capers tempt those who really come to pray to remain to scoff- at the caperers. I. , , ) : :- H E FIELD OF A T - 1 ........ \ . f . , . ..... --- : .J,þ ;'.,"4 --... .., .. . .. "f I .....'- . ..-1 (' ...... . ......; '. , .. .;......,. '-'.. ' '... " '... . .., 'YO'.. . .,., .- . .. -r"':......": .- ';' _......,l 1,' 1 ,.,.,:. I , .. .... .,.,. .......:.. . : . ... , y =-- ..:- .... . . .. "., --" . '.. - .. . ... . . ... '__, . ;tI": h "". ' t '.r.: 'A" ..: ...,.' .. ". -. ..,;!: '", .." ,-' ... ":". "." ? r.";' ...., ,"", ,... "'. '1 . , '\. . . . .... . . , "'- '..;....;.".. -:- '....l .. ...C.." . _-".. ... .' ' _. ... "'\.'"fo "..,.:. .. '.... r, <.... ''"). "-., . .... i ,. " ", ". '""... '...,,'-. "."" ; i- r-,. to..ft .... -0 't ... , ,.. $..i1 ..".-;. c.:' . .:. '" . 1..,.' ,Ie · è >>.".>> - ;"1 .'.. .; .....: . ", " .'" :.. .. 'l,.Jl." :-' -, ' tt.. " "4.:.. .... .;. .. . .t... 0\... .," ',. ". :,.. > ::. .... ",' ... ,.., \. t "') , - ". - . 0('0 . '. . . Q" . , :' \ tJ V,' .;,,:(. '. .... ." .. .. ..:. 'L" t ) t \ \.. f L_.... . - ...._. - . . ,:', "1-', " -;- · J01. . .. ... , . " . ' , ,. .... 11 .." .... " ,'- tt l ' - . ....., -' 4 " ..J- \."" ..--: , i -'. _:-- .'"... ",' ;'.' ;-':.: , : (\\.. 4. ....:it,, ; ,:' ' .. - ;'. ' .;,,_ , .. ".(;' . ..'1# _. ., - , ,,-:. . . " '-. ' __. _ "!Ì ..:. .. - ? .: ...... ...... - :,\..",, ' 1:-"' .\t __ ,v:.:;.: -.:.... . · it& - - \'.... ' \, ,' . \ '. \ . _ -' 0 , ... '.t . I . --.,T , ---.. '. ., " ,...' : . '..,\" .: ., ,., ...' , - ....I .. ''-I \\ ," . "" .... . . \ . ..:....:' ....: ,/ t. ,,:_,..." \. ...... .':....., . "t:'\':. .....' :., '.... \..:,' ...,.:. _ . ,... ""f . ,,'a .."" " I.. ,,' \. .' " . '. , '..,... - ,_....._. ," .'" I.'. .... "" "., I :;... '" t.... . ... '_.. "' '" .'.....::.. _ . ,..:....._ "-ù." . ,,,..._ . - :... \ t l I ... . . "" 't, \' ... J ... ... Littlc \rkansas River. By Birgcr S.mdLén. American Lithographs of T O-da)T BY FR.-\:\'"K \\"FITE:\K:\:\lPF ,\uthor of "How to .\pprcciatc Prints," etc. I I Lt;STRATIO S FRO [ LITHOGRAPHS IX TilE X I- \\ Y ORt.. PnlLiC LmRAR.... AXD KXOEDU R GALLFRY ^ RTISTIC lithography, or, hettcr said. .J-\ lithography for the artist, ha.s begun to have a living present in this coun- try. Ten years ago one was almost limited to the consideration of past performances. Then, the use of the process by _ \merican artists was sporadic and rare. Lithography played the rôle of a stepchild beside etching. It emitted but a feeble peep in the chorus of our art. To-day, to continue the use of the metaphor, it is heard in a voice rich, varied, sometimes subtle, not always discriminat- ing, and fairly voluminous. \, e arc getting away from the idea that because for many years lithogr.l.phy has been preponderatingly used for commercial cn't".,./ . ,- ,.. tOll' 1;-.... , J · I .. , ,, \ _. ... J' '_ \: 1J, "/.'.: ,r ! f \" - ,t'. ,:c;..., \ -. .,... j t " i . J!:1{' f.t \' " ' '1\'. ''' l ..4 t,' . _ " ,'. 4< I _. , ..... . . &.. r' ' \>, ' . I or ...1\1 H' .. · '.. .! t J...I L \J J,L" , . I*' If j r .. ,t ,' , " } J I . .. "', . ..... - - .,.y (, ","{ . j"":. ; : . -<à" : i . - .j-.... L ' r < . rf. 't1\ . ' ". . . . t. g 1 r\.f' ,J i ' g ....1 \,:'i;" .t. ( .' Ft. . ,It f "', t ..' , : I. " ;:. f . ... '1 . t":\ ..J - ... I I" . { ; , I . . \ ", ' J . ' Ii ',_' . ':<1. _Í' " \ / - . ,. ". ,#0" A' ". .... - . .. . .... ,; ,. fit.: ' t ". f. ,. I " - -1.. . i f ". . ' i$ -:. "" Rouen-near St. l\Iaclou. By Howard Leigh. lithography. Now that it seems to be really under way, one need not be discouraged if not all of the results are what one would have liked. The best will inevitably float to the top eventually, the rest will subside to the sediment of the deservedly forgotten. "Lithography," says Joseph Pennell, "is the simplest and most abused of all the graphic arts, and is the most wonderful." It offers a sensitive response to the artist's touch. Its resources are marvellously rich. The artist may use crayon, pen, or brush, he , . . (I ) , - , . THI. FIELD OF ART "'hcn worling in this mcdium, as in any medium, thc artist must understand it, respect it, love it. Thc activity in poster design engendered by the various" dri,.cs" during the late war brought it home forciLly to more than one of our artists that you have to understand a proc- ess in order to em- ploy it. So thcy learned to go into the lithographic printing shop, take off their coats, work with the printer and learn of his needs and difficul- ties. Simply to paint a poster or other de- sign which has to be done over by a litho- gra.phic artist will not provc satisfactory, least of all to the origi- na.l designer. Thc war, it seems, gave a certain im- petus to the use of lithography by our artists. At all events the process served a number of them to de- pic t figures, scenes, and activities in the great conflict. Per- shing and others were portrayed by Leo ::\lielziner, the forwa.rd struggle of the Allied armies was observed and recorded in its more intimate aspect, more from the stand- point of the individual soldier, by Kerr Eby and Captain Harry Townsend. The ravagcs of war at Rheims, Verdun, and elsewhere, were shown by Irow- ani Leigh. Incitement to effort was fur- nished in drama.tic compositions-cartoons they may be called, for purpose of classi- fication--by Georgc Bellows. The gigantic work at home, in munition-plants and ship- yards, was set down picturesquely by Joseph })ennell, \P ernon Howe Bailey, Herbert Pull- inger, and Thornton Oakley. :\Iany contemporary American litho- graphs have already been seen, both in one- 1 ,- -:> man shO\\ s and in collcctive eAhihitions such as the one held at the X ew \ ork })uhlic Lihr.try in IC)20 and in the gallery of the atural .\rts Cluh, Xew York. Thc worl already produced runs an intue ting scale of possibilities in handling, in tech. ' ---:::;>--- - - - .. - - ',- \ ......... '- " \ , \'- , \, ....... '- " -- The Cards. By .\lhert Sterner. niq uc, and discloses a plcasing and promis- ing variety of temperaments and minds, to which these technical privileges ha,'e af- forded richly adequate means of e pression. Here is the utmost delicacy of pearly gra) s, as in the picturc of haze-en\'cloped nymphs by the water-side, in which Holton Brown, with subtlety in printing, repeats the eva- nescence of the shimmering, eye-confusing colors of his paintings. .\nd not far off-if ) ou happen to run down the alphabetical list of artists-is the ma5sive force of Bd- -"f , .... è3' " f. . ' t ":i . f, 1 '1; /',f<... , . . , ... \ ' , :Qoo. - ...... , .- '. . . A ;f ..,. i - _:"-. :,-. ',. . . . j." - . ':' fIItl.' . ." q - ' t. ... . . - -. , :;.ø: ': . .- ":7 : : ' ::-:, :::-c:. .:: - '''''''''"" -- ... ..;' ... þo . ' ' I" Þ SJ.M. .. -wo" ""i' : -- ..} _ . .._.......;_:; _ .-,.:. - ; .... ".. I j ..; Ip .t>{\ , r I, - -=1 ..,.,....-- - .. , '9 .,- þ ; I f- f' " f/f _ ... .(- - ..:- t ,.x- "'--4f - .( ., .,....:. ': t', I '\. (, - -:.,. . - ... '-' .,. 'fI. /,,, H; , \ " -"0 "'.; : :_. .. I' -.. -", ....... : . , it . ):.'r' 1. - ......;;.., '... ' '. .'. i . \, l' > '- .. ,^, "" .. , b :- f\ _. , { -- ..._ .....;1: - . : - The Old :l\IiII. By George Elmer Browne. lows's broad, heavy crayon strokes and resounding array of darks and lights. Here is straight realism, as that of Adolph Treid- ler, and an imaginative quality that is quite of to-day. And that though it may be in touch with the past, as in the case of Rock- well Kent, with a ccrtain kinship to Blake. Again there is plain, straightforward study of nature, as in the tree forms which Sears Gallegher gives with the effect of a crayon or pencil sketch, and the large drawings by Birger Sandzén, in which rugose and swirl- ing lines bind trees and clouds into a big decorative pattern that recaIJs the convolu- tions of a finger-print, and that somchow, again, breathes the free, clear spirit of the ',"est. Still pursuing the always alluring sport of contrasting temperaments and methods, one may place side by side city scenes and build- ings by certain artists who have found strong interest in these. Hassam, with sure- ness of eye and light definiteness of touch, has here, as in his etchings, explained his outlook on things through air and sunlight. George Elmer Browne, in such a piece as "The OJd l\lill," produces a colorful painter- quality in statement vigorous and sane. Ernest Haskell, avid pursuer of processes, has a "'histler-like lightness in his" Ruined Pier, Staten Island." Howard Leigh in his 126 drawings of cathedrals and other monu- mental structures gives not so much archi- tectural renderings or decorative detail as massive impressions of massive construc- tions, the building imbued with a dramatic element born of its picturesque qualities. Y ernon Howe Bailey brings to his task the important equipment, not too common, of sure draftsmanship. Before the sky- scrap r of N ew York, at the docks among great vessels, in huge and busy plants and at sight of towering smoke-stacks, everywhere the same clear view and presentation, the suave swing of line, the matter-of-course yet subtle sweep of composition. A natural manner that makes the selection of the right view-point so apparently inevitable that you take it for granted. And somehow, some- times, your thoughts go to Pennell at sight of this. Joseph Pennell was in the game with 'Vhistler, running down the gamut from the crisp lightness of his" Spanish Series" to thc resounding deep notes of his" Rouen Cathe- dral" and those aUuring experimental stud- ies of roadside views. He is still at work to- day, telling in his lithographs of the "Won- der of 'V ork " and the beauty and activity of the life around us, and agitating for a bettcr understanding of this medium. He bridges earlier days and the present, that live, hus- TilE FIEJ lJ OF ART tling, eager, inquisitive, impressionable and somewhat unrestrainedly and unthinkingly individualistic present, in which the latest achievement to record is that of .Arthur B. Davies. .A dozen or more )- ears ago this insatiable trier of processes made a number of experiments in lithography, de- Ii g h t f u I in their spirit of adventur- ous discovery, no two alike in meth- od of production. I t was like a sensi- tive preluding per- formance, a run- ning over the keys, a testing of the various stops of this instrumen t of ra re possibilities. Then, quite re- cently, he exhibit- ed in Kew York a lot of lithographs in color which were, in their way, a revelation, not only of Davies, but of Ii thography. ""histler, Tou- louse -Lautrec, Ibcls, Lunois, are some of the names that rise to mem- ory at the thought of color -Ii thogra- phy for artists. They represent so many differen t methods of combinations of the stone, col- ored inks, and the artist. Davies has added another. This tireless e.xperimenter, ever alert to tryout the new idea or process, who will pull different proofs of the same litho- graph in different color combinations, is, of course, attracted by the medium for what it will yield in expression of himself. His fig- ures live in a world of their own, an e.xem- plitication of beauty for beauty's sake. From these imaginings one turns natu- rally to other figure pieces. Rockwell Kent's symbolica.l presentation of man in terms of typical e.xperience. ..\lbert Sterner's stud- ies, of a reserved richness, always within the medium and always individual, running from the reality of "The Cards" to the r- '. I " ..-, .;.. , ! ,s-- \. "- , .. 127 daintily imagined "Amour fort." Bis portraits include the characteristic one of Iartin Birnbaum, which leads to a field in which "-. Oberhardt h,Ls shown facile oL- sen'ation of s.l.lient traits, as in the heads of Pennell, John Gelert, and Edward llorein. l i', -... t i . . ... ':' .-- - Morning. By Bolton Bro\\n. Courtesy of Knoedler Gallery. s. J. ""oolf's study of :Mark Twain, "p. J. Duncan's full length of Robert C. Holliday of the" ,r alking-Stick Pa.pers." the late F. 'Valter Taylor's head of Joseph }>ennell are illustrations of the sporadic or more or less habitual practice of portraiture. .\nd, stepping backwa.rd a bit, one can add to this record the rather unusual poster por- traits of :\1 rs. Fiske, by Ernest llaslel1, flung on the stone with a nervous pertne s which strikes a note of that actress's charac- teristic utterance. .\nd there is-or isn't- that portrait of Frnest Lawson. by \\". J. Glackens. so unfindable that it is becoming semim,.thical. Thc. pri.lc-fight scenes and other picces by George Bcllows at times go beyond the 128 THE FIELD OF ART author's engrossment with problems of chia- roscuro, and his attitude of sympathetically and smilingly observant aloofness, into a spirit of satire reservedly expressed. It is a humorously tolerant comment on his fellow man that appears in the street scenes by John Sloan, of whom ,Yo B. 1\IcCormick said that he was neither up in the clouds nor down in the gutter, but on the sidewalk. His brotherly interest in humanity does not show the bitterness of the overzealous re- former. Sloan, moreover, modern in spirit and outlook, yet builds solidly on the firm foundation of tradition in the matter of technique. Jerome 1\Iyers has once, at least, put down on stone his types of K ew York's East Side. From such thoughtfully amused observ- ers of their fellow men the transition is easy to notice of the fact that crayon has in re- cent years crowded out the pen in the hands of political cartoonists such as Board- man Robinson, Cesare, John Cassel. Rollin Kirby. Over much of this the spirit of Daumier ho\rers as a strong source of in- spiration. \Vhile these drawings were re- produced by "process," they have a litho- graphic "feel." and Robinson and Cesare, in fact, haye worked directly in lithogra- phy. .At the end one is reduced, by very breath- lessness through accumulation of citations in evidence, to the simple repetition of the fact that this most pliable and adaptable in- strument may be played upon in as many ways as there are personalities worth while to take it up. Delicacy or vigor, realism or imagination, whatever the demand of sub- ject or temperament, lithography stands ready to serve with a chameleon-like change of manner in adaptation to the need of the moment. And here in our country, too, the use of this flexible medium has shown a wide di- versity of styles and temperaments and moods. to-. - --r- . & ," J ;..J ., / > ..- " .,..- - , 1- '''.r JJ I .1 I !: ... \ , .! -1', _ _' \'4- ., t. t , , , . ... \' ' . .. " ...... t'... -........!r . .. 4 - t.-=;:: . 11.. - ., . t ... \ . . , \ " ,..' -\' '> -. . --....."'-.. ---, " . I{ f I " " ; . ,< .. '""- -, ' A " ",. '" ) , .... 1- \ , -\. 't...;,J. t . ..._ 0- - . " _____ ,"","",,--r-- - ::1.::::,. . "- - W' 'to -i '.eo )..' " .' ,I, > .... "'. , "i: '\ - ., .... ,. " I I ,i .: I .. ' ..... - ,-- I , --, , , --q;;-- "'oop.-- - '\,', . ....-.. - . '" ""- , --- .... .. ..> '-. " <.:..,. Tenement Roofs. By John Sloan. A calendar of current art cxIlibitions will be found on page 13- --< .!,!,- -.: "" .'<\ From a drawing by George Wharton Edwards. THE HELL GATE BRIDGE. 13 0 ,.- Ø/I'. .r :V -"Bridges of Manhattan," page 145. SCRIBNER'S I 01.. LÀ.LYI II lVIAGArJINE Ff:BRlT IRl, 1923 ^O.2 Selby Abbey and the 'Vashingtons BY CLIFFORD ALBIO" TIXKJ:. R Formerly I icutcnant, Bureau of .\eronautics, a\r Department I LLUSTRATIOXS FROM PHOTOGRAPH'; " :1I.lL Ä XCE upon a time," begins the old monk- , O r ish chr nide, a s ric.tly . "'1 I . regulatIOn hegmmng- .)\ '" . for such chronicles, " a - young monk of Aux- 7Çj}( erre, in France, lay at night in his lonely cell." Drowsy, he was about to fall into a restful sleep when there appeared before him a beatific vision of S1. Germain, pa- tron saint of the monastery, telling him that his ardent prayers for a great mis- sion in life had been heard in Heaven and had received Dh.ine benediction. Naturally, there was no more rest for the monk that night, for the Saint com- manded him to go forth and in the name of the Saviour and S1. Germain, whose aid and protection should accompany him, to seek a place in England called Selebei-the home of the seals-and there to build to the glory of God a house of prayer and praise. And, affirms the chronicle, as an indication to the trem- hling monk of his saintly interest, St. Germain promised, as the objet irrésisti- bie of the enterprise, the jealously guard- ed relic of his little finger that lay upon the altar of Auxerre. Young Benedict, the monk, awed by this ghostly nocturnal visitation with its soul-stirring message, confided in his su- perior, who, with his brother monks, dis- counted the vision and exhorted Bene- dict to remain. The vision, however, was thrice repeated, whereupon Benedict felt t hat he could stay no longer. So, in the dead of night, this time without con- fiding in his superior, kno" ing it to be a sacrilege, hut feeling he had more than sufficient warrant for the deed, he stole the precious finger, fled from the monas- tery, and, ere day had dawned, was far on his way from Auxerre. Thus we have the motive for the found- ing of Selby &\bbey in Yorkshire, Eng- land. There had to be some extraordi- nary reason for building such a beautiful edifice as the Ahbey on such a miserable site, for in Benedict's day there were practically no natural advantages for such an undertaking within a long radiu . And, further, to the credit of its early in- habitants, it is evident that the town of Selby was the outcome of the Abhey and not the Abbey of the town. Certainly the eleventh-century peasantry of Y ork- shire, stiff-necked and hard-headed as they were, would never have been enticed by anything less than an Ahhey endowed with a saintly digit to settle down in such a pock-marked and frowzy section of Eng- land as the neighborhood of what is now Selby on the Ouse. Howbeit, there stands Selby Ahbey, and if venerable age, romantic history, and intrinsic beauty entitle a building to be regarded more as the property of a na- tion than of a single parish, Selby \bbey may indeed be truly con idered a national treasure. X ay more, the lovely Abbey is an international treasure, for in the south wall of the choir-c1earstorv, where all who wish may see, is a window emblazoned with the arms of the "'ashington family. This window, in all its hrilliance of ancient coloring, "argent" and II gules," is the Copyrighted in 1923 in United States, Canada, and Great Britain, by Charles Scnbner'l Son.. Printed in l\ ew \ ork, All rights rberved, 13 1 . ,:.. 1. . .,' j, < ,;..' ';. :', 1. r.. ... ,,', r l .. .. .... I ,0< ". > '!l:;' Í! ' I. . * .... ; n ,I' ,;.' J ..: < - .\... { ; t .- r , . i. 1 ,,;. ..... 'fl" - From a photograph by Loughton, Southwell. . I" ,:;1,.-1 .t" " } . þ" a ;- 1 1 , 't \, . :. -: i"-'f It ;: . ...> 'I. .;. . :- .. ...1 -,..': 14 . i'Jfþð .,. , . :,,: .;, ,..<' r i -' , \ *.: I . 1- < " ,' ;,.;: \, *t ' .... .;,., t, "\. . , i. f. f ø .., ",ø........ ( ..r '" From the southeast one obtains a fine view of the east end of the Abbey, together with the flamboyant tracery of the east window, the sacristy, tower, and south transept. The window to the right in the clearstory contains the Washington family arms. relic-in-chief of the \Vashingtons. It antedates by centuries the \Vashington relics at Sulgrave ßlanor and Great and Little Brington down \Varwick way. It is a foregone conclusion that Selby will become another British mecca for American antiquarians, historians, gene- alogists, and students, not to mention tourists, when the facts regarding this window are more generally known in this country. l\Iore es- pecially will Americans seek this abbey-enshrined window at Selby when it is understood that the little Nottinghamshire village of Scrooby lies but a short distance southward near Bawtry on the Great North Road from London. From Scrooby, three hundred years and more ago, went those Pilgrim Fathers who, with others, embarked in the .J.11 ayflower from Plymouth in 1620. So, too, in this same " Pilgrim Fat hers' Country," and hard by Scrooby, is Austerfield, where in 1589 was born \Villiam Bradford, the Governor Bradford of Plymouth Colony, son of a yeoman family long resident in the still- existing manor-house. 13 2 Concerning the founding of Selby, be- cause of the \Vashington window and its historical associations there enshrined, Benedict's further adventures have a unique interest; inasmuch as the old chronicle gives an insight into the early history of the Abbey and the surrounding region, and possibly thus may shed some SCALE OFFEET o GROUND PLAN OF SELBY ABBEY CHURCH. light upon the remote ancestry of our own George \Vashington. Like many fugitives and pilgrims of later times, Benedict got all mixed up by the similarity of names in England, for our finger-snatching monk, upon reaching the shores of the" tight little Isle," found SELBY ABBEY AND THE \VASHIXGTOXS his way to Salisbury, thinking that to be the place where he should found his church. Salisbury's Old Sarum, ancient Anglo-Saxon castle, filled at that time with rough Norman soldiers and hardly the safest place in England for a fugitive from France, did not appeal to Benedict; while St. Germain, according to his prom- ise and with an eye on the finger, again appcared and told Bcncdict unmistak- ably the name of the place appointed, and in still another vision, for the monk's bettcr guidance, showcd him the vcry spot. Heartened anew, Benedict once more set out upon his holy qucst. After a pcri- lous cross-country journcy he made his way to the seaport of Lymington at the mouth of the Lymington Rivcr, which flows through New Forest into the Solent -a long, long way by water from Selby on the Ouse. Repeatedly delayed by contrary winds, the monk was at last able, with a little band of converts he had gathered around him, to set sail on a small ship bound York-wards. No sooner, according to the chronicle, had Benedict set foot on board, carrying his wooden cross and his precious amulet, than the breeze miraculously changed its direction, and with a fair wind the little vessel scudded on its way to the North. In due time Benedict and his worthy com- panions reached the mouth of the Ouse, which, by the way, empties into the broad reaches of the Humber; and as the barque was breasting the river there suddenly appeared before the startled but glad- dened eyes of Benedict the holy site that S1. Germain in ghostly guise had shown him while he tarried at Salisbury. Landing forthwith, Benedict planted his wooden cross, and, prostrating him- self before it and the saintly finger, dedi- cated the site to the Saviour and St. Gcr- main. "Thus on the daisy-begemmed greensward by the river's brim," poeti- caUy runs the chronicle, "was the Abbey of Selby founded, and ere long unaccus- tomed chaunt and lowly orison mingled with the songs of the wild birds." Ira ving crosscd the Ouse by fcrry at Goole, just below Selby, I can readily un- derstand Benedict's alacrity in landing where he did, and his insistence that this was the long-sought site of his visions; for 133 the Ouse, which by its character at this point should be spclled Ooze, runs \\ith a mighty current at ebb-tide, discouraging further up-stream travel. Selby is, in fact, the end of na\Ïgation from Hull up the Humber and Ousc for anything but small Loa ts. Centuries before Benedict foundcd his I ,- . . ,  . I ,. I . · 't I . . , I I I FrtmI øpltotopaplJ ð7l1utclJmson. Se . Washington family coat of arms from choir-clcar- story ",indow of Selby Abbey This relic of the W ashin ons is probably the oldest in existence. Abbey, Yorkshire had been Christian- ized, but the Dancs had come and, like pes- tilential fiends, with fire and sword had swept across the land, wiping out of ('\.- istence the religious communitics of their day, the very names of which together with their memory had long since faded from the minds of the inhabitants of the country. Selhy was a virgin enterprisc. It is not surprising, thcrefore, that the simplc pcasantry of the valley gazed \\ith wonderment upon Benedict of the Black Robe and his little band of devoted fol- lowers, or that Hugh, powerful Xorman Baron of the region, coming down the rivcr, was startled at the sight of the SELBY ABBEY AND THE n SHIXGTONS 134 ...:: ''\ \\\\ \1 , ,. ,t ,. ..... -,- .1 , '1 ." ___.ß& ;':: ; . , ,\)....f .., \." '. >- . f it1'4" , ,t I: \;. . t .,.. I . . ,'!' , ....... :. . From 'Jphotograplz by H"tclli,uoll. eI('.Y. The ambries and sedilia, mostly late decorativc in styl . have added much to the beauty of the interior of Selby Abbey. wooden cross and landed to see what this strange symbol might betoken. Hugh found the monk and his band living in a primitive wooden moss-lined hut set up under the shelter of a giant oak The monk's heaven-sent 111is- sion, not to forget the sacred relic, in1- pressed the Baron, who at once gave patronage to the project, sending work- men to build a more substantial dwell- ing on the site, and interesting the Con- queror in Benedict's behalf. \VilIiam the Conqueror had landed in England only three years before Benedict founded Selby in 1069, and among other efforts toward welding his newly acquired kingdom into a unified and contented domain he exhibited, about that time, a pious desire to foster the growth of religious houses. Con- sequently he listened with willing ears to Baron Hugh's story of the monk of Auxerre and the purloined finger; aUfl under the auspices of the King, with Hugh's generous assistance, Benedict's project soon took on the aspect of pros- perity which lasted until Henry VIII began his depredations against Roman- ism in England. Under the Conqueror's patronage, necessary financial aid was always forthcoming, many large estates were added to the Abbey holdings by royal gift, there was a total exemption from taxation, while the nobles of the indig- enous countryside, following the ex- ample of the King, showered the Abbey with gifts of money, produce, and free labor. The climax of royal favor came when \Villiam and his queen, l\Iatilda, stopping at the Abbey on a visit to the North of England, stayed long enough for the queen to give birth to \YilIiam's son, Henry Beauclerc, who lived to be- come Henry I of England. After this event \ViIIiam's bounty made it possible for a more stately tem- ple to be built at Selby,-a work how- ever which Benedict, by that time full of years and bowed by excessive labors, felt necessary to turn over to younger hands. So, after governing the com- w.: "'-......... j: .)." -! I I -I I From a photograph. by lb,tchmsoll. Selby. The lights and sharlow of the interior contrast :>trongly from the vantage afforded by the ambu- latoryof the north triforium. SELBY ABnEY A D THE \YASHIKGTOXS munity which he founded for twenty- seven years, Benedict, later elevated to sainthood, handed over the reins of of- fice to Abbot Hugh, builder of the pres- ent Abbey. Alterations and repairs, of course, have been made to the Abbey from time to time, but the original plan has been carefully followed, the propor- tions unchanged, and most of the walls arc as Abbot Hugh left them. IIugh lived long enough to see his work . " " " , , ,1 I J.røl/l ".I'I'JI1 ,, IzIJIIJ,,>rdpi, by LOll). JttOll, .sou/kwell. Here is Saint Germain himself, to whom, jointly \\ith the \ïrgin, Selby Abbey is dedicated. This statue is of exquisite workmanship, It will he noted that the sculptor of this figure gave Saint Germain a full set of fingers on each hand, thc Benedictine \bbey of Selby. By the end of the fifteenth century the revenue of the monastery had grown so that there was an annual income that would haye sufficed to give each monk over fiye hundred pounds a year-more than eight thousand dollars in current British money at the present rate of ex- change! \Yith no apparent reason for industry, the monks became lazy, idle, yicious. until at intervals they were aroused to bettcr things hy having placed at their head a man of pure ideals. Such was the shrine at which the founders of the \Vashington family worshipped. Robert Selby was the last Ahbot. Hc seems to havc been a man of no small tact, and, when the ill-timed" Pil- grimage of Grace" was organizcd by Robert Aske, cleverly kept out of the movement. He managed things so well that, while sundry Abbots swung together as tragic object-lessons of a king's displeasure, and the gibbet, with its fearsome yictÎIn, was a comInon sight throughout the North, Robert Sel- bv stood so well at court that he se- ciued handsome pensions for himself and his monks, and was allowed to go to France carrying with him much Abbey treasure. Throughout this time, not always consistently, it is true, but each effort having a cumulative result, the Abbey church continued to grow, until at last it became the perfect building it was in- tended to be. Then came the dissolu- tion of the monasteries, Selby's con- ventional buildings were destroyed, and the inhabitants of the town were left as a royal legacy a beautiful church with- out the wherewithal to keep it in re- pair. It is not to be wondered at, therefore, that the neglected fabric fell into decay, or that without a moment's warning, in 1690, the central Norman Tower came down with a crash, involv- ing the south transept in the ruin. Thus the Abbey remained until 1906, when a great fire swept through the building and threatened to demolish -.:' .,.' - It>-- . - ; .'..., . . - . 4' >,< ' . ; t :-- i 'J. f. ,!'!!I , T f .. . I L J-Y01Jt .r p/z%J:r.rpll by LOllj,{Il/01l, SOlltll1vdl. This figure of the Virgin shares with Saint Germain thc dedicatury hunors of the Abbey, , k, '\ \ \". \\ t 'f" 1 ... I '\ \ , t 1 I. l' : , ,. .k .A I' J. . .. \ r . 1 ,.. I,Yo'" a plrvtOKTdp/,lJy J..-CIIJ:s-way. The ...nuth idc uf the nave, looking wc-;t. rhe lnormou.. rounrl column i'i known as .-\bbot Hugh's column, The f'trc.\t huilder i.. '.lid to ha\e fol hi,'nl..1 Ih culumn \\ith his o\\n holnrls, for he worked on the building lil..e .\11 thc monk" of Selby, acceptin thl \mc d.1ily p.l} a. th", 100\lie:.l nmice, .m.1 with the money thu" c.unoo he ùi pclbed ch.lrity to tbe poor of the to\\n. completely the "hole structurc. Subse- quent c,'cnts pro\.ed, howcvcr, that the ncar-calamit y was a hlessing in disguisc: for, to complete tho c parts which cscapc(1 the fire, funds wcre donatcd which rc- stored the 4\bbey to its original appear- l"lce. And this includcd new foundations, a new south transept, and another tower to replacc the one which fell so many years hrfore. \Vhile much of thc herii.lgc of centuries had been destroyed iorc\ cr, till' navc was not seriously dámagcd, and thc windows, including the great e.lst window, had been little injured; happily, the mem- ory of the Abbcy's former glory pro\'cd an inspiration to the restorers, and thus out of the firc, likc gold refined, h.15 come a hC.LU- tifu) creation, a shrine mo t worthy to hand on to future generations. .\rnong tho e windo\\s l\cd from dc- 138 SELBY ABBEY AND THE \VASHINGTO S \ -.. "';. '",' ìt , . _- t ,t-- ,> " 4 ':"t; t: :. ., - . ..... '1. A" ,i . ' <1 'f;' ' ìf"'" ->t .:, " From a þhotograþh by Htttchinson. Selby. Examples of early carving, such as this finial in the choir-clearstory, are worthy of careful study. struction, the \Vashington window stands out as an example of conven- tional mediæval glasswork; in all re- spects it is a typical memorial of the day and age when the artisan wrought with as much loving care as skill and experi- ence. \Vho was the donor this window memorialized? What generation of the \Vashington family did he represent? The answer to these questions I tried to ascertain, and, while my information is traditional and local, I give it for what it is worth. Dating back, evidently, to the early part of the twelfth century, the local great men of the country gave abun- dantly toward the rich embellishment of the Abbey. In the later years of the same century, it appears that these ben- efactors were recognized by the Abbots in charge as having contributed suffi- cient material wealth, at the same time possessing the requisite religious zeal, to entitle them to memorials, which took the form of windows piercing the choir-clearstory. Among these donors was a Washington, possibly more than one, hence the window with the Wash- . '\.,J.- \: 1 f ,t .4. ington arms. From this it would ap- pear that the \Vashingtons were men of wealth and authority as early as 1125, that they stood in royal favor, were natives or at least residents of the locality, and were prominent in the af- fairs of Mother Church. This does not controvert the histori- ans who claim that the \Vashington family came from Lancashire to Sul- grave Manor by way of Northampton. The Northampton Washingtons were Protestants, to be sure, while the Selby benefactors were Catholics. But inas- much as four centuries intervene be- tween the erection of the Selby memo- rial window and the purchase by Law- rence Washington, wool merchant and Mayor of Northampton, of the Sul- grave l\Ianor lands from the Priory of St. Andrew of Northampton, which had just been taken from the Church by Henry VIII, there was ample time for the shift in religious allegiance; in all probability, the Washing tons being attachés of the reigning house, a reli- gious change was a necessity. ,. ;; -$ " ..3 . ,. . . : .; _:.,. -" ' .., <\,"" :: , .,,:1:., ,,-- , :' \ " · 4:' . - <,; ,'#' , -->, t --r - -" < ", -'li._ .w ;.,..- " . .- From tI fJltotogrtlþh by Louglttoll, SOlltltwell. Curious conceits of the mediæval monkish stone-cutter are evident in the carved capitals throughout the interior of the Abbey. SELBY \BBEY AXI> TIII \r.-\ HI GTOXS t 3(J On the other hand, it is not at all im- Field, saw the death of Richard III of prohahle that descendants of the family the House of York, and the crowning of of \Vashingtons who came under the in- Henry VII, the first of the Tudors and Huence of Selhy remained in that section it may weIl be that the fortunes c;f the of England, and, heing of the intelligentsia \Vashingtons depended on joining th(.' of the day, imhibed the teachings of the ranks of the ,ictor. Lawrence \\"ash- Reformation which produced the zealots ington's immediate forehears must ha,'e of the Pilgrim Fathers' Country, on the been adherents of this first Tudor prince, '\ \ ' \ , ( , ',I '" , 'I \.. I It . . - . I , " \ , " . to 4 \' f , , l. I c I I . t l t FrOm a pl,%J:r"pl, by Illt/chlllso", tll>y. J The richness of the choir stall:; depends upon the carvin hy which the quartered oak is made to gÏ\'e a tntun. of deeply mellow light.; with amber tone.. in the high-relief figure:;. Thus the wood .mrl "tone melt into a color Llen!l of exqui itc shading.. .Ind tone values which the radiance of the great e:I t \\ indow cnhances. edge of which both Selhy and Korthamp- ton are situated. That would account for the Protcstantisn1 of Lawrence \Vashing- ton and his immediate ancestors, if politi- cal considerations are to be discounted. How to account for the \Vashingtons of Lancashire is not, perhaps, difficult when one rememhers that Lancashire and Yorkshire adjoin, and that we also ha\"c the four centuries for the family to split up or move in accordance with their ad- vancing or waning fortunes. At all e'"ents, the earh' Yorkshire emblazon- ment agrees in design and color with the Lancashire and Sulgraye Ianor render- ing of the \Vashington arms. This should pro,"e the relationship of Lawrence \\'ash- ington with the faithful knight of Selby Ahbey. The \Var of the Roses he tween the crown claimants, ending at Bosworth dse the wealthy Lawrence would ha\-c lost the family -riches. He" ould ne'"er haye been )Iayor of Korthampton nor the purcha er of Sulgra\'e Ianor unckr Henry \ Ill, under any other condition ; that much is certain. \rhile mv duties in connection with the ilI-fate 1 airship, 7 R-2, slatiOJll'cI at Howden, Yorkshire, only se\'en mile... fronl Selby. hrought me to that to\\'l often, they permitted me hut little lei::-ure, so I had to content nn"self with fi,.e short \'isits to the \bbev ånd i could not run the thread of th sc \\ ashington tradi- tions to earth; hut f am confident that sut1ìcient records e ist to follow our Fir 1 President's ancestry hack to the donor oi the \hhe\., in whose honor and to WhO"'l' memorY -t he he.lUtiful hit uf mcdiæ,-.,I gla swõrk owcs its ori!-,rin. .. """" ,",,' '/:.! ---, . . 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The rood-screen and pulpit of the Abbey are among the richest examples of carving in all Europe, In my conversations with the good- humored verger of Selby Abbey, I gained enough insight into the early intercourse between the monks and the înhabitants of that part of Yorkshire contiguous to Selby, to appreciate that the \Vashington window would never have been placed so prominently in the Abbey unless the person or persons memorialized had been of great importance and of unusu- ally strong character, in that day and generation when the very foundations of 140 England's present greatness were in the making, As for the Abbey itself, aside from i s historical associations, students of its architecture will find a wealth of interest; and to those who are not particularly well acquainted with the characteristics of the different styles which denote the various periods of English ecclesiastical design, much. pleasure will be derived from the noble proportions of the ensemble and the exquisite carving and glasswork with- I , .:.:. )4 .A.. ..... -.- .c " ,# "" 4t ... ..,.. I -t - .' , . , ..' t. i.1 1 " , """ . \ 't ./ IJ - -, ! . . :"t '. \" 1 ' ft ' ... " 'l- \.. , l .... I a f . .' . . -- [ t.. .. . . 0- .... ... - - .. to' ,. ..... From a photograph by lb,tch",so1l, SellJy. This gorgeous modern reredos, illustrating the crucifix, is the work of Peter Rendl, who, pre\ious to Anton Lang, won fame as the Christus in the Oberammerga.u Decennial Passion Pla.y. in. The Abbey shows all the architec- tural modes in vogue from the days of \Villiam the Conqueror: Norman, Trans- itional, Early English, Decorated, and Perpendicular. Giving entrance to the west end of the building is a delightful example of a Trans- itional Norman porch. The fi\-e reced- ing orders of the doorway are rich in can'ing typical of the period, crisp as the day they were finished. The north porch is another example of the same period, even if it has but four receding orders. These two doorwa) s with their protecting porches are undoubtedly the finest of their kind in England_ Once inside, especially if entrance is gained by the west door directly into the nave, one is at once struck by a note of solemn beauty which signalizes this Ab- bey above all other church buildings in a land of churches; and, while the interior also combines the various periods of ng- lish Gothic, there are unity of appearance 141 1-12 SELBY ABBEl? AXD TI IE 'Y_-\SHIXGTOXS and a certain delectable balance of pro- portions which mark perfect architec- tural effect. The massiye arches, pro- claiming the work of Norman builders, are so sturdily placed that they have sur- ,"hOed the stress and shock of more than eight hundred years. The superin1posed Early English and Norman portions of the triforium match well with the mas- si veness of the N or- man masonry be- low, yet they are so beautifully propor- tioned that one gets that sense of light- ness and strength in combination which bespeaks the n1as- ter draftsman. The ambulatory screens and clearstory treatment are not a whit less satisfac- tory: the whole in- terior is a delight. Some of the pil- lars are exquisitely grouped, and one may follow the architecture from floor to roof count- ing in turn the evi- dences of the time that elapsed in the building, as style follows style, and yet not a feature jars, nothing is out of tune. Quaint conceits, curiously carved, peep out at one here and there, revealing in the monkish workmen a proclivity for humor not wholly suppressed by the donning of cas- sock and cowl. Undoubtedly the most beautiful fea- ture of the Abbey is the splendid choir. It is mainly in the Decorated style, and its proportions and embellishment are be- yond praise. Lacy carvings of surpass- ing delicacy lead to the choir screen, which is in itself a thing most exquisite, and the altar and reredos are no less no- table in conception and beauty. The delicate carving of the reredos illustrates 1 the crucifix; the workmanship is su- perb; it is a worthy shrine in a building of extraordinary merit from the artist's view-point and of hallowed significance to the religious yotary. An altar-screen demanding one's attention, because of its magnificence, dh"ides the chancel from the Lad," Chapel. - .l\Ionull1ents there are a-plenty in the Abbey; and let no one leave its con- fines without studying the loveli- ness of its windows. The colorful east window is sur- passed by few such windows in all Eu- rope, for it is a combined Jesse and Doom window, de- picting the geneal- ogy of the Saviour and the Last Judg- ment, two subjects which had an es- pecial appeal to mediæval design- ers. The perpen- dicular west win- dow, dating from about the end of the fifteenth cen- tury, has yet to be restored, while the south transept con- tains a \vindow il- lustrating incidents in the his tory of the Abbey. The purpose of the clearstory glazing has already been dwelt upon; elab- orately emblazoned with heraldic de- vices, those ancient panes tell their own story. The setting of the Abbey in the ran1- bling old town is admirable. It stands in a park at the east end of the great mar- ket-place where its splendor is shown to the best advantage possible. Buttresses, walls, carved mullions, gables, turrets, pinnacles, tower, all have their special appeal; the recessed doorways, the an- cient porches, the quaint carvings, the roselike tracery, the very texture of the "" > , ^;, ,ì ... i=\ ,- 0..' ,_. ::.-'" ..' , .- <-f' -:. '.. . -:. 7 _ . . >rJ-" ."" ;'f' ' \.... - . ..- ........-- . ...:. v i , If. .< . . _.=:S. -: . ... _ l; ,:'{ 1 :; ;":7.:"'(' ... .... , . h:. ,.;- "... t .... . <- ..." f - ..\\. '1 :; "1 ."1 -I . ." I .J ! ' '/f { ;;:I From a photograþh by Hz,tchiIZS01Z, Selby. "rom and weathered by the stonns of centuries. the turrets and pinnacles of Selby Abbey viewed close at hand have lost some of their original crisp- ness of outline, but nevertheless enough remains to show the daring skill of the stone-carver and the vig- orous treatment of the mediæval designer, ---r , & . .... r ..... From a notogra n by A"i1lcs-way. From the park one may ohtain a view of the .\hhey which gives expression to its great length-J06 feet-and here, too, the beautiful tower re.J.rs its tall turrets and pinnacles against the ba.ckground of the sky. \ \ ! .:, I i '" III ..::J.I Jr -- . '"' .. , .. - JI f - ..... , '- I- rom a photograph by Á i1ICS"Ulay, For eight and One-(IUarter centuries the old .-\bbey has watched over thi::. market-place. And for centuries fairs such as this shown in the photograph have been an annual eHnt in the life of Iby. 143 I-t-t E\V GODS hoary stone, all give their share of beauty and interest and dignity to that noble pile-it is of incalculable value to a na- tion to possess shrine1ike lessons in stone such as this Abbey. Selby is not a town one would care to spend much time in were it not for the glorious Abbey. Yet it is a county town, and boasts an oil-works, several flax-scutching mil1s, and two or three boat-building yards. It lies on the righ1 bank of the muddy Ouse and, as tide serves, is reached by fairly large steamers from the Humber. Selby is on the main line of the Great Northern Railway from London to Edinburgh, and on the main line from Hull to Leeds and Liverpool. The most enjoyable method of reach- ing Selby from London is, of course, by Inotor-car; the ride through the eastern part of England, beautiful in itself, and lilled with history of intimate charac- ter to Americans, is difficult to duplicate and is only surpassed by the return trip by way of Sheffield, Birmingham, Strat- ford-on-Avon, Sulgrave :I\!anor, and Ox- ford. Selby is not isolated-not by any man- ner of means. York, wonderful city, is only twelve or fourteen miles north of Selby; Hull, the Liverpool of the east coast, is about forty miles down river to the eastward; Doncaster, scene of the great Derby, is eighteen miles south; while Sheffield is only thirty-five miles distant-the little, dull, lazy town is in the centre of a delightful and interesting countryside, and while its neighboring cities and tOW11S of larger size and more commercial spirit laugh it to scorn, it has a tremendous advantage to Americans after all, for it contains the regional ar- chitectural masterpiece and the \Vashing- ton relic-in-chief, Selby Abbey. N e,v Gods BY 1\IARTHA HASKELL CL -\Rk YOUTH will be served; the gods we reared In faith upon our altar-stone Now keep their yigil unrevered In dusty corners, all unknown. New idols rise at new demands Above our crumbling overthrow, They pick and choose with ruthless hands- A':. we did, in the long ago. Youth \vill be sen-ed; we lh-e to see Our dearest deeds another's boast, A butt for laughtered ribaldry The dreams for which we suffered 1110St. They see no print of bleeding feet, The heights we won on footsteps low They mount, unwitting of defeat- As we did, in the long ago. Youth must be sen-ed; one harvest's gain The seed from which new harvest springs, The fuller yield of golden grain From our forgotten harrowings. Their hands shall turn fresh furrow-soil, The bread we eat, they too shall know, :I\Iay they find gods to sweeten toil- As we did, in the long ago, Plate I . (Frontispiece) Plate I I Platc III " . . Plate IV " " . The Hell Gate Bridge. Started Ju]y I, 1912; completed Iarch I, 1917. The longest stcel arch in the worJd, 1017 feet. The Brooklyn Bridge. Started January 3, 18io: completed Iay 24, 1883. Considered the world's greatest achic\"ement in con- struction as a Suspension Bridge. The \ViJliamsburg Bridge. Started Xo\'emher i, 18Q6; completed Decenlber 19, 1903. Comhined Suspension and Cantilever, 135 feet abo\"e water. The B]ackwell's Island or Queensboro Bridge. tarted July, lqol; completed Iarch 30, 1909. 74-t9 feet long. Great Cantilc\-er structure of steel. YOLo LXXIII.-IO 145 -:1f"o 14 6 iJi ... .. J 'j " "'"' I I Plate II. ,. The Brooklyn Bri d gc. .-1 .,-- ,... w Pl4Ie III. The \\ïlliamshurg Bridge. 147 ,- it'" tr 'f t -". t r JiI -; .--, . ;. 1"- \.. : ' J'i : .-._" ' ^ .., .....' .t-- . + í r ' -: ., <;< , i ,i - 148 r: f I The Blackwell's Island or Queensboro Bridge. Plate IV. A Son at the Front RlF EI)I'TfT 'YII-\l{T'O ILLlíSTRATION BY FRAr\"CES ROGERS x I-IF war was three mon ths old-three centuries. By yirtue of some gift of adaptation which seemed forever to discredit human sensibility, people were already beginning to li,'e into the nlonstrous idea of it, acquire its ways, speak its language, regard it as a think- able, enòurable, arrangeable fact; to eat it by day, and sleep on it-yes, and soundly-at night. The war went on; life went on; Paris went on. She had had her great hour of resistance, when, alone, exposed and de- fenseless, she had held back the enemy and broken' his strength. She had had, afterward, her hour of triumph, the hour of the l\Iarne; then her hour of passionate and prayerful hope, when it seemed to the watching nations that the enemy was not only held back but thrust hack, and vic- tory finally in reach. That hour had passed in its turn, gÏ\'ing way to the grey reali ty of the trenches. A new speech was growing up in this new world. There were trenches now, there was a "Front" -people were beginning to talk of their sons at the front. The first time J oh11 Campton heard the phrase it sent a shudder through him. \rinter was coming on, and he was haunt- ed by the vision of the youths out there, boys of George's age, thousands and thou- sands of them, exposed by day in reeking wet ditches and sleeping at night under rain and snow. People were talking calm- ly of victory in the spring-the spring that was still six long months away! And meanwhile, what cold and wet, what blood and agony, what shattered hodies out on that hideous front, what shattered homes in all the lands it guarded! BOOK II Campton could bear to think of these things now. His son was not at the front -was safe, thank God, and likel" to re- . , . mam so . During the first awful weeks of silence and uncertainty, when every morning brought news of a fresh disa ter, when no letters carne from the army and no private messages could reach it-during thûse weeks, \vhile Campton, like other fathers, was without news of his son, the war had heen to him simply a huge featureless mass crushing him earthward, blinding him, letting him neither think nor mo\"e nor breathe. But at last he had got permission to go to Chalons, whither Fortin, who chanced to have begun his career as a surgeon, had been hastily transferred. The physician, called from his incessant labours in a roughly-improvised operating-room, to which Campton was led between rows of stretchers laden with livid blood-splashed nlen, had said kindly, but with a shade of impatience, that he had not forgotten, had done what he could; that George's health did not warrant his being dis- charged from the army, but that he was temporarily on a staff-job at the rear, and would probably be kept there if such and such influences were hrought to bear. Then, calling for hot water and fre:-,h towels, the surgeon \"anished and Camp- ton made his way back with lowered eyes between the stretchers. The "influences" in question were brought to hear-not without Anderson Brant's assistancc--and now that George was fairly certain to be kept at clerical work a good many m.iles from the danger- zone Campton felt Jess like an ant under a landslide, and was able for the first time to think of the war as he might ha ,'e thought of any other war objecti,'e- ly, intellectually, almost dispassionately, as of historv in the making. It was nót that he had any doubt as to 149 150 A SON AT THE FRONT the rights and wrongs of the case. The painfully preserved equilibrium of the neutrals nlade a pitiful show now that the monstrous facts of the first weeks were known: Gernlany's diplomatic perfidy, her savagery in the field, her premeditated and systematized terrorizing of the civil populations. Nothing could efface what had been done in Belgium and Luxem- bourg, the burning of Louvain, the bom- bardment of Rheims. These successive outrages had roused in Campton the same incredulous wrath as in the rest of n1an- kind; but being of a speculative mind- and fairly sure now that George would never lie in the nlud and snow with the others-he had begun to consider the landslide in its universal relations, as well as in its effects on his private ant-heap. His son's situation, however, was still his central thought. That this lad, who was nleant to have been born three thou- sand nliles away in his own safe warless country, and who was regarded by the government of that country as having been born there, as subject to her laws and entitled to her protection-that this lad, by the n10st idiotic of blunders, a blunder perpetrated before he was born, should have been dragged into a conflict in which he was totally unconcerned, should be- come tenlporarily and arbitrarily the sub- ject of a foreign state exposed to what- ever catastrophes that state might draw upon itself, this fact still seemed to Camp- ton as unjust as when it first dawned on him that his boy's very life might hang on some tortuous secret negotiation between the cabinets of Europe. He still refused to admit that France had any claim on George, any right to his time, to his suffering or to his life. He had argued it out a hundred times with Adele Anthony. " You say Julia and [ were to blame for not going home before the boy was born-and God knows I agree with you! But suppose we'd n1eant to go? Suppose we'd n1ade every arrange- ment, taken every precaution, got to Havre or Cherbourg, say, and been told the steamer had broken her screw-or heen prevented ourselves, at the last nloment, by illness or accident, or any sudden grab of the Hand of God? You'll adn1Ït we shouldn't have been to blame for that; yet the law would have recognized no difference. George would still have found himself a French soldier on the second of last August. And I say that's enough to prove it's an iniquitous law, a travesty of justice. Nobody's going to convince me that, because a steamer may happen to break a flange of her screw at the wrong time, France has the right to force an American boy to go and rot in the trenches!" "In the trenches-is George in the trenches?" Adele Anthony asked, raising her pale eyebrows. -" No! " Campton thundered, his clenched fist crashing down among her tea-things; "and all your word-juggling isn't going to convince nle that he ought to be there." He paused and stared furiously about the little lady-like draw- ing-room into which l\Iiss Anthony's sharp angles were so incongruousl) squeezed. She nlade no answer, and he went on: "George looks at the thing exactly as I do." "Has he told you so?" 1'Iiss .Anthony enquired, rescuing his tea-cup and put- ting sugar into her own. "He has told me nothing to the con- trary. You don't seem to be aware that Inilitary correspondence is censored, and that a soldier can't always blurt out everything he thinks." 1'Iiss Anthony followed his glance about the room, and her eyes paused with his on her own portrait, now in the place of' honour over the mantelpiece, where it hung incongruously above a n1enagerie of china animals and a collection of tro- phies fronl the lViarne. "I dropped in at the Luxembourg yes- terday," she said. "Do you know whom [ saw there? Anderson Brant. He was looking at George's portrait, and turned as red as a beet. You ought to do him a sketch of George some day-after this." Campton's face darkened. He knew it was partly through Brant's influence that George had been detached frmn his regi- ment and given a staff-job in the Argonne; but lVIiss Anthony's reminder annoyed him. The Brants had acted through sheer selfish cowardice, the desire to safe- guard something which belonged to them, something they valued as they valued their pictures and tapestries, though of course in a greater degree; whereas he, A SO AT TlIè. FRO:\'"T Campton, was sustained by a principle which he could openly avow, and was ready to discuss with anyone who had thc leisure to listen. He had explained all this so often to Iiss Anthony that the words rose again to his lips without an effort. "If it had heen a national issue I should have wanted him to be among the first: such as our ha\"Ïng to fight Iexico, for in- stance---" " Yes; or the moon! F or my part, I understand Julia and Anderson better. They don't care a fig for national issues; they're just animals defending their cub." "Their-thank you!" Campton ex- claimed. " \Vell, poor Anderson really 'It.'as a dry- nurse to the boy. 'Vho else was there to look after him? _ You were painting Spanish beauties at the time." She frowned. "Life's a puzzle. I see per- fectly that if you'd let e\.erything else go to keep George, you'd ne\"er have become the great John Campton: the real John Campton you were meant to be. And it wouldn't have been half as satisfactory for you-or for George either. Only, in the meanwhile, somebody had to blow the child's nose, and pay his dentist and doc- tor; and you ought to be grateful to An- derson for doing it. Aren't there bees or ants, or something, that are kept for such purposes? " Campton's lips were opened to reply when her face changed, and he saw that he had ceased to exist for her. He knew the reason. That look caDle over e\"ery- body's face nowadays at the hour when the evening paper caDle in. The old maid servant brought it in, and lingered to hear thc commlmiqué. At that hour, everywhere o\"er the globe, business and labour and pleasure (if it still existcd) were suspended for a moment while the hearts of all men gathered themseh'cs up in a question and a prayer. Iiss Anthony sought 'for her lorgllOlz. and failed to find it. '\ïth a shaking hand she passed the newspaper o\"er to Campton. "Violent enemy attacks in the region of Dixmude, Yp;cs, "Armentières, Arras, in the Argonne, and on the ad \'anced slopes of the Grand Couronné de Nancy, have been successfully "repulsed. 'Ve 151 have ta.ken hack the village of Soupir, near Vallly (Aisne); we have taken :\Iau- court and ::\logc\'iIle, to the north-cast of \Terdun. Progrcss has heen made in the region of Vermelles (Pas-de-Calais) and south of Aix K oulette. Enemy attacks in the Hauts-de-::\Ieuse and sou'th-east of Saint- 'Iihicl have also been repulsed. "In Poland the Austrian retreat is he- coming general. Thc Russians are still advancing in the direction of kielce-San- domir and have progressed beyond the San in Galicia. \lIawa has been reoccu- pied, and the whole railway system of Poland is now controlled by the Russian forces. " A good day-oh, decidedly a good day! At this rate, what became of the gloomy forecasts of the peoplc who talked of a winter in the trenches, to he followed hy a spring campaign? True, thc Serbian army was still retreating before superior Austrian forces-but there too the scales would soon be turned if the Russians con- tinued to progress. That da) there was hope everywhere: the old maid servant went away smiling, and ::\Ii s 6\nthony poured out another cup of tea. Campton had not lifted his eyes from the paper. Suddenly they lit on a 5hort paragraph: "Fallen on the Field of Honour"" One had got used to that with the rest; used even to the pang of read- ing names one knew, evoking familiar features, young faces hlotted out in blood J young limbs convulsed in the fires of that hell called "the Front." But this time Campton turned pale and the paper fell to his knee. "Fortin-Lescluze; Jean- ]acques-::\Ia- rie, lieutenant of Chasseurs à Pied, glori- ously fallen for France..." There fol- lowed a ringing citation. Fortin's son, his only son, was dead! Campton saw before him the honest bourgeois dining-room J so strangely out of kecping with the rest of thc establish- ment; he saw the late August sun slant- ing in on the group about the table, on the ambitious and unscrupulous great man, the two quiet women hidden under his il- lustrious roof, and the youth who had held togcther these three dissimilar people, making an invisible home in the heart of all that publicitv. Campton remembered his brief c change of words with Fortin on 152 A SO;\T AT TIlE FRO,,"T the threshold, and the father's uncon- trollable outburst: .. For his mother and myself it's not a trifle-having our only son in the war." Campton shut his eyes and leaned back, sick with the menlory. This man had had a share in saving George; but his own son he could not save. "'Vhat's the matter?" liss Anthon\' asked, her hand on his arm. - Campton could not bring the nanle to his lips. " Nothing-nothing. Only this room's rather hot-and I must be off any- how." He got up, escaping from her solic- itude, and made his way out. He must go at once to Fortin's. The physician was still at Chalons; but there would sure- ly be some one at the house, and Cmnp- ton could at least leave a message and ask where to write. Dusk had fallen. His eyes usually feasted on the beauty of the new Paris, the secret mysterious Paris of veiled lights and deserted streets; but to-night he wa blind to it. He could see nothing but For- tin's face, hear nothing but his voice when he said: "Our only son in the war." He groped along the pitch-black street for the remembered outline of the house (since no house-numbers were visible), and rang :::;everal times without result. He was just turning away when a big mud-splashed motor drove up. He no- ticed a soldier at the steering-wheel, then three people got out stiffly: two \\'Olnen smothered in crape and a haggard man in a dirty uniform. Campton stopped, and Fortin-Lescluze recognized him by the light of the motor-lamp. The four stood and looked at each other. The old mother, under her crape, appeared no bigger than a child. "Ah-you know?" the doctor said. Campton nodded. The father spoke in a firm voice. .. It happened three days ago-at Suippes. You've seen his citation? They hrought him in to me at Chalons without a warn- ing-and too late. I took off both legs, but gangrene had set in. \h-if I could have got hold of one of our big surgeons! . . . Yes, we're just back from the fu- neral. .. l\ly nlother and my wife. . . they had that comfort. . ." The two women stood beside him, like shrouded statues. Suddenly ::\1 me. For- tin's deep voice came through the crape: "You saw him, l\lonsieur, that last day . .. the day you came about your own son, I think? ,. " 1 . . . yes. . . " Campton stammered in anguish. The physician intervened. "And now, 11la bOlllle 11lère, you're not to be kept standing. You're to go straight in and take your tisanc and go to bed." He kissed his mother and pushed her into his wife's arms. "Good-bye, my dear. Take care of her." The won1en vanished under the porte- cochère and Fortin turned to the painter. "Thank you for coming. I can't ask you in-I must go back immediately." " Back?" "To my work. Thank God. If it were not for that - ! " He jumped into the motor, called out "En route!" and was absorhed into the blackness of the night. XI CAMPTON went home to his stuclio. He still lived there, shiftlessly and un- comfortably-for lariette had never come back from Lille. She had not come back, anû there was no news of her. Lille had become a part of the" occupied pro\"- inces," from which there was no ðcape; and people were beginning to find out what that living burial n1eant. Adele ..\nthony had urged Campton to go back to the hotel, but he obstinately refused. \Vhat business had he to be liv- ing in expensive hotels when, for the Lord knew how long, his means of earning a livelihood were gone, and when it was his duty to save up for George-George, who was safe, who was definitely out of dan- ger, and whom he longed more than ever, when the ,var was over, to withdraw from the stifling atmosphere of his stepfather's millions? He had been so near to haying the boy to himself when the war broke out! He had almost had in sight the proud day when he should be able to say: "Look here: this is your own hank-account. Now you're indepenòent-for God's sake stop and consider what you want to du with your life." The war had put an end to that-hut '" " Ðraõt"J b}' f'ran((s Rogers. '-, , a , r " .\ good d.IY- oh, 0 I? .. Someone told me he W,l<'; ,"our son. I went home from seeing th.lt md hegan to paint. . \fter the war, wouM YOU let me conIC and work with vou? Iy things.. wait". I'll how yoú my t hing fìrst." Ill' tried to rai e hin,,,,e1f. )Irs. Talket t slippl'cl her ann under his shoulders, and re ting against her he lifte(l his hand and pointed to the bare waIL facing him. (, There-there; you see? Look for Your c1f. [he hrú...hwork... not Loo j)ad, eh? I was. . . getting it. .. Therc, that head of my grandfather, eh? . \ncl my lamc sister.".. Oh, I'm young. . :' h smiled. . , .. ne, er had an," models. . . But after thc war you'll see:. ." Irs. Talkett Ict"'llÍm d()\\l1 again, an< any real cause for this feeling, and if so, can the complex, by frank and searching analysis, be resolved? In the larger perspective we are just be- ginning to appreciate the great construc- ti,'e values of the critical study which has heen gÌ\'en to the Bible during the past fifty years; but, unfortunately, the nega- tÏ\'e results of this study were first heralded to the rank and file of the church in ways that were often offensÌ\Te. The critical study of the Bible is almost purely intel- lectual, and therefore cold rather than spiritually inspired. \rhen to this chill- ing process is added the din and conflict ine\'itahly incidental to a period of tran- sition, it is not strange that the nlajority, who could not appreciate the divine meaning of the process as a whole, felt that the authority of the Scriptures was being undermined and that their religious teachers were gÌ\'ing them a stone instead of a loaf. It is profitable for Fundamentalist and E\-angclical alike to recognize that wc 16<) have all been passing through a strenu- ous period of readjustment. rogcther \\ e can rejoice that it is over and that an era of reconstruction ha<.; begun. Already a new spirit is stirring in the hearts of re- ligious teachers, as they turn to suhjects, if not more important at least spiritually more in piring. The real problem now is to satisfy the deep spiritual cra\ing that has inspired the present mo\'ement. Too, it must hc recognized that dur- ing the pre-war period a material, mecha- nistic interpretation of the universe, that left no place for God and spiritual forces, gained currency in certain departmenb of science and to a limited extent in our uni\'ersities and colleges. Science has learned much since 1914. This material- istic philosophy has largely disappeared; and yet, if the protagoni....ts of Funda- mentalism had made it, and not evolution and hiology, and science in general, the object of their attack, they would have met with almost unh'ersal appro,'al inside and outside the universities. The future of Fundamentali:-;m is proh- lematical. Fortunately its leaders ha\-c not formed a new sect. _\lso the genius of !>rotestantism is liberty of thou ht. Cer- tainly the E\'angelicals will not rclie,.c the tense situation hy calling the Funda- mentalists reactionaries born three cen- turies too late. Nor will the Fundamen- talists help the cause in which they are so deeply interested hy. calling their e\'an- gelical friends radicals and ratiol1.\li t . The spirit of intolerance, which so easily passes 0\ er into acti\'e persecution, is as disastrous as it is unchristian. . \ very different spirit is expressed in a fl-ccnt letter from a prominent Fundamentalist leaùer: " I have no sympathy at hcin at per- sonal outs with nlen who e theology r can- not accept. I e'\pect if I "ere your neigh- hor, I should love you pcr onall), and scrap with you constantly theologically, and so I sign myself, in all sincerity, ., fraternally yours. Herein lies the solution of what i:; un- douhtedly thc gra\'est problem confront- ing Protestantisnl to-day. It is for repn- sentativcs of the different Protc....t.mt mo\ l'l1lcnb to knO\\ each other pcr on- 170 RECE T TREKDS I PROTESTA:\TTISl\I ally, to understand each other's point of view, and to appreciate the reasons for the con\"ictions which each holds so strongly. It is said that in war men never shoot when they are near enough to see the whites of each other's eyes. It is sin- cerely to be hoped that at the coming Fundamentalist \V orId Conference the stress will not be placed on differences, but that full opportunity will be given for frank discussion between representa- tive Fundamentalists and Evangelicals of the vital beliefs and aims and tasks which they all share together as the fol- lowers of a common Lord and laster. Both must face squarely three facts. First, that the Author of their faith placed the entire stress not on declarations but on demonstrations, on life and deeds, not on creeds. Second, that the youth of to- day must live in the twentieth century and that their faith and their develop- ment should be the first concern of the church. Scolding and prodding will not compel the twentieth century to go back into the shell of the eighteenth, even could that shell be restored. Third, Protestantism, as the great prophetic movement of Christianity, is to-day con- fronted by stupendous tasks and re- sponsibilities which can only be met with united front and in the spirit of Him who found his life by losing it. His many- sided teachings contain the fundamentals on which all his {lmowers can safely and securely take their stand, content to dif- fer regarding the debatable questions of intellectual belief. Protestantism is undergoing a silent but fundamental transformation in its church life. This change is revealed, not in the majority of the churches, but, like the first rich tints that here and there foretell the coming of autumn, it is dis- cernible in those under riper, more pro- gressive leadership. The constantly dwindling Sunday morning and evening audiences, the con- spicuous absence of youth, and the silent protest of many who faithfully attend, indicate unmistakably that in a majority of the Protestant churches, where every- thing else is made secondary to the ser- mon, all is not well. Doctor Francis E. Clark, in a significant article in the Octo- ber, 1922, Yale Review on "The lenace of the Sermon," has courageously diag- nosed this twentieth-century peril in Prot- estantism. He points out that too often the pastor is called to a church not be- cause of his ability as a practical spiritual leader but because of his reputation as a preacher; that the tragedy of many a pastor's life is the obligation and his own inability to produce each year fifty or a hundred memorable sermons; and that this sermonolatry develops sermon-tasters rather than active, efficient Christians. This emphasis on the sermon is another of Protestantism's prophetic inheritances. In the days of John Knox or the Wesleys or George Fox or Alexander Campbell, the people were conscious of listening to the voice of a prophet. Through the con- temporary prophet God spoke again, as he did through an Isaiah or a John the Baptist. Our early American forefathers lived largely in the atmosphere of the Old Testament, and the men of God who preached to them frankly assumed the manner and rôle of the old Hebrew proph- ets. From time to time in later years men like Beecher and Phillips Brooks, with a conspicuous prophetic gift, have inspired with divine truth and love in- tently listening thousands. This high appreciation of the living prophet is one of the glories of Protes- tantism; but when the church expects every preacher to be a prophet forty or fifty Sundays in the year, it is building on a false assumption and is in danger of a tragic awakening. To many churches that awakening is now coming, and the problem of readjustment to facts is in- sis ten t. Moreover, it is well to remember that Paul, in his burning letter to the Corin- thian Christians, urges each to serve the beloved community according to his special ability. Not for a moment does he assume that prophecy or preaching is the only gift essential to the spiritual life of the church. lay it not be that this assumption has misled Protestantism? It may be the devoted mother or the en- thusiastic settlement worker or the in- valid saint or the faithful physician or youth with glowing vision or old men dreaming dreams, who have a message that will set cold hearts aflame and send young and old alike out into paths of joy- RECE T TRl' :\DS I PROTF';', A TIS I ous sef\.ice. The modern community church is seeking ways in which these messag s may fmd normal and effective c,"prcsslOn. l)rotestantism is also awakening to the need of a differentiated ministry. It is no new discovery. In the littlc Christian communitv that Paul established at Cor- inth there "were prophets, apostlcs, teach- ers, and healers. The vanguard of the army of trained religious tcachers or di- rectors of religious education, as they are called, has already entered the service. Directors of the social and recreational life of the church are in training. In certain indi\"idual churches gifted leaders of the musical activities in the church and community have demonstrated how in- dispensable are their services. \Vith this working staff, the pastor is able to become a shepherd of souls and to organize and direct the spiritual life and work of the church as a whole. \\'hen practical Christian unity makes it possi- ble for each local church to become a community church and to minister alike to ignorant and learned, rich and poor, saints and sinners, the prophetic function of Protestantism will begin to be fully realized. The stress that is being laid on the teaching ministry of the church marks another unmistakable trend in progres- sive Protestantism. It is in accord \\ ith the method of the Founder of Christian- ity, for he was not primarily a preacher but a teacher. The so-called" Sermon on the l\Iount" is not in the form of a ser- mon but is in reality an informal talk on the hill ide. Tn the light of the vidd record we can in imagination see the great Teacher seated on one of the black basaltic rocks that are scattered so pro- fusely on the hillsides to the north and northwest of Capcrnaum, while his fol- lowers sit close about him. Christianity from the.flrst was a teaching religion. In the Corinthian church teachers were re- garded as inlportant as the prophets or apostles. Throughout Prote tantism the \ icious theon" that \"outh must first be allowed to gó wrong in order later to e\.- perience a catastrophic conversion is fast heing abandoned. _\t last the words of the ancient Jewish sage are being fully accepted: Iii "Train up a child in the way he !;houJd o; And ,..hen he i old he will not dcp.ut from it " Gnderlying the religious-education movement that is rapidly tran-;forming the life and the architecture of many Prot- estant churches are the accepted prin- ciples of modern psychology and educa- tion. The redisco\ ercd Bible, interpreted into the terms of modern life, is its chief text-book. This movement is fast put- ting the youth and the leadcrs of Prote:r tantism into intelligent touch with the \'ital principles revealed in the past ex- pcrience of the race and with the acti\ e forces in our present ci\"iliL;ation. In thi direct way it is equipping them for the work of moral and religious reconstruc- tion that must be done by the prophetic forces in Christendom. Anothcr trend in Protestantism is not yet strongly marked, but there arc in- dications that the tide is strongly setting in. ..\ typical illustration-one of manv- may be cited. In one of our American cities the gifted and devoted rector sud- denly died. A young curate-modest, likablc, and with excellent organizing ability-was askcd to take the helm until a successor could be secured. lIe did so on condition that all the members of the church share the responsibilitics with him. From the first a new life and atmosphcre pervaded the staid old church. Old and young found their special task and joy in doing it; and enlarged budgets to meet the needs of the rapidly growing member- ship and the cxtended community work were taken care of as by magic. Soon the people di covercd that none of the candidates appealed to them. The leaders recognized that the real reason was that no one wished to rcstore the old typc of church. The young curate (whom c\'ery one called hy his first ndme) wag asked to hccome thcir rector. To-clay this church, made up of actÏ\"c. \\orkin Christians, is fast becoming the mo t po- tent religious force in one of the larger 01 our American cities. The explanation of this rebirth of a church is simple. Psychologists tell u,; that we are interested in that to which \\e are able personally to contrihute and in nothing ebe.. The Iastl'r Tcacher knew \\cll this simple hut vast I) important principle. lIe sa\"ed the mcn and \\omen 172 RECENT TRENDS IN PROTE$TANTIS1I who pressed about him, first by believing in them and then by giving them a task which each could perform. The very es- sence of the Christianity of Jesus is individual loyalty to the fraternal com- munity expressed in service. Protestant- ism is gradually grasping this ideal of uni- versal enlistment, and as a result new life is coming back to many dying churches. The principle of distributed responsi- bility applies to the religious services as well. len never lose their boyish love of "doing something." If the preacher and a highly paid chorus assume all responsi- bility for the service, the men, as a rule, seek more active occupation elsewhere, and the country club becomes a strong rival of the church. It is a frequent subject of wonderment that when Quakers, with their complete absence of ritual, change their church affiliations, they usually join the Epis- copal Church. The same bond binds these two faiths very closely together: their democracy in worship, their stout insistence that the individual worshipper shall have a large part in the service. Finally, Protestantism, to do its unique work in the world and to satisfy the needs of men, must give them a more vivid sense of the presence of God. Has it here something to learn from the priest? 1VIost of the world's prophets have been men of the out-of-doors. They have lived so close to God that they needed no ritual nor symbolism. To-day the ma- jority of men live in great congested cen- tres, out of touch with nature. There is need, therefore, that the church supply that lack, even though it be through im- perfect symbolism. \Vith true insight the mediæval church met this need. It built the naves of its great cathedrals so that they represented the branching trees. As the light of the sun came through the richly colored windows it suggested the green of springtime, the gorgeous tints of autumn, and the resplendent glory of the sunset. The rich tones of the great organ recalled the still richer melodies of nature. Here the dwellers in hovels and palaces forgot their unnatural and distracting daily life and felt themselves in the pres- ence of God. Familiar prayer, solemn chant, and words of prophet and psalm- ist aided in realizing that presence. Sermonolatry and the old reaction against all forms of religious symbolism have given Protestantism many an archi- tectural monstrosity that is a barrier rather than an aid to true worship. And yet a hopeful trend is even here discern- ible. To imitate the mediæval cathe- drals would be false to its traditions. Progressive Protestantism is building, in keeping with the ideals of its prophetic Founder, church homes fitted to the needs of the fraternal community. Here children in the church-school find a fit- ting habitat. Here the various communal activities centre. Here the voices of the prophets can be heard. Here, amidst symbolism that suggests the presence of the God of beauty and of love, men may learn the joy of worship. In this new type of "meeting-house" all classes in the community may meet with their common Father for communion and co-operative service. "The sects" undoubtedly have their serious problems. They are still a dis- sonant babel of voices and have found as yet no common basis for united action; but they are seeking it. In the language of yesterday, many of them need the ex- perience of a sound conversion that will lead them to forget their bickering, their man-made creeds, their petty rivalries, their pathetic trust in mere organization, and inspire them to try the bold experi- ment of finding their life by losing it in the service of mankind. Too often they have followed wrong impulses or clung too tenaciously to institutions long outgrown; but they are usually ready to learn from their mistakes. They are still responsive to the voice of the real prophet and, therefore, ever open to new truth. They are, as a rule, in close touch with the world's thought and life. They are eager to satisfy men's deepest religiòus needs. There are unmistakable indications that they are passing through a great transi- tional period out of which will emerge a more unified, a more spiritual, and a more truly prophetic Protestantism. Luck BY J:\ IES BOYD Author of "Elms and Fair Oaks," "The Sound of a Voice," etc. ILLUSTRATIONS BY L. F. \VILFORD .' HE old, smoke-black- - - . ened fence along the freight-yard made a good shelter from the daybreak autumn wind. Cowan sat in its lee, tying a string around the waist of his rusty o\"ercoat while he waited for the tin can of soup to get hot over the swaying fire of chips. His bold, restless face puckered as his stiff fingers fumbled at the knot; his mouth, small and precise, tightened in methodical preoccupation. A film of \'apor rose from the soup in harried spirals. He curled his red hands around the can, raised his daring eyes, and drank. Setting it down, he drew a knuckled wrist across his mouth and rolled a ciga- rette with gloomy accuracy. Autumn, shrivelled and foreboding, bore on him heavily. All the world, from the distant, blue, cold hills to the clutter of drab houses by the tracks, looked pinched and sterile. fIe shrunk within himself before the lifeless morning chill and knew that he was growing pinched and sterile, too. Pretty soon he would be no good; it \,'"ould be too late. He was getting on, al- most done for. He'd had many jobs and never one he liked; always he ept mov- ing on, a hobo, looking for something that beckoned and vanished like that shifting engine's nodding steam plume. But if the right thing came, he'd know and never quit it. l\laking up the fire, he stretched out his oily sea-boots and smoked. The warmth on his soles ga \'e him more heart. The old jobs had all been good in a way. They had all been chancy, nothing soft. He thought of them; of the night- shift in the foundry when they had stood naked, gilded \vith sweat, as the blinding, red-hot flux crawled from the bottom of ,itit: T : , the cone. Then there had heen the powder-mill; trundling the black dust in a push-cart, like a sleeping baby ogre, treading lightly in rubber shoes for fear of waking it. lIe thought of the time when he was out of Gloucester before the mast; fog-hound dories bobbing off the hanks, listening in the ghost silence for the swish of a liner's tall, gray how. lIe looked at his boots; they were the same ones he wore, the last "race to market, when the skipper cracked on canvas till she lay down under galloping seas and groaned. All had been chancy, there was that good about them. But it had been blind chance, chance where a good man might get knocked off as quick as a bad; quicker, it sometimes seemed. However careful a man was in the powder-mill, any minute some dub might clink a spark from metal and blow him to blazes. On the hanks the ablest seaman was just as likely to be cut down by the big ships. He wanted risk; nothing was fun without it, but he wanted risk of his own making, not some one else's. He was willing to play the game for big stakes, but he didn't want to play stud poker, he wanted to play chess. If only life would be like chess he'd have no kick; like chess for a million dol- lars a side. I Ie fished in t he breast of rus o\'ercoat and drew out a pigskin wallet, \'arnished with age. Unfolded, it \\as a small chess-board with painted hoory slips for men. lie spread a scrap of crumpled newspaper on his knec. Ai Black to checknlat e with the castle in seven moves," he murmured, reading aloud. He placed the men on the board according to the newspaper diagranl and studied them. The thump and crash of shunted cars and the high squeak of t1anges came oyer the fence on the gusty \\ind. To Cowan, hunched over the bO.lrd, these sounds 173 174 grew faint and far away. His mouth was a short straight line. He moved a piece -no that wouldn't do it. He ground a fist into his cheek and thought. There must be a right answer, there always was in chess; if you didn't get it, it was your own fault. In life there might be a dozen answers, all wrong, or none at all. If only chess had some risk to gh-e it an edge. He stared at the problem on the board; hanged if he could solve it. The white knight always got in the way. He never liked the knight's move anyhow; it wasn't regular; no sense to it. He'd have to give up. That was the trouble with playing for fun; a man couldn't do his best except for big stakes. Putting the pieces neatly back in their place, he shoved the board into his breast pocket and lit another cigarette. He turned his face to the black fence and stared through it into space. Behind him he heard the rattle of grocery carts on the cobbles, the caller calling a freight crew, the cackling of draggled, town-bred chickens; dull, flat morning noises of a stale, dirty world. He was sick of it. If only something would come along to get him started. But what that would be he didn't know. He saw, beyond the end of the fence, a corner of the yards and the roundhouse. Behind it, four big, steel-latticed stilts stuck aimlessly in air. A tall boom stood up beside them, its tackle jerking in the ,vind-bursts. Some kind of erecting job. \Vith his square toe he raked black dirt on the fire and strolled over. A minute figure in jumpers squatted at the base of the tall, meagre n10nstros- ity. The smoke-veiled distance obscured its features, features which themselves seemed preternaturally obscure. Cowan wrinkled his blunt nose in a squint. Yes, by golly, it was little \Vhitey, the \Vhite Knight kid. "\Yhat you doing, \Vhite?" The kid advanced with cur-dog effu- siveness and deprecation. "Hullo, Cowan, where'd you come from? I'm on this job here-partner hasn't showed up-saw a girl down street. Expect he won't, either-he's got two quarts. But I'm making my time, see?" He undertook a labored wink indicative of worldly knowledge. LUCK Cowan scowled. for you to-day. ou t. " "I'll rig and rivet Show me what's laid They spent the morning on the ground, riveting the short sections of the main collar together, two by two. Cowan worked the pneumatic and the kid, casual and ineffective, entered the red hot rivets and held against him. The tall, accurate man never spoke except for an occasional "Put your weight against it," or, "Take it out; it's cold." "Gee whiz," the kid would mumble. "What's the difference? They're plenty more, ain't there?" Whitey produced sausages for dinner, and Cowan led him to the shelter of the fence. "So you haven't played since you left the mill?" Cowan said as they leaned back to smoke. " \Vell, here's a éhance to practice." He drew out the leather board and showed the kid the newspaper prob- len1. "Aw, Cowan, I can't play. It's all luck with me." " Can't miss if you use your bean. Go ahead. " "Aw, Cowan." \Vhitey shifted the pieces irresolutely, with anxious glances at his tyrant. Cowan watched him: then stared grimly into space. \Vhy didn't the boy sit still and figure instead of pushing the chess- men brainlessly around? That was just the way he used to act back at the powder-mill when Cowan had taught him to play. He glared at \Vhitey's pale, va- cant face and looked away ,again. He used to give the kid a rook and three opening m ves and play him for ten dol- lars a game. The boy should have won every time. But he'd always lose his head and play blindly. Sometimes he won, but Will or lose, the young fool acted as if it was a game of luck, as if he thought the answer would come from the sky, from God. Cowan spat. Not a chance. He'd heard about God from the preachers and there wasn't half as much sense to him as there was to chess. Every man ought to stand on his own feet. The less he had to do with God the better. "Look, Cowan-I got it." "\Veil, l'm-how'd you do it?" c) ')] ., J J ()) : ,'" J t., !I;. - ì? l · I t, /.}t 0 ,) i ., _i: r I . / . J ,./j . f ,:1 1 "\I" I j 'I'. I I .. i1Ì' 1o.1 L.i" . . . ,I { ,:," ' ,I" r '(7' . ,t ", ,1:( )lrJ,f ' ,I. I" I r I r'n . "W& , f" I J > ; '" c.':; ' :,Im , ' r ": ''ilt!ll I '{ f ' t" j I' , ' J r IJ1 ,-111 7,.. li \ ).. i J " , I ij"l ti d 'r f ..t. -, \Ì\' '''. / . c.." II " 1,'\,:' :', .', ' .. .'. II · I ' 1 ' I '. t,J' ' !Fi; t);L 1.i\! II '. .. , ,, " ! ;" ,,:; l. :fiX I' r" l!i'l t "i"i tl' ' t -; : --- ï- -'1.- 01 ;;,,'_ _ 11,J ì 1\ ;1 1 1,1 _ , - c:- 1 r \ "'- - f"' -.. ' r 1 I \ / - , .., , '- ..........} .....'1-\ J J' l ' i .!..... ...- \Jf. , ' , I ' I " ,_ _ ...--=- ... _ -k ' I L'I 'j 1 , . --:- __ ,-......... _ JI I ___--=:- - ..1. t : :.. -;.. 1Æ -þ .1 : 1 .- _:- . j } . . .., =---_ ' .t ,', I I,, -Tt ==rr 'i , . (-:';\. · , . _ . ' r fi ll ' .l _jrf " -'':' '/ ' I -----' -- Øi -' ,':' - / ''1, , "'-;-- . ) ' . 1;:41 , '1 ::: , / , :/. r / //Jþ /' , '1,l:'.../ -; . . I , , J. ,- ';.. '4 . · ' ..&" ----- 1'-/ 1 ,:" J. {"e ,<, J - (lkJ: -:' . 11// ,,;fr. (;/ \ I. n... '_ ,I II) - - L r/'"< f \ ' .\.' -:;' II' ---- 1 ).! : j: \ 'J / J F r \ rL - ---- I ' X - ___ ,::; c- , ... ............ 1'[ -= - - - . /I c: :'v, - h:::. l;C"- - ''''' 1 ' ".-=r Iò- -....: '- '.......... --- , ,'" ? ::';.. ,, ----- { ?:::. ------ ""-- -- , ........ ./ Drawn by L. F _ Wilford, Cowa t"] . n sa In Its ce, tYing a string around the wJ.Ï:,t uf hj ru"ty o\"t rcuat.-Page 17.1- 175 lï6 "I don't know, just a kind of hunch. Don't eyen know what I did do now." Patientlv Cowan traced back the moyes, irånically he showed him what plays he had n1ade. The kid was in- different. ,. Say, don't you want to get this? You could use it in a game." .. 'Vhat's the use, Cowan? It was just a hunch. I couldn't remember it, and anyhow if I get a hunch, I don't need it. It's just luck the way I play." ,. You n1ake lne sick. 1\0 wonder you don't get anywhere." ,. Don't you worry about n1e, Cowan, mv luck's turned since the first of the year. E !erything I do comes out right, just like this." He point d at the chess-board. "Keep thinking that and see how long you hold your job. There's no luck in erecting steel towers. You do it right or yOU don't. That's what I like about it. Been thinking about it all morning. I like this job better than anything I've eyer struck. If a man 111akes a mistake he gets it in the neck, if he don't he's O. K. I'd kind of like to go into this business." "It's all right," said the kid loftily, .. only that's not the way I look at it. 'Yhen a man's time COlnes, he goes, that's all there is to it. And until it does COlne he's as safe as a church, no nlatter what he does." Cowan shut the board with a snap. H That's what eyery muttonhead thinks that hasn't the gin1}) to figure things out for himself. S0111e call it luck and some call it trusting God. Let's go back to work." As Cowan, spare and resolute, and the hlurred, insignificant kid 111ade their way across the cinders, they passed a ladder which one of the ice-boys for the refriger- ator-cars had leaned against the fence. Cowan went underneath it with a grin. ., You oughtn't to do that, Cowan. It's unlucky." H Is it? .,rell, it's unluckier to be the hum mechanic YOU are." "That's all right, hut you want to be careful up on the tower this afternoon. That's all." They hoisted the sections up amI riv- eted them. It was almost dark hv the time the last one swung into place, só they LCCK pegged it with wooden pegs to hold it oyer night. The kid went down to gather up the tools. Cowan sat on the big steel ring, gazing across the fading valley. He fingered a rivet in the joint beside him. It was as tight as you could make it and so were all the others. It had been a good day's work. The tower-building game was all right; risk but no chance to it. Nothing could happen as long as your work was right; nothing could touch you but your own n1istakes; not even God. He rubbed his tired arn1S beneath his blue flannel shirt. It was great, sitting here, safe and firm on your own work, high in air. In the west the edges of dark clouds had been gnawed to tatters by an angry, sinking sun. Swinging his sea-boots, Cowan looked at the dull, red disk with a grin. He twisted his sn1all tight mouth. He was a good man and he knew it. On work like this where everything was fair he could take care of himself. That Inalignant eye in the west didn't trouble hin1. He kicked his heels; it yanished with a sullen afterglow. lIe clin1bed to his feet, his hobnails ringing on the girder. Behind hi1l1, down the valley, the lights of a city began to wink up through the dusk by twos and threes. l\Ioying softly and smoothly, bal- ancing on the beam, he walked around to get a better yiew. The kid's feeble, piping yoice came up to hin1: "COlne on down, Cowan, before your luck turns." Luck! Therè was luck in some jobs, whatever luck was. But here he stood on his own work. It was fair enough. He'd stick to it and have no kick. Those lights \vere pretty. It 111ust be a big tOWll. Ought to be some chess-players there. I-Ie 1110ved along. He heard a tiny crackle. The section agged down ",1.th swift quietness. He turned to dive back to safety, slipped, and caught the hanging steel beam as he fell. He hung there. IIis fault. The wood- pegged section. He tried to raise hin1self, but there was no grip for his fingers on the steel, he only just had purchase to hang on. He saw the kid's pinched, white face below him and heard his quavering voice: , }. ! ,/.\ ' ._ '_ J I( !I' :'t ' : \. __ , '. .." .; I { , : ,).;/ "I 't '\ i." . \1, ", I ,' , (' - ',I \1 ) ', I :--' , C , ' . .', .'.: : \. --- " 'þ , \> ,." / - . :>, J Y / , ' ..;k .<. ' ",,' _.:- "v. I \':r-4 < . \ .:- / ' -.,... - T' ,/ ) /),,0"J. n hv l.. F lIï/i",.J, { 'I 'I ,I I .' t ,.iff , ' ' .\ r \'. f 'f I" ; , 't ' ' I , I /' ,\ I ./ ,1 _ I I I \ 4 . l1'þ , a. /: "", I r - - 1 I II,I - I I , "I , , 1 111 j I, I'r I : j' l' 11,1 I It r; I II 1/ ,,;, i! (/t I J or I I I I II I ' IJI/J / I. f 11 ] , 1 ( I j I j II ';" 1 11. ' II- , ,; ',' I ( 1 \ ", 1 11 -.. I I. I ' ,iii, i! _ II ' I " ) f\:::-:: " I I J - - ''. \ II "'\ , , . \- . -\ ;, " '-1'\ ---.. - . I ( , . "" /' ' i.' J .. -- ' 14 ,. <#\ .. 1-".. ,1:, \ ', /" . " ": .1 1 \.. L :. X, " '- ',). \ .... .... ,, .....-: - .4. - - , . \ .. . ./ . ,./' -- - -- -- .......-. ----- ...-- -=w-....... .C' Co _, _ __ "N-->-.oL- .,Jj- - - ,-- - {4i I ' "'(_ _" , , . - - ' r . U U"t' \ I)ur Iw.1n. ,. ( .1\1 t ml " I ): I) . (;" ih('.1tI:' -P.a (' 174, \ 01, J XXIII.-12 , , I f I I f , '- '- " -7-..:: H I , I _l "- .. . -- i , 178 "I knew it-God-I knew it." The pasty rat 1 "Swing the tackle to me, you fool," he said in a hard-bitten whisper. He dared not shout for fear of jarring his tenuous grip. He saw the kid scuttling. If only the boy kept his head down there. His hands had gone numb. He couldn't hold out long. Well, it was his own fault. Fair enough. But, oh, God, make that kid hurry 1 His arms were dead now, too, LUCK He heard the creak of the boom and a pulley whirring. It stopped. Faint and far off he heard the plaintive voice, "Hang on, Cowan, the block's jammed." His eyes were blind with sweat, a palsy crept down his rigid body. He could feel nothing, but he knew he was slipping. "So long, Kid," he called softly. He felt himself falling, turning. The world swung in a crazy arc, tower and sky and all, and a little figure cringing with its face in its hands. \ \\ I \ ( I \1/1. J \ ' ' {:!,'t "', j. ',','" I i", ' '11 , I ' I :':,\;;11:,,1, , ø A ð!J. z 1(J h ' I I I l l. f!h I' ':{i Ijï fj, 1 ' .' II I \;: i,,;t1 1// I f ,"\' r I,' I I r h / J J' , I n a Greek Garden Rl HI R' ICL I ESBI:\ KE!'YO, \YE have known it all before, in some far dream, These lines of fountain-water, willow trecs Bending over a myriJ.d tulips shining, .And the white walls alight in the cvening sun, And stillness, but for the water falling shattered. Therc was a time beyond full memory \rhen standing here, whcre we nevcr ha\'c toocl before, \Ve knew it ours, as we know it again to-dav. So in return the wonder all comes back. . Familiarly, from the dream to the suddenly real. \Ve ha \Oe in truded on a sacred place Not meant for mortal sight. Oh, long ago \Ve had forsaken it for fear of the gods; But now we would claim it from them back. ag.tin, To behold it to-day in wonder and delight. Even these shadows wove patterns in times before On this pale grass, and over swaying tulips; And we have seen the evening sunlight slant Through willows trailing. If to sce it again Iay be but thc late rcturn of an old dream Long since grown dim, oh, then remember well How we stood breathless underneath these willows, \Vhcn we had entered through the amaÛng gates; .-\nd n1adc our ancient chaIIenge to things unreal, Through senses when the senses ::;eem to fail: . ., Tlzis thing may vanis/r,. t/rerefore l10ld it 110'"1.4.'" J 'i.'cn for this one installt /Zold it c/ose- Fill cars and eyes with it-drink up its air- Gather its fragrance-bend before its light- Thc,", let it vanish I" But it docs not vanish. So we ha\ e pro\"ed with the old test of sen,c, \nd found no dream. Oh then let us put off Strangeness, and doubts from the douhting age we J...now, \nd let them slip like garments do\\ n from uo;; \ncl feel the ageless wonder of this place Sweep over us liJ...e tides of mo\ ing air- Sun-filled blue air, that drowns us with its comll1" These are the kies of Greece, and . \rtemi5 Poi ed here in marble, with her fair disdain, Looks out into thc \Vcst, whence goJs must come In thc high splendor of their lo\'elinc s. She waits some great e\"ent, who t.lkes no p)e3:-urc In gardens of the gods, or the slow pds ing Of 10n eY uncounted hours. She \\;th her bow, ,." I"Q 180 IN A GREEK GARDEN Artemis, comes not from her wildwood groves Nor pauses here in shadow of marble walls But for some strange portent that the gods must know. These are the skies of Greece, and the day-moon, faint Like a high-blown feather, shows the depth of them Unclouded to the tops of distant trees. . . . Though we are mortal, in these formal ways Let us move stately and slow, as if we too were gods. Oh well we know these ways are not our own! Why you are not half so tall as the fountain-water! I could lose you behind the drooping ends of the willows, And you are as nothing in this portico- This pillared circular temple, with its rim Of whitest marble high above your head, That frames a round blue roof that is the sky; You are as nothing here, but yet move slowly, Being a god for a while. At least your eyes May see tl:1is place as the heavenly ones must see it. Or break from stately ways and run as a nymph- Put off your close black dress, and move in the air! You are a stranger from a foreign land, And have forgot that it is summer time! Do you think the pool that laughs below your feet Can mirror you in black? The marble fish And the marble crab upon the sand-rayed floor Would laugh at you, breaking out of their stone To move in mirth along the floor of their sea! Was ever a nymph in black in summer time? Put off your little shoes and run in the grass; And if a god should see you, do not mind it. Artemis of the wilds would understand, As she watches there, from the ever-deepening shadows. Shadows-shadows-shadows. . .. The late round sun Falls to the darkening West, and so is gone, And twilight hangs in the' warm haze of evening. Now the wisteria along the wall . Looks whiter than blown foam, and tulips brim In the half light with colors new and rare, And violet shadows fall behind each leaf- Dark leaf for green, against the marble wall. To have seen this place after so many days Is a coming back to an old forsaken dream. \Ve walk these paths now, and familiarly Lean here against the columns, and look out Over the valley below, and the pale river Curving around the West past misty hills; And even the ominous dark comes on as before. There was a night in our lost familiar garden When we stood watching the moon grow white, and knew That Artemis must waken from her marble- That all the gods must soon be coming together. Almost we heard them passing, but did not see them; And Artemis stood unchanged. And soon we felt J A GREEK G:\RDFN The time had not yet come; as stanòing to-night \Vatching in silence while the dark comes in, \Ve know it is not the time. . .. But listen again, And tell me that you can almost hear them pd.ssing Beside us over the steps, with robes aflutter And light feet pressing soft on the yielding grass. \Ve have intruded on a mystery That soon must fall and fade and be no more; But now while the hour lasts, stand quietly here And see the moon and the ageless stars of summer Caught in the circle of marble over this temple,- All the blue darkness and height and brilliance of heaven. Now are the edges of marble whitened with moonlight; Pillars shine out, and shadows fall behind them, \Vhile the high roof of stars turns slowly to \Vestward. Artemis! .\rtemÍs there in your marble niche! Come alive and see a strange thing brought to pass! Come alive and flee away-come alive and escape Out of this place unholy! There is a sign l\Iust fill your eyes with dismay: look up and see it- Here on this night at the highest point of heaven Silently flash the long fires of the North; Coldly Aurora shines athwart the moon \Vith shafts of light that waver and break and fade, And rise again. 0 .\rtemis, be afraid! "'hat shall avail your long and disdainful waiting Here in the North? Proud Artemis, be afraid! Darker these skies than ever the skies of Greece; 1\Iore strangely cold and high and ominous. Now is the new light shaken over the walls In purpling colors, and red of the far North, Unseen by the ancient gods. Here Artemis 1\Iust stand all moveless in the unholy place, \Vith broken moonlight colored over the walls. Oh, far is the moon, whose long light out of the \Vest Slants to this garden, faintly. She must pass, Leaving the sky to shafted Aurora fires- Silently moving lines of changing light. Soon the moon must pass, and Artemis Be wrapped in shadow, alone and proud and forsaken, Under cold skies, in this garden of the North. Come, let us close our eyes, and pass from the dream. \Ve have intruded on a mystery 1\Iore strange than any we knew in any dreaming. Now with the wonder upon us, let us go- Let us slip out through the gate in the slanting moonlight That soon must fall and fade and be no more. 181 - M_/ / , / i?E -<: __ ==-- :;- ., / ./ "J!; .J. - - -.' . ;- .:". J'. t '-. .=:,- -..fÏ:4 . ....:- - Ç. þ /q, I 'h - .. . r < ,..( wf.1 :;-;?.1/.- -:, ;.å '/ !' '/) ø;;; / f/, ? =- .:.. 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" .': 1':1\ .' ,\I ' ", , :-;,;';.;k-..A,' / ' ';";d: ,, ?;:I I '.!'!'!'" ...:. "'WI!iJf. /Æ;'\ ' '", , '. t1I, ;Ip.: " - J'f:t-..'.ø . J{,(t -,!:-.."#,I ,.......,.. 1".J:" '.'::'."" t. r:1' ':-' l! j 1 \\\\.. · ' %$ ( ' ' . ,I,:I: 'U'.. " .'1:-""z,:-:;,"_"I.". . .... \, :).;-::; irÿL4 G;!!" I - .' .,' 'f , '.... '( \ ' '.' " ' -:" -:, :" :.fi ...:, _'.h "' ."' " , ':',;,, ":', f,,"SV' ! 't i' '}J ,..... " .,. , ,'.. ...._ .. " \ --- - y. ' :r' )"':f' :;"" ,f ft' \ f' ' :i , ..:t\\f "., '7 ,-;..: / 'w. .'í::-:,.,..#,-; ," I _ ::.. ..... .....,' l.; i.,:-. ..'. " \ 'r ' 'I\{;I' ì . . \.' \\ \ """) .1'1 . '.n. '-:' -.f" ;::/ / \ (; i. "' ". - .\' "J 'IN .',J-"," J . 1.1'. \. -... ..'..' , - -=-------------::, = -' , \ ' " lj, , !'i, \., I 4 , ' = . .: k.t . ; ., \ - - \ d - . " I , . - ----"" . :' : . 0 ' " " I:' II, ' I I -., " : I :.-1 I I .:':: \ ,,':-M t r, ,.,. ---- \ , -.- f I ;: ,', .\ \f. ." 0',1 I, ......."':... . I :' : '.. 1/ t. -/ff rt I ' f( .( / Ii J-;";' .:t \\ . "1:JI h,,_ , .,...A. i ,t j!';. . IJl!fi t , << .. In'\f1;I\,\ \. ? ti!f/ ..,:f;; ' ! L - )!rw ' iF, i ,J: fÆl 'II:I! I I' Ii ,,11 \ \ 1t'" - .. ../. l' -- k-i- --2-="" # ?I':' I I), /), 1/ I' , :! : \, . 0 " \ " /.;i c';;/ - W'þ :l/ :- :1 / /, I j 'I I/If ,\\\ : ...:;. . :,à ," - - -., - \ t, I I- - 0:::', t ß0 , lé.. bl \ ,: l :.::-;:' ,= ; -' - . : /l !J'\ ' 11 1( //11' III \ ',I l ye . ;;;"'-"rtif"k"' "'/ I .i, II I . . I i."'r.... "';';: ' ' jllilJ - , l: ''il \(í'''!//I}I;J;ll'; ;',;1' ' CL- ,-_,f '1J- ' I \': I$;; J' ' -= / -þ A ' /I Ï,II ï \ - If =" :\[0% Rose studied his people and came to know them bcttcr than they knew thcmselves.-Pa.ge 185. The Magic Pipe .\ STORY OF CAP'X IOSS BY BURRIS JENKINS Authe:r of "Princess Salome," "The Bracegirdle," etc. hLUSTRATIOXS BY E. \\'. KEMBLE AP'N l\IOSS ROSE, nearing sixty years of age, had retired as a well-to-do planter, but could not stay retired. He had made by years of toil and attention to business what is, for the Black Belt, a comfortable fortune, had sold his farm and removed to the city of Seminole; but, one year of idleness proving insupportable, he had rented two farms, one north and one east, and gone to work again. " 1\loss Rose" sounds like a highly sen- timental name, but is really quite matter- of-fact. "Rose" is the family cognomen; 182 and " foss" is that of certain highly re- spected relatives. The South has a way of using the last names of those it delights to honor as the first names of its children. For example, loss had a brother named "Beauregard," shortened frequently to "Beau". and another "Stonewall J ack- , , son," always called "Jackson" and " Jack." As for the title which 1\loss Rose wore, he was never captain of anything or any- body but his negroes. They dubbed him "cap'n," and "cap'n" he remained for them. He had a way with them that won respect and affection, sometimes wholesomely mingled with fear; and this way of his rendered him rich and them THE :\IAGIC PIPE comfortable. \Vhile other farmers studied their soil, their cotton, their corn, 110ss Rose also studied his negroes, the most important part of his machinery in his opinion, and found his study profitable as well as diverting. loss had lived a bachelor until he reached forty-two, and he had nine rea- sons for doing so; two of them were brothers and seven of them sisters. He early determined, at the death of his father, soon followed by that of his mother, that Beauregard, the oldest son, should marry and perpetuate the family, while he, the second, should care for all the rest. There seemed to him no sane reason why Stonewall Jackson, when he came of age, should remain single, as one pair of shoulders was sufficient to carry the load of supporting and educating the seven Rose sisters. Having once "fig- gered" it out for himself, no adding- machine or no system of integral calculus could produce any other convincing re- sult. So must it be. The others bowed to his will. F or years his brothers were his partners in running the big old plantation at "Egypt Gate," share and share alike. Although they had families and he none, the treasury of the firm remained com- mon. They took out of it what was needed to support themselves and theirs; while he took out what would satisfy his slender wants. They prospered, by some subtle secret, above the planters, their neighbors; until eventually Beauregard bought into the Seminole National Bank, removed from the firing line to the base in the town, and became president of the concern. Stonewall Jackson got the oil craze, and, gathering all together, went into the far country of Oklahoma. The seven sisters duly entered and were grad- uated from l\Iadame :\lirabeau's Young Ladies' Seminary at X ew Orleans, and dropped into matrimony with the se- quence and precision of a row of dominoes tumbling over on a table. At the wedding of the youngest, Cap'n Ioss appeared with a new cut to his Leard. Hitherto he had allowed it to row almost as it pleased, and had paid little or no attention to the fact that jt '\as becoming streaked with gray. Now he had shaved rus cheeks, leaving a grace- 183 ful sandy imperial and a long, drooping mustache. His big, gentle blue eyes danced at the wedding as gaily as his feet; and many a young woman, long marrÏ3.gc- able, caught her breath as if stung by the splendor of a sudden thought. And if to conceive an act were the same as to per- form it, \Ioss was married that very night; for his eyes lit most upon Dolly Lestrange, and remained there longest, while in them slumbered soft fires sug- gestive of home and hearthstone. Dolly was winsome, and Dolly was not overly young. Perhaps she, too, had been waiting, knowing loss Rose and his desire better than he himself knew. \Vomen have a way of knowing things better than their men; that is why the men are theirs. Dolly's eyes, too, danced that night, and burned black with a vi- vacity that. suggested the province of Brittany from which her fathers derived, by way of New Orleans. Dolly's feet, moreover, were light as those of Gold- smith laid, who held the turf record at the time, and far prettier, in their black pumps and white silk stockings, laced over her plump but tapering ankles with black ribbon. And Dolly's heart! IIow it leaped as Cap'n 110ss appeared at the door of the big "parlor," in that new cut of beard, so suggestive of Napoleon the Third, which announced to her as plainly as if he had shouted it: "The time has come! The time has come!" It was a year later, however, before Dolly came as a bride to live in the old Rose" mansion" at Egypt Gate; for loss was nothing if not deliberate. Let it not be supposed, nevertheless, that during the score of years from his majority to his marriage, Cap'n Ross lived as a S1. Anthony or an anchorite. He could scarcely pose as a Jacob toiling for his Rachel. .Keither was he a pre- maturely old young man. On the con- trary, while thoughtful, industrious, and unremitting, there coursed through his veins the blood of the old cavalier outh, and he had his boon companions and his seasons of harmless recreation--compara- tively harmless, and well-nigh innocent. One of these seasons brought run1 the magic pipe and de\'c1oped the incident connected with it. l\loss Rose had been to K ew Orleans on 18-t THE l\IAGIC PIPE a week's leave, to dispose of the cotton something bucolic for 1\loss Rose, befit- crop, a goodly number of bales. Busi- ting his occupation, and they found it in ness done, he had passed a never-to-be- the rooster that perched inside the rim forgotten four days with some hail-fellows- of the magic pipe; for though when you well-met, playing the ponies in a mild drew on the stem nothing happened out fashion, and playing other games as well of the ordina y, yet when you blew -- ' - ---- : .' .: ;.r " jj ::. :> ' ' . 'líØ , ' :7-.. "'. / -;".'. 7 "'{): \ØJ:1::-,': + \1 ' , ;:1 I I,. /1 q; i: ,:,: I ' "IL 7 ) t; ;I I '! ' ) / ii i fllJ :'df1:'// , , . :. 7 /: / / I J .!: _O#:tff; /lýi. /)J/f! ; .:. :_ . .,; // *'1;;;/;::;:# , Ir :!? t . ;. \ k ":f-:' ç " I ,1ø,A '1';' t t! _-- ':ji:':' ' , Ý \ v llit 1 '< I' r' r He knew too much to have dealings with a negro in wrath.-Page 185. up and down Canal Street, and in the old French restaurants in the evenings, until, when he came to depart, the hail-fellows- well-met regretted his departure with a great regret. They cast about for some token of their esteem, and hit upon a beautiful French brier pipe, with a bowl as big as a baby's fist, and a stem which, as it left the bowl, was as large round as a man's little finger, but tapered down to the regulation amber mouthpiece. The pipe was unusual to look upon; but the most remarkable thing slumbered within it. The boys wanted through it, into the bowl, out popped a game-cock amid the clouds of your smoke, ready to peck you in the eye. It startled you unless you were prepared for it, and even then, unless you understood the mechanism of bulb and tube that worked the magic. Moss was proud of his pipe, and thought tenderly of the donors. Upon his return to the plantation the days took on the usual complexion, which was brunette only in the fact that his dealings were mostly with" the darkies." Taken for all in all, 1\10ss loved the days because they contained a never-ending TJ IE :\J..\GIC PIPE 1 5 interest, diversion, and success. He helievc(1 to he a matter of generations of studied the psychology of his people and training and cli cipline, so he scarcelv came to know them better than they h?l ed to see it dcvelopcd much in any iñ- knew themselves. lie understood the chndual negro of the stage of growth a., simple kindness of their natures, even t he yet reached by t hose around him. lIe did generosity. lIe knew, he had always not, thcrefore, expcct too much of this II - ---:]J.T - - J4' , .!" --:I:.r '} --d:. 'Iff-1-' -- r tf - --="' :. / , I "\ 1,. \\\I' \ 1 " í / 'i' , '111 .rJ.. h..." 11/ 1 Ii i I ( ,. t 'f , I, >' ,þ Jt../ I ., ! II '.. 11' . .." . ,/"1 -:, 11 ' ( ,," / r:. r '\ , " I r : ,-:r.h. \\ "/1 \ . / J ; 1 f t/ , ' ,f f", ) .., \..". t 1,';! : \\ ... .- r'. Ii"'" ...'-- jY.' ", ::'\.,. ,;' ",. ,..,. ..; ....:: '" I .. ....!ø' t ,I '\ , , I 7 / ) 1. "You \\OIÙ tell 'im, cap'n?"- P.,g Igj. known, their intense emotiouali m, which took form in entimentalism, supersti- tion, voodooism, religious revivalism, and sometimes in hot and baseless anger. He knew too much to ha,re dealings with a negro in wrath. TIe simply walked away and left the emotional creature an hour or a dav to cool off. 1\lost seriou cr mes of tlÍe negro-aside from petty thlcvery-he knew to he unpremeditated, the result of sudden and uncontrollable passion; and he deemed it wise to ofTcr no provocation, no temptation, no oppor- tunity. Control of primal passions he people in adolescence. On the contrary, in moments of ebullition. he rocked the cradle or got out of the way until the paroxysm spent itself. Ko\\" in those days there fu ed in his chicken-yard a Rh d(' I land Recl hen, which .:\ioss Ro e was intent upon brood- in . The hen was l.\"en more intent; and Ioss pro,"idccl her with a carefully se- lected setting of twenty eggs, of the purest preparation; and could see in his mind's eye the little. fu//.y hall which were to grow into such c\.cellent specimens of slender, hapdy pullets and young roos- 186 THE 11AGIC PIPE ters for the chicken-yards of General Elgin, at Seminole. The general had long desired to inaugurate a line of these Rhode Island Reds, and nobody but 1\loss in all the Black Belt could furnish the point of departure. So, rather than send to Indiana, or Illinois, the general offered to pay 1\10ss freightage and general ex- "How 'bout you, Sandy?" "No suh, not me! No suh!" "You, Jake?" " N umph, numph!" grunted Jake in negative. This was only by way of establishing the record in the case; for Cap'n Moss knew full well that no confession could - - " f -l_ . ,t" l-..!1 ;;; I : 7/$" ' Þ" :/7 /// .. ,ø/.d 1\1C, ;'i':/" . t 1('. " .. i'l : 1/1 II/' J., INiI, 1 . .' -.\ \, \ .' " ,:" ,; "'-"-'.. 111 1 ;.' '. "1. " \ 'f''î ,II"}\ "" , :., ," , -.,_.., ).'>' -" j ' I ' 11 I,'.... ,#!,'-/l \I _ "\''',,,':.; "; ,. - """'1 If] I., fl q ...', J.' \ I' . .g;ß -=-: : ,.\, ,, < " . ')"//'" . / 4 .. If W' I "'",,\>, i. ;"í:., .t"'JI"':':""11 -4," . '-- - -".', V/1 l It ""-- } t'II' ,, ,i!it f;tF!tl( ;':;; , IÞ:' .,. , ?'-', f#'/ Æ- fjj " . '''ÎI_,,''' '' .. . . r 'i/ / f , 1IP . j; ' ff l/;: .I 111 ' ø fe.;"r: ;., '" (, ï .. 1{---' !t , I / !J) VIY;' /J 'I' i ;:' ".;.: )'{ I' ,.' " \;, i":?//(f" 'b_ ;'1 J. ' / ,':.... t ; I l " , ,"' . . !I ./ IJ ël,, r Ii fb' . ;.,' \ I ' ". i " -f-' , ' .hr,' - . l>>'lJ . I I 0 I ' l I . " (j 'i-- :lj".;::',' ,If. .1/ I - _ ;#-;-, ì -.' .....'..; _ I \,/ I' . ,I / 'I", .' I t 1 '1 '.1':' ' ,,", , ,r ' /J,. , ....." " , ,"1 ''ll I I " ,!) I"' r " {, i ' J P.l :. " I ' , .A ;Ìö J ; ;i!J:. S;;t:.,;:j;\, f";ç.,.,'.... '.'- :{:'i;,'/ '-: . I/ "::';f ';/, I f I f"tíl,' ' . I jl tJ,q ð-_ .::> '. :"' '!,;; . t:i;:'.,;:?; i ;i: .,: "., >" j -- . l1Î ' t.' ! I 'l 'f .1It I 1'. ,'V:;: :.: .';' .."," ,IÍ;:' . -- ,.' -' lit 'n I Iii;,' ! ( If, _: i. .J, ::' 7' .: . ;-f't ? ;;!i , '/ f ) I I,," . 'A' al.wf. '; I{ 'I!;; ' ' 'l;i'i ., ..L"I ï .'( I I ,.\ ll,f/, 1.,..11 \fjl';"'/t:l l '('"!" ,,,'.t'd _ ' .- ÉJ I ' ,.' , ',. . ì' \ \ :.' ;- :'?i'( f .! f. " , r!iJ!(i:. __. / , 11 ,.;.!,': I / I " \ ' ;:, \-\\....;, !I r.{:.: ;';"'. :f::J.iI. , I>i Ii . \, .. \,\.,.. ....- ' ...,. . ..,f,r,......-. _" A'" '; \\' ' . :.: ii ; .: : . :=: . . --== His face took on the color of dead charcoaL-Page 187. pense above the catalogue price. Moss was anxious to close with the offer. The very first night the whole setting of eggs disappeared, and 1\loss scratched his head. No" varmint" tracks appeared leading up to his coops, nothing but the usual human footprints about the place. 1\loss set the hen again; and again the eggs were gone in the morning. \Vhen the hands lined up in the dawn that day, before going to the fields for work, Cap'n loss began at the beginning and asked each one: "Did you steal my eggs, Lije?" "No suh, no indeedy!)) "Did you, Giles?" "I suttinly did not, suh!" thus be extorted. Next he drew out a crisp five-dollar bill and walked down the line, flaunting it in the faces of the fifteen big "bucks" and tempting them as fol- lows: "Whoever finds out who took my eggs and tells me about it, gets this five dol- lahs. " That afternoon, as 1\10ss Rose sat in the shade on the north porch, dozing a little after dinner, he heard a soft footfall com- ing round the corner of the house. Look- ing up, he beheld Jake tiptoeing toward the porch and glancing uneasily over his shoulder. "What y' want, Jake?" inquired Cap'n 1\loss sleepily. THf. :\L\GIC PIPE " 'Yell, cap'n, dat flve-dollah hill you flashed in m\' face dis mawnin'-hit look pow'ful gooë:I to me. An' 1 know who took clem eggs; but he's a pow'ful big niggah, and he kill me, ef he know J tole you-" "He'll never know it, Jake." "Hones' to Gawd, Cap'n .i\ro s?" "Hones' to Gawd, Jake." "'Veil suh, hit was Giles." (( Umph umph!" exclaimed :\ross Rose. "I kind 0' thought so. \\'ell, here's your mone\", Benedict Arnold." "'Vhat, suh, who's dat !" "Never nlind, I'll tell you a story about Benedict Arnold some day, but not now. You better clear out 0' here, now, niggah, befo' Giles sees you." "You won't tell 'im, cap'n?" "Ha\'en't I told you? Now clear out." Next morning Ioss Rose again lined up the fifteen. He ranged t hem accord- ing to size on henches against the hig barn, with Giles, the tallest, at the head of the line. Then he delivered thenl an oration. It was on eggs, the dranla and the tragedy of eggs, the plots and counter-plots, the intricacies and the mazes of eggs. It con- cluded with a peroration upon hell, and the lake of fire, the smell of sulphur and brimstone, and the everlasting punish- ment of those who embezzle eggs. ',"hen Ioss conceh.ed that the proper psy- chological groundwork had heen laid, he drew out the magic pipe, and announced that he intended to ascertain, by an in- fallible test, who stole his eggs, "'Vhen the guilty one pulls on this pipe, won't nothin' happen; but when he blows on this pipe, a rooster will come out and look him in the eye. This pipe has been blessed by the pope, and it suah is magic! It's called the pope's pipe. Now ev'y man-jack of :rou's got to blow in thi pipe, heginnin' with the biggest and goin' on down. That's the way the test's got to be made, or it spoils the nlagic. I-fere, Giles, you blow on the pipe!" "Not me, cap'n! Begin wid some- body else! Not me! No, suh!" 187 "You the higgest! 1Jlow on that pipe! ,. Giles protested, hut :\Ioss was ada- mant. At last the great, ovcrgro\\ n child took the marvellous pipe trcmhlingly into his hCri- cnces in Routh's drill school I thought of m\" mother's words which de crihed the stéep and slippery climb which awaited me and which was leading, as she ex- pr6 cd it, to real stars from hea\'en. I felt the steepness of the climb, but I 5a\\ no star ahead of me. Routh was a grea.t 200 FRO:\I L\L\nGR:\ T TO INVENTOR master of themathen1atical technique, but he was not a creatÏ\-e genius; he was a yirtuoso but not a composer. His prin- cipal concern was to drill his students in the art of soh-ing those conventional problems which usually formed part of tripos eÀaminations. The poetical ele- ment of dynamics, which thrills and en- thuses, was absent from his businesslike drills. The only star, I thought, which his students saw ahead of them was a high place in the tripos exanlinations, and that star did not attract me; recalling my mother's story I called it a tin star. I loved Routh and admired him much, but I did not admire the Cambrid e tripos 111ethod of laying a foundation for nlathe- n1atical physics. "Then Niven discov- ered my state of mind he sympathized, and he ga,-e me a little book called " latter and lotion" by l\IaxweU, a yery sll1all book written by a very great author. " You are not up to the n1athe- nlatics of ::\laxwell's great electrical treatise," said Niyen, as he handed me the little book, "but you will find no diffi- culties of that kind in this little book, which covers a very great subject." It was first published in America in the IT an ..Vos/rand .11 aga ine. No nlagazine ever perfornled a greater educational service. There was not only much poetical beauty and philosophical depth in this tiny and apparently most elenlentary book on dy- namics, but there were also many illus- trations of the close connection between this fundamental science and other de- partnlents of physical science. 1Iaxwell's presentation roused, and it also stimu- lated, the spirit of inquiry. Routh's elaborate systelTI of clever tripos prob- lems in dynamics appeared to llle for the first time as little parts, only, of a com- plex and endless art which had grown ou t of a simple and beautiful science, the science of dynamics, which first saw the light of day at Trinity College, Canl- hridge. The exquisite art as practised by Routh and the subtle science as described by 1\laxwell, the two leading Cambridge wranglers of 1854, disclosed to me the real meaning of Newton, the greatest among the great Cambridge men, the creator of the science of dynamics. I knew then that I had seen one of the real stars of heaven of which my mother spoke. But without the light of :\laxwell I would not have seen the light of Newton. It will be seen further below that laxwell and Routh, Cambridge wranglers of 1854, were the representatives of different men- tal attitudes in Cambridge: l\laxwell was the apostle of the new and Routh of the old spirit of Cambridge. Niven was very fond of reminding me of my first visit when I told him that Cambridge wi thou t ::\laxwell had no attraction for me. After reading laxwell's little classic I told Niyen that my opinion was, after all, not as funny and strange as he represented it. A short digression is timely now. I went to Trinity College occasionally to spend a Sunday evening with 1\lr. Niven. One Sunday e\-ening I walked around the historical Trinity quadrangle, waiting un- til lr. Niven returned to his rooms fronl the evening sen-ice in the college chapel. The mysterious-looking light streaming through the stained-glass windows of the chapel and the heavenly music 'radiating fronl the invisible choir and organ conl- ll1anded n1V attention. I stood motion- less like a solitary spectre in the middle of the deserted and sombre quadrangle, and gazed, and listened, and dreamed. Yes, I drean1ed of great Newton, the greatest of all Trinity dons, and I saw how, two centuries before, he was tread- ing over the same spot where I was stand- ing whenever he was returning from a Sunday evel1ing service in the very chapel at ,vhich I was gazing. I also drealned of :\Iaxwell, another great Trin- ity don, and remembered that, five years before, the yery same choir and organ to which I was listening paid their last tribute to this great Cambridge Jnan, when his earthly remains left the grief- stricken university on their last pilgrim- age to l\laxwell's native Scotland. But I knew that his spirit had remained at Cambridge to inspire forever the coming generations of anlbitious students. I dreamed of other great Trinity Col- lege n1en whose spirits seemed to hover about th sombre quadrangle rejoicing in the heavenly light and sound which radiated from the historical chapel where Newton and laxwell worshipped in days gone by. I longed for the day when my alma nlater, Columbia College, and other FRO:\I l:\J:\IIGH.-\XT TO l:\\-EX fOJ{ colleges in America coulù offer such y to my friends in little Pornic and arrÏ\'ed in Paris on the following day, the fourteenth of July, 1884. raris was gay, celebrating the national holiday of France, the annÏ\'ersary of the storming of the Bastillc in 1789. This gave me a chance to see many of the striking characteristics of the gay side of Paris in a single day. The next day, while visiting the great Sorbonne and the Col- lège de France in the Quartier Latin, I found a great treasure in a second-hand bookshop: La Grange's great treatise, " Iechanique Analytique," first published under the auspices of the French Acad- emy in 1778. La Grange, the Xewton of France! There was no student of dv- namics who had not heard of his name and of his great treatise. Iy 1\\0 months' stay in Pornic enabled me to ap- preciate fully the beauty of the languagc 205 of this great work, and my training with Routh eliminated many difficultics of the mathcmatical techniqu.e. I was convinced of that in my very lìrst attempts in P J.ri at deciphering some of its inspiring pages. [ dcscribed this short stay in France at some length, because I wish to refcr to it later for thc purpose of showing how little things can exert a big influcncc in the shaping of human life. I had promised my mother to visit her again during that summer and off I went, deserting without delay the gay scenes of Paris. On my journey to Id,"or I wasted no time looking to the right or to the left of my speeding train; villages and towns, rivcrs and mountains, and the busy folks in the yellow fields who '''"cre gathering in the blessings of the harvest season ap- peared like so many passing pictures which did not interest me. La Grange was talking to me, and I had neither eyes nor ears for anybody or for anything else. Oh, how happy I was whcn I saw Id,"or in the distance, where I knew I should be free for nearly two months during that sum- mer to read and to reflect, free from all restraints of the Cambridge routine. Ry the end of that hea\"cnly vacation I had mastered a good part of La Grange's classical treatise, and in addition I re- read carefully Campbell's "Life of :\Ia\.- well," and I understood many things which I saw in Camhridge but did not un- derstand before. The Cambridge mo,'e- ment which I described aùo'"e was clearly re,"ealcd to mc in the course of that sum- mer, by a careful study of Campùell's "Lifc of .:\ra well." Id,"or was ne,"er rich in books nor in people who paid much atten tion to books. To think that a nati\"c of Id\'or would e,'er read a La Grange in his humble peasan t home seemed incredible. The na- tivcs of Id,'or noticed that, during my second visit, I was much les5 communica- tive than during the first, on account of my devotion to what they considered as some strange books, which to those \\ ho saw them suggested sacred book . The company of La Grange and of .:\Ia well kept me a prisoner in my mother's garden. I told m,' mother that )(a\.well and I a Grange ' "cre two grcat ain ts in the wo!ld of science, and she consIdered my readmg 206 THE KIGHT PATH during that summer as a study of the lh.es she was about to reveal to me an original of saints. That made her happy, but it thought. "I go to church, my son," she puzzled the good people of Id\.or. Stud- said," not so much because I expect the ies of this kind they associated with priest to reveal to me some new divine priests and bishops, and noticing that I truth, but because I wish to look at the paid much less attention to bagpipes and icons of saints. That reminds me of their kolo dancers and to other worldly things, saintly work, and through the contempla- they began to whisper about that :i\.Iisha tion of their work I communicate with was getting ready to enter monastic life. God. Cambridge is a great temple con- \Vhat a pity, they said, to gather so much secrated to the eternal truth,. it is filled knowledge in great America and then with icons of the great saints of science. bury it in a n10nastery ! The contemplation of their saintly work Iy mother paid no attention to these will enable you to communicate with the idle whisperings. She knew better. pirit of eternal truth." _ \Vhen I described to her the ancient col- \Vith this thought in her mind my lege buildings and the beautiful chapels mother was most happy when I bade her of Cambridge, and the religious life of the good-by and, repeating her own words, students and of the dons, she listened told her that I nlust go back to "Cam- spellbound. \Yhen I related to her the bridge, the great temple which is conse- many traditions of the old unÍ\.ersity, and crated to the eternal truth." "Go back, informed her that one learns there, not my son," she said, "and may God be only from the teachers who were living praised fore\.er for the blessings which there at that time, but also from great you ha\re enjoyed and will continue to teachers who had long departed, a lumi- enjoy in your life among the saints of nous expression in her eyes told me that Cambridge." (To be continued,) The Night Path BY FLORENCE HI ES BUKTEN I CAKXOT wait the coming of the spring Nor plant my garden, for the high gods say That I must close mv house and bolt the door And take a journe)=-and I do not know the way. I know that I shall not return again \Vhen they shall take the key and bid me go. They do not pity me, nor understand \Vhy I should love my house and. miss it so. Some say there is a mansion where I go, A palace in my little house's stead; Some say the pathway ends in soundless night; 'Vhat matter?-I can only bend my head. I go into the terror of the dark. No friend shall walk beside me, for none may, Though he should sob his heart out. So alone I take a journey-and I do not know the way. vVhen It's in tIle Heart BY R -\ Y:\IO D S. srl.:\ RS Author of "Hoarded Assets)" "The Ripe Peach)" etc. ILLUSTRATIONS BY .\LBERT IAT7KE L., : & :' HE leading hardware store in Iosstown . T carried a line of guns, ' rifles, and .sIde-arms. The proprIetor was Jim 1Ialden, whose WW business constancy was such that from the day he inherited the store from his father to the twentieth year of his trade, he had not missed a full week's time at a stretch. He would go into the woods three or four days, deer-hunting, in the autumn; he would fish for a day or two during the trout season; and occasionally he would steal away on snowshoes to dog rabbits. Because he had a gasolene-pump on the curb and a line of automobile accessories, including tires, he was as hard-working on Sunday as on any other day. He was married, and had three children, two boys and one girl. So far as anyone knew, he 'vas a happy, contented, and successful man. He had no record laid up against him by the hook-beaked gossips. The gossip of the outdoor world rang in his ears. lIe heard of the flocks of quail, of jack-rabbits, of coyotes, and of deer, bear, moose, and wild fowl. l\Iore than these things, he met the interesting people who come to a gun store-always to some certain gun store in e\ ery com- munitv. Talking about entertaining angels un- awares! \rho could be more interesting than those who come walking or rolling up to a hardware store, some with one eye looking over the shoulder, some with camping-outfits, some to bu) 22S for tar- get practice, and some to buy 30-30s, or 45 5 , for business? There were men everybody knew, and men nobody knew. Jim Ialden leaned against his counter till 10.10 o'clock one night. Two men who had gone to school with him twenty- five years before were with him; there was a stranger who walked in after dark, and stood with his face in a shadow for an hour, leaning against the counter, hut taking no part in the conversation, except as a listener. This stranger was a tall, slender man, smooth-shaven, with hard, weather-dark- ened face, with eyes whose brightness sparkled under the brim of his Boppy hat; and he wore clothes that fitted him com- fortably-bagged knees, uncreased legs, an old, unnoticeable coat, rather dusty, and some kind of a negligée shirt. The two friends, Bill Gays and Rob Iichael, remembered that the stranger seemed to be a cowboy, or at least gave the impres- sion of being a man of the far range of prairies, or something like that. They remembered that, just a few minutes be- fore the store closed, this stranger leaned over the counter and said something to Jim, as the storekeeper noted the cash- register figures and rolled up the bills which represented the day's business in cash, gross receipts. Ialden went to the cartridge shelves and took down a bo:\, bu t whether 44S, or 38s, or what caliber, they could not remember, for they had looked without seeing. The stranger strolled away; the three friends stood a moment on the store-step and sidewalk, looking at the sky, wonder- ing if the trout wouldn't be biting gooJ at grizzly kings or yellow sallies the next day, for this was in middle Iay, when the streams were just beginning to warm up, and the trout were liable any day to begin to jump good. Hill and Rob turned down the stn'd, toward their homes; Jim turned off the gas-pump light, locked in the hose, and -vanished. That is all there was to it. Jim )Ialdcn disappeared from the face of Iosstown and all that vicinity. o one knew what had become of him. His wife tried to call up the store about I o'clock in the 207 208 'YHEN IT'S IN THE HEART morning. She called up police headquar- ters at 3 o'clock; by 8 o'clock the follow- ing morning e,'ery one in J\-losstown knew that Jim ::\Ialden, genial, steady, good- natured, without any bad habits, and one of the best fellows in the country, had gone. "He must ha,'e had several hundred dollars," the investigation revealed. His cash-register, when examined by an ex- pert, disclosed the fact that during that day $345.67 had been taken in; when this fact became known a cold chill crept through the backs of l\Ialden's friends. " \Vho was that man who leaned against the counter and saw hinl take his money?" Bill Gays and Rob l\lichael asked. The police sent out an alarm for the arrest of " the unknown." They couldn't take a chance on letting the murderer of Jim J\-Ialden escape. They found a clew. One of the city boys who was just coming home from visiting a girl remembered seeing J\-Ialden walking along East Agate Street with a tall, slender stranger, who wore a broad-brimmed hat and whose eyes sparkled distinctly. Agate Street was beyond Gresham Street, where MaI- den lh'ed. The end of Agate Street was a stone quarry, beyond which was a rough, second-growth timber ridge. \\'ith aching hearts the friends of Jim J\-Ialden went up into that cut-over and ransacked the brush, searched every nook and cranny, and viewed with suspicion every footprint in the soft ground and every scrape on the rocks. They found nothing to explain the disappearance of the man. Jim's wife was a fine, competent wo- man. She immediately took charge of the store. Her oldest son, Tom, eighteen years of age, returned from college and took his place behind the counter, where he had long served an apprenticeship in salescraft. Business went on as usual. There was no break in it, and the com- mercial travellers coming through discov- ered that the boy and ß10ther, between them, knew very nearly what the trade wanted, and that they bought to ad,'an- tage. An inventory of the store revealed a fine stock; the books balanced, except for the several hundred missing dollars. The business paid a profi t of several thousand dollars a year, and the frugal and compe- tent mind of Jim l\ialden had provided fully for his family. "I can't inlagine why he should go," 1vIrs. lVlalden said. "He must have been -something must have happened." But no trace of violence could be found. The hunters of the region who knew Jim ransacked the hiding-places. They searched up and down for miles. They decided that, whatever had happened, it must have been an automobile that car- ried the victim away-whether willingly or not none could know for certain. Bill Gays and Rob l\lichael argued the matter between them. Once assured there was no local crime discoverable, the two friends split on the subject of what had happened. Jim might have gone crazy. He might have been hit on the head and gone away, a victim of aphasia. He might have done anyone of many things. "He was always talking-you know that!" Bill said morosely. Jim 1vlalden, sitting in his store or lean- ing against his counter, had ranged the earth for information. He had read hun- dreds of books and took a dozen hunting, trapping, fishing, and travel magazines. He was the best-posted man anywhere around those parts. He even knew where certain English pheasants flocked, . and where certain gray squirrels ranged, and none knew better than he did where to fish to find certain big, cunning, and scrupulous trout swinging in eddies OD quivering fins. Moreover, he was unsel J fish; he told everyone the best of his in- formation. "I tell you, something's wrong witb that man!" Rob declared. "Oh, sure!" Bill assented. "Some J thing had to be wrong, for him to pass out like that!" The description of Jim lVlalden said he was 5 feet I I inches tall, dark com- plexion, brownish-gray eyes, dark hair slightly streaked with gray, and that he weighed 230 pounds. Sitting and loung- ing in his store for years, with rare inter- vals of exercise, he had grown fat and sluggish of physical manner, but he had given no sign of any mental aberration. Two years had gone by, to a week. - \ t:,' . ,i ;þ j 't \ .. It> " I Ti- t "'-- ,- JIo . ',;I . , ----- I-III .. t ,.,,,,1"21< f: , 1 r They remembered that. , . this stranger Il-aned over the counter and :>triction are thesc: I. It will halt the rapid increase of our population. 2. J t will insure us an Anglo-Saxon- Germanic race. 3. I t will make servants hard to find. 4. It will abolish unskilled and cheap labor. 5. It will so improvc the lowcr limit of education, self-respect, and technical skill in America that "wops" will bc non- eÀistent. 6. It may (though how this condusion is reached is not clearly evident) cause increased emigration of our farmers and food-producers. Condusions 1 and 6 cem to be two sides of the same shield. \Ve will not gain in population; we may lose in popu- lation. Conclusions 3, 4, and 5 arc iden- tical, though stated differently. They are the ,'oice of the" stand-patter," the man who regrets the" good old days when labor knew its place." As for condusion 2, I cannot imagine any great apprehen- sion arising in the American breast if it proyed to be literally true-which it is not, as we shall sce. Before taking up ::\lr. Howe's Six Ar- ticles, one thing should be mentioned. The present writer is neither a Socialist nor a drcamer. He is a business n1an in spite of, or rather because of, his uniforn1 and his naval title. He is one uf the men intrusted with the spending of the quar- tcr-billion of dollars of taxpayers' money annually appropriated by Congress. Th fact that Congress is annually and com- plctely satisfied with the audit and the purposc of thesc expenditures is proof that our business methods are sound. Our cntire career is a n1atter of business economics, and in every phasc of it we are in contact with labor-either the long- term, enlisted, contract labor or the short-term, ch'ilian, navy-yard labor of exactly the same caliber employed by any other progressi\'c manufacturer. The only difference between the navy business n1an and any other is that because he is a naval office-r he is perhaps a bit more thoughtful about the American ideals and American institutions which he is sup- posed to protect. If any of the argu- ments of this article sound likc dreams, 217 then they are dreams very close to the heart of the American people--dreams embodicd right in the Constitution of the United Statcs. Remember the phrase, "a more perfect Union." It is techni- cally incorrect English, but it is a hoping, insistent plan for constant growth, con- stant betterment of all American citizens. It is a confession of faith in a lh'ing, dynamic United States. First: "It mcans that immigration has come to a positi\"e end." \Vhy the word "end" was cmployed is not apparent. This restrictive law means simply and solely what it says. It means that immi- gration is positÏ\-cly limited in volume. h That it has come to an end" is an obvi- ous misstatement of fact. In 1920 there were 430,001 persons admitted to the United States. 1\lr. Howe's own figures show the departures during that year as 288,000, or a net gain of 142.001. This net gain is greater than the total admis- sions of any year prior to 1845, greater than the totals of 1862, 1877, and 1878. It is nearly 35,000 more than the total admissions of 1918. l\Ir. Howe himself notes that the departures are falling off. A\nv one who takes the trouble to con- sidér the inevitable effect of restricted im- migration oyer a period of several years will be forced to the conclusion that de- partures will steadily decrease until they amount to little more than periodical ,isits to relatives in the old country. A \ careful survey of 1920 shows that in that year a large percentage of departures was due to just that cause. People wanted to see how their friends and relatives had stood the devastation of the war. They flocked "home on a visit" in unusual numbers. ::\lost of thenl are now hurry- ing back. However, let us disregard the evident unsoundness of this first conclusion, and accept it a true. \Vhat are the disad- vantages to America which will foHow this condition? In the old days thc special attraction of .the United States to the immigrant was its personal opportunity. A man with a trade and a man with a desire to work had no troublc in locating in this country and prospering after location. \Ve par- ticularly held out our hand to farmers, and our tirst immigrants were farmers 218 ((THE \VEST\VARD TIDE OF PEOPLES" skilled in wringing a livelihood out of tiny patches of overworked soil. There was plenty of room in America and the soil was virgin. \Ve needed those farmers as badly as they needed our land. l\Ir. Howe laments the fact that our arable land now costs money. This may not be an unmixed curse. A farmer from Europe with savings or credit enough to buy would be a rather desirable immi- grant; but aside from that minor point, are we now getting the farmer type of immigrant? Can anyone who has read the yearly almost tearful appeal of the \Vestern farmer for help doubt that our farms are undermanned? Is it asking too much of the immigrant we say we need for cheap, unskilled labor in indus- try to hope that he will be satisfied to work on a farm at four, six, perhaps ten, dollars a day until he can save enough to set himself up in business? The dismal fact remains that it has been a long time since any great number of foreign farmers have applied for admission, and the num- ber is not naturally increasing. The war temporarily more than doubled the per- centage of farmers among our immigrants by making farming an impossible profes- sion in many European districts; yet in 1920 farmers composed only 2--lo per cent of the total immigration. The farmer has taken himself out of the immigration problem, and the average immigrant of these days will prefer unemployment in a city to employment on a farm. There has never been a period of unemployment in the fall of the year in the history of this country when room for at least half of the unemployed could not have been found on the farms, if they would come and oc- cupy it. This farm employment would have been to a great extent temporary, but so was the unemployment period tem- porary. Moreover, our present popula- tion is 40 per cent farmer. Even with the annual shortage of farm labor, which im- migration has not relieved and will not relieve, this 40 per cent are furnishing us with food and exporting a comfortable balance. The growth of our farmer pop- ulation for some years has had to depend upon the birth-rate. There is no reason why it should not continue to do so. This first point then resolves itself into a matter of increase in the industrial and professional population. It is another restatement of points 3, 4, and 5. Second: "We have definitely deter- mined that America is to have an Anglo- Saxon-Germanic race." We have done no such thing. We have definitely decid- ed that America shall have an American race. We are now endeavoring to ex- clude the immigrants who will not or can- not become Americans without longer training than wide-open doors permit us to give them,-the kind of foreigner who flees from the old country rather than migrates; the kind who crowds our slums and damns the government because gold is not to be had for the asking, as he had hoped; the kind that throws bombs and derails trains and attempts to seize the government of cities such as Seattle. We are shutting out the sort of workman against whom Mr. Gompers and Mr. Lewis have warned organized labor time and time again, the" borer from within," sent to America with a rotten purpose. But are we an "Anglo-Saxon-Germanic race"? It has been a byword that we are, and some of us used to make speeches about it. The idea has been too much stressed by those in favor of restricted immigration, and it has weakened their case, for it contains no American appeal. It is to be presumed that Mr. Howe in- cludes Norwegians and Swedes as "Ger- manic," although the racial stock is quite different. But census figures are easy to obtain and a World Almanac costs but fifty cents. Mr. Howe's attention is in- vited to our element of Irish, Italian, and Hebrew peoples in the existing popula- tion, without considering the French and French-Canadians, the Mexican-Spanish, the Poles, Croats, Bohemians, Slavs, Ru- manians, and Syrians. During the war regiment after regiment sailed for France without 5 per cent of Anglo-Saxon-Ger- man names on the muster-roll. I know, for some of them took passage in the transport to which I. was attached. They were all Americans. Our selection goes deeper than what is usually called "race." The American race which we seek to perpetuate is not named after any particular country, but has furnished the pushing brains and the progress of every white man's country since history began-the Nordic, long- "TITE \YEST\VARD TIDE OF PEOPLES" skulled, enterprising race. Nowhere out- side of Nordic culture has respect for law ever been found in a white man's country. Nowhere outside of Nordic in- stitutions has the idea of continuous bet- terment for every citizen been entertained. War's death-toll falls heaviest upon the Nordics, for they are the first to go, the volunteers who see their duty almost be- fore thc other and morc individualist races reali7e that war is impending. \Ve alone survived the war with a preponder- ating Nordic population and we mean to keep it preponderant. \Ve exclude whole- sale immigration not for the purpose of keeping out Spaniards or Italians Or Jugo- Slavs. \Ve are setting up the barriers against an invasion of round-skulled indi- vidualists who are inclined to consider any stability of government as an oppression and to disregard totally their duties as citizens. I am reliably informed that, while they entered this country as citizens of different European countries, the huge majority of our new arrivals in 1920, 1921, and 1922 are Jews. To call a man Eng- lish or Czech means very little, racially speaking. It is merely a convenient na- tional handle to his name. . 1fr. Howe speaks of the superior birth- rate of the people of southern Europe with a low standard of living. Exactly. \Vhy continue to admit lower standards of liv- ing until we have raised a little, those already with us? The phenomenon he mentions is not confined to southern Eu- rope, but is confined to the class of people now seeking admission. Large families are found only at the bot tom of the lad- der, as a rule. The reason is not far to seek, and is admirably set forth hy Doctor I'-etter, as follows: "Volitional control (of the birth-rate) is effective in yery different degrees in dif- ferent families and industrial classes. The possession of property is both a sign of forethought and an incentive to it. Concern for the welfare of the children is one of the most powerful motives. . . . Among the classes with property, the pro- yision for the children depends not only on the alnount of wealth, but upon the number among whom it is to be didded. " Among the poorer classes very differ- ent motives operate. After the first few years of the children's liyes the parents' 219 income is increased by the earnings of the children, both on the farm and in factory districts where the laws do not prohibit child labor. loreover, when the chil- dren are grown, their income will depend on the general labor market, not on the number of their brothers and sisters." (" Principles of Economics," pp. 416-417.) Any naval officer who has had to an- s\\er indignant letters from parents of en- listed men can contribute still another moth.e to Doctor Fetter's second para- graph abo,"e-the fact that grown chil- dren can, if properly induced or threat- ened, support their parents altogether, relieving them of the disagreeable neces- sity of saying for old age and enabling then} to stop work altogether. Ir. Howe himself admits that this propagating tendency of cheap labor wiII partly, at least, nullify his fear of an Anglo-Saxon-Germanic race. Third: "In a few years' time we will be faced by a shortage of servants." \Ve are now. \Ve wen in 1907, when nearly 1,300,000 aliens entered our gates. \Ve will continue to be faced bv such a short- age until we apply the obvious remedy and make the conditions under which our wh"es are forced to work decent enough to appeal to a self-respecting woman. J lh-e in a " modern" apartment-house, and the only modern things in the kitchen are running water and gas in the range. Neither my cook, when I have one, nor my wife, when I haven't, is forced to carry water from the well or chop wood from the 'Wood-pile. She has literally no other advantage oyer her own great-great- grandmother in the matter of cooking and washing up. It is less than three years since some manufacturer made the amaz- ing discovery that it hurts to stoop o\'er a sink, and began to advertise as a no\'- eIty a sink at which a woman may stand upright. Ko man with the ambition of a mouse would consider a job which calls for the useless o\rere).penditure of energy which our average kitchen demands from our women. \Ve try to keep abreast of the times in the navy. \Ve peel our pota- toes with a very adequate and silent ma- chine which not only does a good job but eliminates waste in peeling as well. ..\ small edition of such a machine for home use would be simple, but practically no 220 "THE \VEST\VARD TIDE OF PEOPLES" " modern" kitchen has one. Fireless cookers may be obtained, bu t there is no place in the apartment-dweller's kitchen to put one. As for the real bête noir of the house servant-dish-washing-the best aid yet devised is the clumsy, dish- destroying affair that the navy uses. It is the embryo of a dish-washing machine, and it is noisy enough to drown out a city block of phonographs. The attention of inventors is invited to this circumstance. Every civilized kitchen in the world is waiting for a quiet, efficient, cheap dish- washer. Immigration has very little to do with the servant problem as it exists to-day. It is the conditions of service that have caused shortage and will continue to do so, but the signs of betterment are hope- ful. Already in many of our larger cities the newspapers are advertising" servant- less houses," and while the electric labor- saving apparatus is still crude, it has started on its way. When builders of homes for renting purposes try to make a girl's work clean and easy and when they allow her a decent room in which to live, with adequate toilet facilities, we shall have very little stigma attached to the term "hired girL" It now implies a lack of taste and sensibility. No really intel- ligent girl can be expected to embrace domestic service when there is any alter- native profession, as long as we offer her nothing better to work with and to live in than we furnish at present. The fourth point is brief, and so expres- sive that it must be quoted in its entirety: "There will be a vacuum in the labor field when industry revives. It will be especially noticeable in the unskilled trades. There will be a shortage of men in the iron and steel mills, in the mines, in the fields, in all those industries where mere physical power is needed." (The italics are mine.) This is a plain, flat statement that our civilization and our progress depend upon brainless muscle at the bottom, preferably brutish muscle, satisfied with a brute's fare and housing. This paragraph gives the lie to all our hopes of anything like equality of opportunity. It says that in order to live we needs must keep on hand a comfortable number of men upon whose necks we may plant our feet. It means that all the bitter things said about the industrial revolution must be true-that any improvement in method is accom- panied by the slavery of some of us. If this is true, then God help the world! I do not pretend to deny that a sudden shortage of unskilled labor would be very embarrassing right now in many lines of industry. I do state 7 and have no fear of being challenged, that every industrial im- provement that the world has ever seen has been forced upon an unwilling world by just such embarrassment. Any American industry to-day which can be classified as one in which "mere physical power is needed" has no proper place in our American scheme of things. Power can be obtained much more economically and efficiently by machinery than it can by men; and machinery breeds no children of its own, "accustomed to a low standard of living" in tuberculous surroundings. As for intelligent application of non-hu- man power" in the fields," it is suggested that Mr. Howe visit the Naval Academy Dairy Farm. This farm makes a profit on a larger-than-average acreage, and when I last saw it, nine years ago, every employee was a college graduate and proud of his job. In the mines and the mills no one wiII deny that the field for improvement in methods and working conditions is vast and as yet barely entered. Under the wide-open immigration of 1907, we could cover our inefficiency by hiring starving, dazed peasants to whom any work was welcome every time more labor was need- ed, and "tying the can to them" when hard times came along. These be- wildered and unassimilated foreigners, thrown out of employment without know- ing why, drifted to the great cities, and their children inherited their righteous anger against the disappointing land of promise. Their children are our gunmen and rum-runners. As long as we lazily cling to methods of brute strength, we shall never solve our problems. As long as we permit the free importation of sheer brute strength with- out brains, we will continue to be lazy. Moreover, our growing labor disorganiza- tion will not be bettered as long as we bring in "wops" to take the place of Americans who object to being exploited "THE \YEST\YARD TIDF OF PEOPLES" uselessly. Yes," uselessly" is the word I mean. \Ve saw during the war what im- provements we can make in methods and processes when we have to make them. I believe that nine-tenths of the odium at- tached to unskilled manual labor is due to a dim realizdtion that we consider the laborer brainless, and we do so consider him and so he is, if he remains a manual laborer of the kind who needs nothing but "mere physical power" to succeed. The fact that we now need his kind is one of our greatest economic hindrances and re- proaches. However, the matter is at present more one of redistribution than of immediate shortage. By the time a real shortage develops we shall have had time to set our house in order; willingly on the part of the more alert and progressive producers. The producer who is unwill- ing to learn how to get ahead without an un-American, uneducated, brute type of workman must be forced to learn how, if our doctrine of "equal opportunity" is anything but silly gush. One feature that makes for cowardice on the part of producers is the present temper of labor. They claim that if we shut out the low-priced substitutes for American unionized laborers, we permit them to get a strangle-hold upon us. The logical continuation of their plea ends in the thing they fear. \Ve should con- tinue, with each new influx of cheap sub- stitutes, to add to the ranks of disgruntled union labor the total of the last importa- tion of cheap substitutes. \Ve should be continually strengthening the belligerent class the producers fear. Just now there seems to be no real basis of disagreement between Ianagement and 1Ien (let us forget those rancid words "Capita]" and "Labor") except that they dislike each other. Each has good caus to dislike the other. Both in their sober moments will admit the truth of that statement. A pendulum will always swing. For a long time management kept the screws on men. Now men arc gouging the management. All that is necessary for peace is a getting together, a realization that the century-old fight has no real basis and hurts both sides. The only possible way to get together is to stop evading the issue; to stop the im- portation of cheap nluscle to work for the 221 producer this year and to strike for the walking delegate next year. Faced with a shortage of "wop" labor, management will make work economical and attrac- tive. Faced with attractive working con- ditions, with the humiliating, senseless lost motion eliminated by science, labor will abandon its truculence. This is no wild imagining of a socialistic dreamer. The record is open, for all to read, of the Philadelphia Traction Company, of \Vil- son & Company, of the Celluloid Com- pany, of Black & Decker, of any of the scores of great American houses that have, figuratively, realized the importance of "letting the help sit down with the fam- ily." Not only are these companies the leaders in their fields, but it takes almost unprecedented trouble to cause even the thought of striking among their men. If these gentlemen can afford to dispense with "wops" and employ only trained men, treated squarely, so can the rest of us. So must the rest of us. Fifth: "A decrease in the production of wealth will follow restriction, because in ten years no one will be willing to work with his hands." Let us put this state- ment plainly. Say, rather, "A decrease in the production of wealth will follow when everyone works with his brains." Worded this way, is the statement still credible? A man has a right to refuse to dig ditches with a pick when he knows that on the next street a skilled and well- paid mechanic is digging the same kind of ditch with a steam-shovel or a tractor- and-plough. He has a very solidly founded feeling that an employer who will waste man-power by putting him on such a job will also beat him down as low as possible on his wages. \Vhen we learn to do without "mere physical force" in pro- duction, wealth will not diminish. Its production will rise tremendously. It will have to, and no one will see that so clearly as the educated mechanic. There must be more production, in order to fur- nish jobs to the newly educated ex-\\op. If anyone doubts that food production can eventually be made independent of the brainless hand-worker, let him con- template the successful farm of to-day in comparison with the best farm of our grandfathers. Reaping and binding, threshing, stacking hay, ploughing, har- 222 "THE \YEST\YARD TIDE OF PEOPLES" rowing, e\.en milking and feeding stock, are becoming more and more independent of unskilled human agency. There neyer has been and ne\-er will be any objection to manual labor which requires skill and education. A jeweller works with his hands and so does a cabinetmaker or an optician. There is no reason why all other trades cannot be developed just as far, cannot become professions just as proud. How far toward increasing our produc- tion of weal th will the kind of people now seeking admission contribute? \rhat sort of people are they? I shan let the bald official figures answer, without com- ment. Note where the increases and de- creases occur. I I Kumber Percentage of I total Occupation of immigrants 19 20 19 20 19 1 0- 19 1 4 - Professional, . . 12,4,1.2 2,9 1.2 Skilled. .. , .. . . , . . , , , . .. 69,9 6 7 16.3 q.,5 Farm laborers,.., . . , . , , 15,257 3,5 2 .3 Farmers. . . . .... . 12,19 2 2.8 I.l Laborers, . , , , . , , . . . . . , , 81,73 2 19. 0 18.4- Servants...", . , . . , . . . , 37,197 8.7 11.7 Other occupations, , , ". . 28,081 6.4 2,7 No occupatio11 at all, . , . , 173,133 40.3 26,2 Total. . . , , . . , , . , , . . . , 430,001 99,9 I Sixth:" It may cause emigration of our food-producers." Considerable stress is laid upon the steady emigration of Ameri- cans to Canada, where they are taking up unoccupied farm lands. l\Ir. Howe him- self comments on the lack of free land in the United States. I believe that he hopes to compensate for this annual exo- dus by immigration, though this part of his article is not definite. Now, of course, lack of free land has something to do with this movement; but it is difficult to see how imnligration can cure it; for we are not getting many more farmer-immi- grants, and those who do trickle through f:'oI. cannot buy until after they have been in this country for several years. However, in large degree, immigration has been a cause of this exodus of Americans. There are many townsmen still living in the Connecticut Valley who can remember when practically every farmhouse in that fertile tract of land contained a family of old New England stock. To-day one can ride mile after mile without hearing a word of any language other than Polish. The immigrants came not merely in fam- ilies but in communities. The Anlericans mo\"ed out and left them alone. What has become of the .American farmers of a great part of northern New Jersey? They have vanished before the influx of Italian market-gardeners. \Vhole counties of the grain belt are now peopled by Bohe- mians, Czechs, and Letts. The Ameri- cans have gone. I do not decry the new occupants of the soil. They are making better use of it than the old ones did, or they could not have crowded them out; but the fact remains that without whole- sale immigration the Anlericans would not have been crowded out. In conclusion, 1\lr. Howe envisages an American migra.tion of wise and skilled workmen to the old countries to help them to their feet again. The idea is altruistic, slightly quaint, when one considers the present overcrowding in Europe; but un- der wide-open immigration it would be totally impossible. \Ve have not enough skilled workmen here to be making the progress we demand. The lamentable e\"ents of the sumnler just past clearly show that e\"en our best labor is not yet wise enough. \Ve can never hope to ac- quire a sufficiency of either, let alone an excess, as long as we continue to put cheap men in their places as soon as they have become wise and skilled enough to think for themselves, and by so doing drive them into the hands of professional labor- leaders. - . t -' His B) fcCREADY. HUSTO ILLUSTRATIONS BY D. C. HUTCHISON LYSSES HO\VLEIT stood in the arch he- tween the back parlor and dining-room and beckoned the intimate funeral guests toward the mid-afternoon dinner. His was an hospitable arm, but on it the sleeve of his black Sunday coat twisted crazily. l'vir. Howlett's face was long and pallid; his mouth, indicated by an unkempt mus- tache, was weak; his mild, blue eyes were expressionless, except when he remem- bered to summon to them what he im- agined was a sad expression when he re- minded himself that it was, after all, a sad occasion. Howlett was so fond of company, vain of his establishment and of the vigorous country abundance and country cooking, that even the funeral of a daughter could not destroy the pleasure he found in going around, rubbing his palms together, and inquiring about the welfare of his many county acquaintances crowding the house and yard. By urging diffident elder farmers and far-come cousins and aunts not to hang hack but to fill up the table, he had man- aged to clear the back parlor and was sweeping relatives and close friends in the front room. toward the feast, which over- flowcd the dining-room and found space on the side-porch and under the apple- tree in the back yard. Irs. Howlett, relieved as chief mourner of her place in her own kitchen, sat in the front parlor where she could be found by the relatives and friencls, her face fixed in an expression intended to mean resigna- tion. K eighbors of the proper rank were in possession of the kitchen, pantry, and dining-room. For the day she "as" Poor, dear l\Irs. IIowlett." Humped on a haircloth chair beside her was her bereaved son-in-law, Anthony. He leaned forward with his eyes on the roses in the carpet and his hands clinched between his knees. Once he had leaned back, only to feel a carved ornament be- tween his shoulders. He casta wild glance around the room, studied the clock a mo- ment, and then resumed his scrutiny of the carpet while \lrs. Howlett droned on in the heat. She was droning about the baby. She wanted to know what on earth they were going to do about the baby. 1Irs. Howlett was one of those women who are referred to as wonderful house- keepers, but who are so disquieting to have around. Her personality could neither be ignored nor endured without suffering. Yet with her fair plumpness, her white hair, her absolute composure, and her light eyes behind their round glasses, nobody dared charge her with any qualities not admirable. Her appearance was her refuge and strength; behind it she lived her life. Nothing about her ex- cept, perhaps, her pursed lips, suggested thought; forty years of the toil of a farm- er's wife had left hardly a mark on her. She was fifty-eight years old but more sub- stantial in the flesh than any of her chil- dren; and more than their mental equal. Long ago, Anthony Ash had decided that his mother-in-law was an unusual woman. Since his arrival yesterday from Cleveland with his wife's body he had heard a number of times that ::\Irs. How- let t was one of the dearest women in the world. He observed that she was a lover of order and he had heard of her devotion to the church at the Corners, where they had just been to lay Francine to rest. She was not a reader, he knew; but for that mattcr, readers were rare among the farm- ers' wives. Se'"cral things she had said madc him think shc was almost illiterate. But she scemed to recognize no superior; hardly e,'en an equal. Ash felt that she did not even see him when she looked at hinl. 223 22-1 Anthony was twenty-eight, looking anything but a widower, anything but a father. He had a high, thin forehead, close, light-brmvn hair, with a suggestion of a W<'lye that had been fought down with a brush. His hands were long, white, and f , , , ( - '..:- ......'.;., , --........,; ,.. .,..- '- , t J -";:-" :' \. '- .. J '9 ," I \ ,., - . ì'< t -f I '. i . .... "w, I I, ' , ., , . \ \\. i t I '! 1 (f ; ! f if. ì .1 .. . .. f \ í í , ., . l It was, after all, a sad occasion.-Page 223. thin, and he had the nose and mouth that should go with a sensitive nature but sel- dom do. His clothes had the informality of an undergraduate. He had felt during the day that the country people thought he was not dressed right for a funeral, especially his wife's. He had not thought of dressing for the ceremonies. He wondered suddenly why he was sitting there, why he was not gone, now that the funeral was over; or at least, why he was not up-stairs with the baby. He wanted to see if he could really look at the baby and think consecuth-ely of what he might do with her. Finding that he could not move after slumping into the parlor chair was a surprise; he wondered if HIS ,. something about his mother-in-law did not hold, transfix him. \Vell, let her talk. To-morrow he would be gone, back to Cleveland to do sonlething about the house there and something about his job. That was all he could achieve in constructive thought. He would stay in the house here to-night; that would be decent. Somebody, Helena Crane perhaps, would look af- ter the baby; and to-morrow he would go. He decided he would not even think about picking up the threads of his life until he was back in Cleveland. To sit and endure time was better than to try to organize his thoughts. He let his eyes wander again, this time to where his father-in- law was watching over the guests. Irs. Howlett, he real- ized, was at it again. She was asking him for the hundredth time what he expected to do with the baby. "Have you decided yet about the baby, Anthony?" "No; I have to think it over." l\fother Howlett went on rocking. "Y ou won't keep the house, will you? They say it's a good time to sell in the cities." "I haven't thought about that yet. Just now I keep thinking of Francine. I want to think about Francine." "V ou'd have a hard time finding a good housekeeper; one that'd take good care 0' the baby. If you rented the house to some nice, genteel family you could keep a roonl there. That is, if you stay in Cleveland. Do you expect to stay in Cleveland? " Straightening and throwing his hands apart in a gesture half appealing, An- thony rose. Anything was better than this. "I think I'll walk around a little and look at the place. I want to smoke. You excuse me, l\lother Howlett." He walked out into the hall, glanced up the stairs, hesitated a moment, and then chose the outdoors. He went down the "\ \ '\' .f' 4 ! . ) , 1 f " < ,. t' red-brick walk to the dusty roadway. l\Irs. Howlett kept on rocking. Neighbors came and went. Some of the women stopped to speak, pat a hand, then passed quickly out toward the yard. The people werè beginnin to start home. Iany of them had come for milcs to the funeral, and tho e whose Fords were not too dependable were eager to be off. Engines began to sputter in the barnyard. Looking through the window \lrs. Howlctt remembered how full it had been of buggies when her husband's old mother was buried. In the kitchen dishes were rattling. Somebody was sweeping the dining- room. In a little while the house was almost quiet. ::\1rs. Howlett was just making up her mind to go up-stairs and take off her black silk dress when IIelena stopped in front of her, a nursing- bottle in her hand. "I can't get her to take anything, mother, and she won't stop crying," IIelena said. Irs. Howlett looked up at her daughter; she was 1\lrs. Cum- mins Crane in the village, a tall, bony, faded woman who had once been blonde. She looked very incompetent to her mother as she stood there in her mussed and ill-fitting brown foulard, her stringy hair in damp wisps about her face, and her forehead knotted o\"er her unfamiliar task. Helena Crane had never had a child. "rut some sugar in it," said her mother in an c\'en tone. .. Or take a little rag, soak- it in warm milk, and sprinkle sonIC sugar on that. It isn't what they'd call scientific but-neyer nlind. Give TIle the bottle. I'll go up in a minute and see what t can do. Ha\-e you talked to Cummins? 'Vhat'd he say?" "lIe's not overly anxious hut I think he'll rIo it all right. Ife's not used to hahies, and Francine's has done nothing hut cry ince she came." l\Irs. Howlett smoothed the black silk over her knee. "A child would help hold him. It al- ways docs." She did not look up at her daughter this time. lIelena stood help- lessly, the filled bottle dangling. "l\1aybe it would," she said. "But sometimes I don't know whether I want VOL. LXXIII.-I5 IllS 223 to hold him or not. Especially since the last time I had with him-over that cashier in the store, th t young girl. It seemed too bad for her, and too hard for me to try any longer." She turned J.way toward the kitchen. - . ____ -v.- -, " , . <, .. ',c )\ .., ) ",: --' ..: " - (' Her appearance was her refuge and strength; behind it she lived her life.-Page 223. C( Give 111e that bottle, Helena," snapped her mother, with the sudden sharpness she was capable of bringing into use, "I'll get the baby quiet and dress her clean and maybe she'll go to sleep. Then we'll take Cunimins and let him look at her. He hasn't een her in a way to appreciate her and she's a real pretty babv, too. You talk to Cummins some more. " " "'here's \nthony?" asked Helena, inking into her mother's chair and fan- ning herself with her apron, "Oh, that Anthony: He's so unsatis- factory. 1 can't get a word out of him one way or the other. He's gone off for a walk somewhere. But I'll venture to say he'll come around. The thing l'nl worr):- ing abou t is Cummins. I'd like to hear him say he's willing to try it with you again. The baby would make such a difference. If you two had only had some children." 226 "\,," ell, mother, I\-e told you time and again it wasn't my fault. I was will- ing. " "I know," replied her mother absently, with that manner of not having heard. " \Yell, you see Cummins. I'll go and 'tend to the baby." As she passed through the dining-room Cummins came in from the side-porch. "I'm goin' up to feed our ittie bitsie baby, Cummins, and after while 00 tan see her," she piped at him, waving the nursing-bottle. It was curious that Cum- mins Crane was the only one of her con- nection that Mrs. Howlett courted. Cummins only grunted and went on into the parlor. In 1900 Cummins Crane had been the fastest young man in Fayette County. Coming home late fronl the Spanish War, in which he had seen, unwillingly, some action, he had tried earnestly to have the good time which he felt he had earned. He had lost his father just as the old cen- tury slipped away and became the nomi- nal head of the Cummins and Crane dry-goods store in Brownsville, the Cum- mins member having gone on before. But the new village magnate could have been found at almost any hour of this period at the end of the I\10nongahela House bar nearer the private entrance, stirring whiskey and ginger ale and ruling a court of small-town loafers. He kept the daintiest buggy horse and lightest runabout in the county; took the prettiest girls driving in the sumnler eve- nings; hunted with the most expensive shotguns and beagles; wore the broadest padded shoulders and the longest fawn raglan in the town. He was a heavy, florid youth and became a heavier man, the unnatural redness of his face taking a purplish tinge and his knowing, flashing black eyes misting considerably by the time he was thirty-five. He had taken his place in the store, but retained his habits of the country town roué, slowed some- what by nature's insistence on her toll. Crane had married Helena Howlett after a series of adventures with county girls, taking her off the biggest and best farm in the region. He took her to live in a brick veneer house that he had built in preparation for his marriage, a con- tractor-built affair on the site of the HIS house in Brownsville where Lafayette had slept. There was nothing to stop him from razing the Lafayette house, and Cummins never gave the matter a thought. The new house had stiff lace curtains at the parlor windows and shiny birch mahogany furniture down-stairs. Above was a den, done in the mission furniture that was the rage then, and college pen- nants, where Cummins was supposed to take his ease and mingle with his inti- mates. He had hardly entered the room now in iourteen years; the majority of his intimates had been tacitly forbidden the house by Helena's greetings after their first or second calls. Helena had never supposed that men did openly in their own houses the things in which Cummins and his friends seemed to revel. In the fourteen years Cummins, the small-town sport-that was the word in vogue then-and Helena Howlett had torn the fabric of life to shreds. He, at least, was ready to toss the rag aside. It was then, after fourteen years, that the death of Francine, Helena's baby sister, the wife of Anthony Ash, had stirred Mother Howlett to action. A child, she saw, was what Cummins needed, what Helena needed for the re- tention of that precious prestige that came with the name of Crane. As Cummins approached Helena in the parlor she looked up at him pathetically, aware of her ugliness. He avoided her eyes, as he had done for five years. "I was looking for you," he said, in a flat, husky voice. "It's time to start in town. " "Don't you think we ought to stay a while longer, Cummins, on nlother's ac- count? It's hardly decent to go yet; and she wants to see if we can't do something about the baby. Anthony will be going away and she wants to see if something can't be arranged." She ended weakly, conscious of having repeated her plea to one who was not even listening. "Well, I'll go along," Cummins threw back, half-way to the door. "You 'tend to everything. Whatever you decide is all right with me. I'll be driving in; have to see about things at the store. I'll come and get you to-morrow, I'll call you up." He was in the hall. Helena, desperate, called to hinl. " You know I told you mother wants us to take the baby, Cummins." "That's all right with fie. \\"hatever you say. I don't care." The door slammed. He was gone. Helena sat and fanned herself with her apron. She heard Cummins swearing at something about the car. Presently he started it and was off with a great deal of noise. Cummins liked the noise of his car. Sounds from up-stairs told of ßIrs. Howlett's preparations to show the baby to Cummins. Helena wondered how . angry she would be when she learned he had gone to town. Presently she wan- dered outside and sat down on the edge of the little front porch, staring across at the hillside on which the ironweed was beginning to appear in purple patches. Only yesterday, it seemed to her, she had taken little Francine across there to gather Queen Anne's lace; and now Francine was gone and in her place another Ii ttle girl to lead and guard. Helena sat on in the heat. A mile away Ash was standing on the summit of Clark's Hill. He was resting in the only way he had found to rest in the Howlett neighborhood. Far below was the river, making a deep bend cut across with the white foam of the dam. Across the\"alley \Vashington County lay, sleepy, remote in the final full sunlight of the passing day, with green folds of rolling pastureland, white farmhouses, and lines of trees that marked rambling roads, all quiet, all peaceful. Ash never came to this spot without feeling his cares slipping away in unimportance. Off there to the left was the town. He knew it was ugly; from this height and distance it had an old-world picture quality. Ifere he could think of Francine a little differently; not as he remembered her in the casket or as she had died, but as she was in the plaster cottage he had suc- ceeded in finishing for her in Cleveland in time for their baby to be born in their own home. lIe woñdered how anybody of the Howlett strain or in the line that came down through her mother could care as Francine cared, genuinely and tenderly, for a picture, a book, the grace- HIS 227 ful turning of a chair or the line of a house's caves. Francine hall heen deli- cate, tender, sensitive, utterly fastidiouc;; in mind and person, utterly honorable and true. In nothing was she in any wise kin to the hard prominences of Helena. They were sisters; but it was almost unbelie\"ahle. Yet he knew Helena was not wholly or even in large measure unkind. That look of surprise she wore as a habit was re- lated to helplessness and inability to com- prehend, he had always thought. The baby occurred to him in connec- tion with Helena. The important things for a child in infancy were the physical needs. Helena and her mother could and probably would supply those needs boun- tifully, if only out of personal pride. Later he could claim the girl-he had not thought of her as his daughter. Things did not look so bad from up here. He sat on a field stone and found that he really could rest at last. He stayed there until the sun dropped below Krepps' Knob, across the river, signalling him to start back. Footing it along the dusty road, buff in the declining sun, Ash looked like a stu- dent hurrying to a class. He had his coat over his arm, his hat off; and as he passed a cottage where the decrepit inmate knew him for the mourning husband, the crone pointed and gesticulated to her companion at the door-step. Ash did not see them. He was magnifying to himself the advantages the baby would have in a good country home, the advantage to himself of having such a home assured for the baby for years, without planning or manæuvring on his part. This, he thought, was the way things worked out; bereft young fathers were relie\"ed and freed to go on; old people were given something to cheer their age. He had been ungrateful to be irritated by :\Irs. Howlett's unceasing reiterations. She meant well, kindly. To her it was a sim- ple matter of providing for her own. In Cleveland, housekeepers and nurses would be uncertain and expensive. They would ha \"e to live in Francine's house, handle .Francine's things, care for Fran- cine's child. They would be wasteful, probably insolent, at best tawdry, per- haps slatternly. He would have to inter- !t ' .. ".1' . :r) ( :/ , .... \\.. " \. ,,/((.. ! . ),' ) '" i Jf "" - ) . '!:: . ":- / . # J t . j; ' ;;l' Ii \;. , - . +t./;, \. . ( f.;l . :;'; '--.. . "-- I '- .' ,-or: >-. . . '"i \;' \ . t.,\\ \ \ -'i' ' \ ; . ' '\. "\\ '1., . , ";; - :' .' ': \ Wt. <( '1.-<,. .:< . >_: . ' . ; . ' \J, . { \ .... 4 " . . . ;1.{ . <.: '. .:,;"'; ;.1. . 1. ...r :. '.. \'). )/'t ' Ii t. // I i; ,I "Seen anything of a flivver see-clan?" 228 view, engage, dismiss them. He admitted he had no will for that task. He could leaye the baby safe here, on the farm. Al- ready Helena and her mother had dis- posed of it somewhere-were feeding it. He had not seen the baby since he came. As he walked up to the gate he felt cleared of his burden. He could talk about the future. Helena rose from the step as he came up to the door. She found she felt taller, straighter, and cleaner when- eyer she talked to An thony alone, and she shivered with a curious de- light when she found herself step- ping forward to meet hinl. She desired to be un- derstood by An- thony; that was it. In a moment be- fore she spoke she had a vision of that understanding. It would enable her to endure a cen- tury of Cummins. I t had all seemed quite clear to her as she saw An- thony coming down the road. She could atone in one sentence for her failure in life by telling him to take his baby and go, that she would not remain quiet, watching him being enveloped by her mother's scheme. She felt clean and peaceful. "Anthony," she began, tremulously, smiling a little, groping for the words. "I know," broke in Anthony with his friendly smile. "I've figured it all out. You want my baby, to keep for a while, 'fi ,/. 1 , . t . I HIS , and I'm going to let you have her. I didn't like the idea at first but it's all right now. You keep her a little while and love her. I t will do you good and be a great help to me. Then I'll come and get her when she is older; when I am able. " Down the road a motor roared. "But, An- thony, I don't want you to mis- understand. You must get it right. l\:fother-" "That's all, right, sister. Let's go and find your mother and fix it all up. I'm sorry I seemed cross wi th her. I think I'll be leaving the first thing in the morning. We'd bet ter see her now." He passed a friendly arm through hers and drew her toward the door. But she drew back. "Anthony, I want you to hear me. Mother wants the baby- Dh, here's Cum- mins back." She stopped in confusion, and both turned to greet the dusty fig- ure at the gate. \Vhen Helena saw the lunlbering, un- couth nlan who was her husband, she felt her resolution freeze. "Well, Cunlmins," she began, with a painful effort to appear unconcerned. "Seen anything of a flivver see-dan?" blurted out the other, wiping the back of his neck with a soiled silk handker- chief. " A fellow looking for me," he went on. ''!'.,'''' : 4,:", ',' .... , . oF- ,,' : J ' -J t \' " ..,....' . \ "'l"t; \ r:' h I \': .'. \#U j ", .-; ./.' /' -. <... ., :-.. . 'o(. I oj'/(/ "1.. "--, '1..' f- ,. '( "-.' > ') I ,\, I :. ' .. Jl} a . ! f II I can't get her to take anythjn , mother, and she won't stop cr)ing."-Page 225. U They told me in town, so I come right back out again. l-Ie's got a case 0' good liquor for me, and a fellow can't take a chance of missing them these days. I didn't waste any time getting back, I'll tcll you. Give you a quart to takc back, Ant'n)'." Ash shook his head. Hc looked at the wife, stand- ing there, twisting her apron; then at the husband. He was conscious of his earlier feeling, that sense of won- der at why he was there. , 'Excuse me," he muttered. " I want toseel\Iother Howlett. " At the supper- table An thony found that his spirit of the after- noon had departed definitely. They surrounded the kitchen table cov- ered with food left from the company dinner. "Just heated up," IIel- ena had explained as she put down the teapot and took her seat. The food, she observed, would not keep in this weather and must not be wasted. Anthony nodded absently. Howlett was giving the list of those who had attended the obsequies; he was very statistical. Large numbers, distances travelled, representation from all districts, such things pleased him. The Everetts had dri\"en over from across Dunlap's Creek; the Nixons from the Krepps' Knob farm. A remote and al- most forgotten cousin' had appeared. Howlett retailed the history of the Salt- ) / l l ... I I { " \ IllS 229 " I lick township Howletts, alluding smirk- ingly to backwoods clothing and timid ways. l\frs. Howlett took up the thread when her husband paused to dive at some dish, throwing in correc- tive or e....planatory sentences, her hand playing with the top of the hea vy blue Staffordshire sugar-bowl. She was not eating. Neither was An- thony nor Helena. Cummins, who had attended to his stealthy business with the liquor- carrier, ate greedi- ly, matching How- let t ' s relish. A number of festival sweets and pre- serves were there to " finish up." Helena went back and forth between table and stove; a great quantity of tea seemed to be required. Anthony looked from :t\Irs. Howlett to Helena, trying to find an answer to the problem that had seemed so simple to him a little while ago on the hilltop. After all, these were Francine's people; good coun- try folk; substan- tial. They had nourished Fran- cine. They would keep the baby well, safe, fed, until he could make a home for her. ..\ few years-four or fi\"e-would pass quickly. Then he could claim her for surroundings more becoming a deli- cately made child of Francine. If he took her now, what could he do? There was the possibility of doing worse than Helena and her mother might. -, \:- \ i)"'. .' : i ---- fl I.: " r , 1 1 ' ,I , '''' "" I I 1 l ( 230 He pushed back his chair. He had made his decision. "I think I shallleayethe baby with you, l\Iother Howlett," he said. "I shall take the early morning train. Cummins will drh"e me in. You haye all been Yery good and I know you will feel comforted by ha ying Francine's little girl for a while. So keep her." He stood, trying to bring the family to- gether with an inclusive smile. 1\lrs. Howlett picked at the cloth. "'\Tell, now, just as you think best. You're the father and it's for you to say. Of course-" Suddenly Ash did not want to listen. He felt choked, wondering why he was there. He lifted a hand, then dropped it helplessly. 1\lrs. Howlett was going on, justifying herself, and his decision. Her husband and Cummins were busy with pie. "Y ou couldn't really take care of her right, you know. Now, Helena-" "}\;lother-" It was Helena, trying to break in. "Helena can devote herself to the baby," her mother finished, turning and looking at Helena with a peculiar expres- sion of quiet anger that Ash, on the other side, could not see. :ð1rs. Howlett rose heavily and pushed her chair back. Anthony, longing for escape, was saved from the necessity of further speech by a ring at the front-door bell. Helena mechanically pulled at the knot in her apron-string and began to push back loose wisps of hair. Ash vague- ly understood 1\lrs. Howlett was usher- ing visitors into the front parlor, so he stepped out of the kitchen door and made his way to the seat under the apple-tree. There were mild stars and a sweet air was coming up over the hay-fields. He would smoke until he felt he could go up and sleep. Lights were being made in the parlor. The Howletts clung to oil-lamps there- wonderfully painted shades. Anthony could see 1\lrs. Howlett moving about. Presently Crane came stumbling through the yard and found Anthony under the tree. "The old lady wants to see you in there." He pointed toward the lighted windows. "Something about the baby." Ash knocked the coal from his pipe and went wearily inside. HIS A man was fumbling papers on the marble-topped table under the lamp. An- other stood by the mantel, turning in his hands l\Irs. Howlett's souvenir of Niagara Falls. Ash knew neither of them, but Crane introduced them awkwardly with the local formula. "1\lr. Ash, meet 1\Ir. Futter; 1\1r. Fut- ter, 1\1r. Ash. l\Ir. Struble---" The man by the table was Struble. Mr. Futter bobbed his head and grinned. 1\'lrs. Howlett came in from the hall. Helena, over by the parlor-organ, was in shadow. . Mr. Struble was a little old man of seventy, but his youth's suit, evidently one of the local clothier's "snappy" styles, made him look like a boy suddenly and terribly grizzled and shrunk. He put out a disagreeable hand. "Pleased to meet you. Heard a lot about you. I got everything ready here, and 1\lr. Futter come along fer a witness. I always aim to do everything right. If you'll step out here by the light I'll show you where to sign." Howlett appeared out of the shadows with the family ink-bottle and an old pen. Anthony moved forward and picked up the paper. He was puzzleq and must have showed it, for NIrs. Howlett cleared her throat and spoke: "It's th' papers for the adoption, An- thony. Mr. Struble's our lawyer. I thought you would finally decide to let us have the baby, so I asked him to drop in to-night an' fix everything up legaL" " Adoption?" Anthony turned and faced her, then turned sharply again, for in the doorway Howlett was laughing and mumbling something. "1\la thought a baby'd make a better family man outa Cummins here, and as you didn't have nobody to take care 0' Francine's, she thought she'd get you to make it over to Helena and Cummins." " Sl?e thought 1 " Ash turned furi- ously, first to Mrs. Howlett, then to Helena. " You knew this to-day when I was talking to you?" "I tried to tell you not to leave the baby here; you know that," Helena spoke thickly. She felt she could not make her- self heard. She finished by wiping her eyes with her apron, { " , ( ( ', , .. .. ... - ;, , . -T, \ .... ".- '1 r '..... ,"':. ... : ,- ., \o. .. It ,- " ""'" -- f :...... f . " 1 . I ... ". to ,.. '/. .( ........ -'-- . ... - ) ^.' , 4>_ j'" '\!... .\' . .... , . . ' " .,... ... / ' : l::::- 1i ' } î 1' :' ,It .' t ,J ) " I,' \ .... C. ' ..... ..", ,. .,, , .to I J \ . " I .\ , \ '. I i 'f !' J , \ ' I,; t\j , Î ") l ..t }o. . I \.., ' \{ . i, /t.. r It, /f' 'L' .; "-:1 ' .'1 " j.. ;;" ,i ..r;#" .... . - ... "'''' ... ..... ,"""-..:-' ,, . , ,. . '\ '" t _ .? t .... .,.. ... --- ----- ".. , -:-- . -:-:..----r- , " . - ---. / / ) 1t... . .. '.' fè-, .. . I . \. ..:' - ',' f' . vr ,..\; r " ' ":<-"':S · ;'\.. .,::,,;':.' . ..... ", "'" . ,A .' .:....}'1( · " Þ.., .'. I -" < . .... ; , . '!" , i I " "' - " ... , . ., .. 'J . . \ J: . '1:( \ \'i:' II -.. "' .. ", ,1,\ . \ ( F J' . ";: ... .. .. :rc I " . , "" ... '\ . ) ... '. ." : ){ t \ ' I, I' I , , , .. . """ ,. f\ . , ". \ 'l' · ... " I 'f . .. - ,t , ,' ; 'C ( , r " 1 ( .., < . , M/" " . -- ' I " ". - ." ""'-.. '. , ( I ' - ... ""'.,.......... -.. , I . I , I ' .,; . 4 ; . t I J ,, . l '; '. \{.,.of1. :'-; \. : I'. .. .. '1'J - 't , --,\ " . " - ., .. r 'v: ", ..; PI') ... to, r1 ç.. I ...: o o -5 c o E c:J -5 "1j U , "1 ", ( r' '<..: .... ... Þ' '.p . _. 'o;.A\ \ ... .. ;... ", ,\- , ' ' . r;t _ ,-. " '\ \2. f'.... ' - . ,\, . .( , " " ": t . , ! 'i " .. > I . '.a \ ,-" \. : :. \ t\-, I r \ r , '\\ .\. , ' : \ ") \ Mainsprings of Men BY \\ IIITI:\G \\"111 T.-\:\lS Author of "Horny Hands and Il.mlpcrcd ElbO\\s," etc. If. wno I1t;I .TS ()t;R FEELI,CS? .i, : : .i, HE plant manager was . , . talking: ITI Q "After long amI 1 ; : if'. y:, 1 fairly sad experience , we have learned al- ways to find from the iÇ1Ä men threa tening trouhlc how we hap- pened to hurt their feelings. After we have squared that up, the settlement of the wage or other dispute is easy." "Sure!" adds the labor leader. "!\Iany's the time we've kept arguing and demanding for hours, when ten min- utes of friendly talk would ha\'e finishell it-aU because the hoys had been made sore, and so had to haye the satisfaction of 'rubhing it in' as far as it would go." Of one thing we may he sure: thc superintendent whonl we left rushing up to quell the sudden walk-out of his tool- makers, with his list of instincts in his hand, is bound to find his men acting less on the promptings of thcir logical reason- ings as workers than of their feelings as just plain human heings. Few if any of them have failed to hring along with them into the factory their own individual por- tion of such complications as the" super" may have noticed in the morning paper. Of course, the boss may become still further convinced than hefore that his ohstreperous strikers are expressing their inborn wish or instinct for acquisition and ownership as a first step toward the luxu- rious satisfactions pictured in 50me ad- vertisements in a ncar-by column. But surely he wiU get farther if he sees at the bottom of his incipient revolt some universal root desire that lies hack not only of the fri\rolous vanities of current fashion or the lovc of home and family, but dlso of men's wish everywhere to think well of themsel ves. It is exactly such a \Vi h that I have found running beneath all those lines of thought and feeling, by which each of the various groups called "Capital H or "Labor," "Bourgeois" or "Bobhie," contrh-es to make its belligerent view- point and programme appear /0 itself en- tirely reasonahle and ju tifiable. I t i exactly this, also, which furnishes that comnlon denominator the superintendent needs, hefore he can detennine whether his machinists' apparently o'"eractÏ\"e in- stinct for acquisition may somehow he off- :-;et hy a reawakened interest in, sa}, workmanship. It b this universal master wish that requires some definition that will not, like" Gregariousness" or "Emu- lation," merely set it off from the others such as l' car or Anger, Curiosity or Suh- mission; hut will tie all these up together -in addition to eXplaining why the primitive compulsions of saving our physical skin now affect our feelings less than do the modern necessities of sa\ring our ocial "face." Such a definition would go like this: In organized society to-day the "wheels" of each of us are turned, for better or for u'orse, by our mainspring desire to enjoy the feeling of Ollr íJ.!Ortll as a person among otlzfr P('I sons,-tllllt individual fceling re- quiring always for its fullest satisfaction Oil' surest possible substantiatioll at the hands of some particldar group whose apprO'l!al haþpe1ls, at tlie moment, to appear espe- cially per/inNlt and desirable. \Vorking our way to Europe on the callie-hoat, we college boys found the "fo'castle's" food so thoroughly uneat- ahle that every afternoon we lined up, be- low decks, around a steal thy steward and his plate of lea\'ings stolen from the cap- tain's table. For us all it was a moment of fierce ordeal. Hunger urged to greedy unfairness, lIonor-our standing with t he other hungry seven-pleaded for mod- eration. The existence of society to-da,. indicates that honor has usually won. \nd we make victory in similar circum- stances constantly easier by furnishing some measure of food and shelter to prac- tically everyone. But while we thus re- lie\'e the pres ure of the bodily wants, the numher of those who confess their spiritu- al and social defeat in suicide mounts into the thousands, and the cloud of those who 233 234 IAI SPRIKGS OF IEN unite with their neighbors to make war upon their fellow citizens for what they believe their honor, rises into millions. The material nature that abhors a vacuum-whether it be ethereal space or empty stomach-is to-day less trouble- approvals and disapprovals of our chosen "set," and of the multitude of other less pertinent and more distant sets around us. " Why, if I were a policeman," so my youngster, at the age of five, eXplained the latest shift of his life's ambition, "then peo- ZOSIA COME HO : E BABY WANTS YOU Baby ,:'resa. is crying for ber mother. Unless you come home 'imnlediately ba.by will ha\te to be sent'to hospital; refuses to e t. If you are sick, lot me know. If you are not, come þome DOW. If you are afraid to: come, "'..rite and I will stra.ighten things out.' Peter Pashko.wsky 6206 'Xbackerray Ave. Cent.-lõ97 w. Such complications as the" super" may have noticed in the morning paper.-Page 233. some in its requirements than is the" hu- man nature" of our organized society, by virtue of which we abhor the spiritual 'cipher-the one who in reality does not count one. To each of us the most impor- tant thing in all the living of our lives is the message of the metre which registers the distance we have achieved away from the hateful zero of insignificance among our fellows. If that were all, then selfish- ness might have its way. But just be- cause this distance is so supremely vital to our happiness, we dare not trust the reading of the dial to our own individual eyes: somehow, somewhere, in the eyes of the few or of the many, our findings must secure the backing of a body of less prej- udiced witnesses. The moment we come to hanker for the substantiation of one kind or group of witnesses rather than another, that mo- ment we start toward establishing the precise direction and orbit of our planeta- ry career in the social universe about us. To understand the doings or misdoings of our felJows-or to exert any leadership upon them-tbat is to see in them merely the sequence of the interplay of these two forces; the thrust of this master wish for individual worth, working its way out through the spaces of our present-day social firmament, according to the restric- tive pushes or the compelling pulls of the pIe would ask me where to go, and I would tell them-and they would go there." Apparently the chief obstacle to his sense of progress into the satisfactions of personality had been the necessity of re- quiring the services of a traffic cop-in the presence of the wondrous eight-year- olds who crossed without assistance! "Well, you see, I could sit in the en- gineer's seat," so he explained a later di- rection of the same underlying wish; "and when I pulled the throttle-ever so little-like this-then the whole train would move and leave all the passengers' friends on the platform." Later he may wish to be the maker of a speech which furnishes a new moral ob- jective to a nation, or the pusher of the executive button which establishes a wider economic margin in the families of thousands of employees; but for the pres- ent the wires of such successions are too hidden for his fancy. Quite certainly he will shortly find himself in such contact with the general American public that he will be tempted to accept, as final for him, the measurement of the particular tape- line which that public happens to employ. That will mean the pursuit of one thing -wealth. For, at the present moment at least, the dollar furnishes the yard- stick by which the great body of our fellow citizens habitually endeavors to l\IAI SPRIXGS OF [E!\ determine the exact degree of any mem- her's accomplishment. That yardstick's application is so beautifully simple; so patently is the possessor of one million dollars demonstrated hy it to he just ten times as much of a man as the possessor of only one hundred thou"and dollars! All that being so, the pulpit, the editor's chair, the city school, or the college quad- rangle will he passed by hecause they furnish the appro\"al of too small-and too discriminating-a hody of "suhstan- tiators." The same choice of the ap- proval of the most numerous rather than the most careful judges will also require him to refuse all thought of the life of self- sacrifice, in, say, foreign missions; bc- cause that would necessitate his depen- dence upon the approbation of what is sure to seem too slight and intangible a group-namely, the One Supreme Person. But it is not at all certain that here in .America the nlajority will always exercise upon the choices of its members the colossal pressure which follows from its use of monev as a measure of excellence. For nations copy us individuals in chang- ing their yardsticks fr01ll time to time. "Sorry, Dick, I'd like awfully to try the new peedster to-night, hut-er- well-you see, Jim-Lieutenant Jim-is in town." In such ways our daughters, back in the summer of '17, announced to their friends that our traòitional and world-famou "speedoUarter" had sud- denly given over its pre-eminence as the metre of achievement to the che\'rons, bars, and eagles which denoted the distance travelled bv their wearers from the com- parative in ignificance of the" rookie." To-day, in South America, the cidlized majority uses the money nleasure with what strikes us as extreme carelessness. The business man takes days of leisurely lunching and dining with the aggressÍ\'c young sale:-iman from North America not because time or money is of no value hut in order to make sure that the final busi- ness dealings will he hetween ge tlemen. Pecuniary profit, that is, counts less in the reading of the South American gentle- man's public honor-rating than does the maintenance of his inherited social pre- eminence as a per on of outstanding birth and established culture. The visiting salesman's problem is merely to make it evident that under his guidance there need 235 be no conflict between the two. (Inciden- taUy, the heads of certain New York bond houses report that exactly the same is al- ready true in the case of many possessors of inherited wealth and culture in Boston, I>hiladclphia, and other of our older cities.) The same preference for the concrete mile-stones of established status instead of the shifting sand-piles of current finan- cial acquisition, tends to bind the South American for life to the social le\"el into which he was born. So the man who would get a convincing measure of popu- lar approval for a larger sense of his per- sonal worth than his birth may happen to afford, finds two doors open-and only two. In the church he may become an advi er to presidents or prime ministers- provided only that his brains are equal to the task. Or in the army he may become the savior of his country-if his valor serves sufficiently. Thus, by the mere denial of one majority measurement and the pem1ission of another, our Southern neighbors arrange for the two orbits which distinguish their political and so- cial skies-the power of the clergy and the predominance of poJitics and re\"olution . E\"en with us money has slight attrac- tiveness in itself: the important thing is the amount of dis tinction and social posi- tion it can give its possessor as compan>d with others in his own or near-by circles. As assistant to a college president and later in handling the financial side of fed- erated social work in Cleveland, the big discovery was that the philanthropic spirit has less to do with finance than with feeling. A .man is as rich, and so as gen- erous, as he happens to fecl-or as poor. How he feels depends mainly upon his standing, not with those who nlay happen to li\"e in his own square but with those who mo\"e in his particular circle. H 1Iy good man, I can't think of it"- so Russell Sage is reported to have re- ponded when" pan-handled" for a dime. "\Vhy, sir, I have a million dollars lying in the bank that's not earning a penny toward family e penses. Come around some day when I am making money!" "(Lefty Louie' Loses Temper," so the head-lines told how, a few days before his electrocution, the murderer was suffering froß1 hurt feelings. .\s in the case of all of us, these had come from a sudden threat against his sense of worth as a per- 236 rvIAINSPRINGS OF MEN son among the others of the group with which he had-consciously or uncon- sciously-cast in his lot. A false friend had charged him with the one crime which for every self-respecting murderer or thief constitutes-and must always constitute -the cardinal sin: "snitching on his pals! " "Thanks for a cigarette, eh, mate?" a half-drunken woman inquired of me from among the crowd of customers in a New- castle (England) public house, adding: "Yes, I've just done twenty-one days for bein' drunk and assaultin' the bloody of- ficer. I can kick a man pretty precise when I tries, y' understand? . .. Why, 'ello, 'usband Jack, back again! . .. I call 'im 'usband because the court makes 'im pay me a pound a week for my baby. . . . ]{ 0, thanks, if I smoked it now, every- body 'round 'ere would talk!" Our choices are not hers-unless her crowd comes to be ours. But for us as well as for her, the choice of our crowd- whether it be thieves or thinkers, finan- ciers or philosophers-serves inevitably to set the" Stop" or " Go" for restricting or releasing all our powers of soul and body. The passionate necktie, cane, or spats of our colored fellow citizen say some- thing about his love of finery. But in that he is not greatly different from us all. The real difference comes from the fact that his clothes are about the only way in which he can let money talk about his success, seeing that the rest of us re- strain him from, for instance, the fine residence by which we are apt to "tell the world" the story of our own attain- ments. For the same reason he is likely to seek membership in those societies where the blackest of the black can enjoy the thrill of having his acquaintances make up in intensity of recognition what they lack in range as they kowtow to him as the "Supreme Grand Guardian of the Exalted Shrine of the Holy Universe." In the same way, the Chosen People have come to set what the rest of us are prone to consider an overvaluation upon financial acquisition, not so much because this instinct exerts a stronger pun upon them as because Gentile short-sightedness established the Pale. By so doing we forced in to one single area all that wish for worth which under more permissive condi- tions would have spread itself with a more agreeable thinness over a wider field. In the same manner, also, poverty tends to force into the sector beyond the grave the enjoyment of the social recog- nitions so deeply desired but so generally denied in the daily lives of our least for- tunate fellows. It is the vast tragedy of our times that millions of insurance poli- cies are expended down to their last penny -and expended gladly-on an outstand- ingly successful social function arranged by the neighborhood's most expert so- ciety engineer-the undertaker! Others of us who are apparently condemned to a life of healthful but eventless and un- noticeable health, are not infrequently made secretly happy by the kindly offices of some catastrophe which brings the pre- eminence of a bandage, a pair of crutches, or perhaps a helpless invalidism. Few mischances in life are worse than a modest good fortune which seems merely to "send us to Coventry!" "He is one of the few"-----so a wit has said of Chauncey Depew-" who have lived beyond eighty without exchanging their emotions for symptoms." "Say, Sarge, for heaven's sake," ap- pealed a lonesome doughboy; "read out my name for a letter to-morrow! I'll know there ain't none. but gee, I can't stand it to be the only guy that's never called out!" Something of the same appeal for that group substantiation without which all is misery because all is uncertainty, un- doubtedly explains, three times out of four, the person we mark-and shun-as an egotist. Like the rest of us, his feel- ings have been most hurt where he is most sensitive; and, like the rest of us, he is most sensitive at exactly the point of his greatest desire-where the very in- tensity of his wish makes all but the most convincing of confirmations appear in- adequate and disappointing. So, not be- cause he believes most in himself bu t be- cause he doubts most, he whistles to keep his courage up-and offends us by using the spu.rious or genuine assurances he has elsewhere obtained as bait upon the hook of his desperate hope for a "Well done" from us. Germany rattled her sabre only when she found that the master wish for world leadership, developed by her newly ac- quired and therefore doubtful national- ity, failed to get the hoped-for, the indis- 1AINSPRIKGS OF l\IEN pensable, world-wide corrohoration even after an amazing commercial expansion had been added to the victories of 1870. In the same way, a generation ago, Eu- rope was constantly making us unhappy by giving us her approbation in general but withholding it at exactly our tender- est spot-the spot, namely, where the in- tensity of our wish for the acknowledged stability of our social and political culture was equalled only by our uncertainty as to its fulfilment. It is out of the dangerous delicacies of these meeting-poin ts of wish and fear in the hearts of peoples as well as persons, that the hurts arise which lead first to the severance of relations and then to the declaration of war. So, too, it is not so much the absence as the abnormal delicacy of this tender spot that, according to the experts, distin- guishes the insane. This, rather than the "meaningless and inscru table medley" we wrongly attribute to their thoughts, is likely to prompt their cutting across lots into abnormal methods for securing the hoped-for confirmations. So we fear the insane just as we do the real egotist-be- cause they will not be guided by the hal- ter of our approvals into the established paths of acknowledged social safety. But the mind of either of them is only slightly more distant from our own than is the mind of one of our political or industrial factions from that of another. "To the Conservative the amazing thing about the Liberal is his incapacity to see rea- son," as \V. Trotter puts it. " Judge L- is probably still unable to understand why the American Bar As- sociation regarded his conduct with' un- qualified condemnation' "-so runs an editorial-" and why bills prohibiting federal judges from accepting private emoluments have been introduced in Con- gress. . .. Thus, even in the best of men there may be a certain obtuseness of taste, a queer little anæsthetic zone." It is the twilight of this zone, wherein the lamp of logic is darkened by the thin but effective film of the heart's-bottom wish for self-certainty, that explains so many of the misdoings of all of us, whether judge or criminal or in-between sane or in- sane. For most of our transgressions are our mistaken and unsocial, albeit practi- cally automatic, short-cuts at the protec- 237 tion of our self-respect, when it has been threatened beyond the possibility of any less extreme measures of defense. \Ye are entirely too quick to ascribe to the crimi- nal a lack of desire to count among his fellows. In many cases his "anæsthetic zone" is caused hy a mentality too low to care for our guidance in the choice of hi methods of achievement; in others he per- haps feels himself the victim of some af- front too deep to be atoned for by any of the accepted measures. "Law or no law, I notice that the man who argues with his fists is always respected," says" .l\loleskin Joe." In still others the chief desire is the same as that of the nurse who confessed to wrecking trains "in order to get a few thrills. " " At all these fires we noticed a boy who appeared extremely proud of his having been 'the first one here,' " reports a de- tective. "Finally, we paced off the dis- tances and found that even by running, the lad could not have arrived so early unless he had gone to bed dressed and ready. He proved to be the 'bug.' " "I felt sat upon," or "as if he thought I was no good," "as if I had been caught with the goods on"-these, according to R, F. Richardson, are the most general descriptions of the rise of the anger which all too often shuts off the thought of con- sequences. Thus, for the safety of our spiritual "face" do we utilize an ancient tool that now finds comparatively little exercise in guarding the security of our physical flesh. \Vhether the threat against the citadel of our thought about ourselves comes from hateful factors in our spiritual or in our physical surroundings, the effort toward preservation of our faith in our- selves is equally pronounced and equally automatic and inevitable. It is this effort that underlies the outrageous conversa- tional goulash of blasphemy, sex-perver- sion, and filth which I ha\"e found so revolting in the "fo'castle" of the cat- tle-boat, the checker-chambers of the steel plant, or the mess-table of the strike- breaker. It is the soul's effort to ward off the thrusts of manifestly bad conditions by 'wrapping its hurts in the imposing garments supposed to register acknowl- edged manliness-with the help of a smoke screen of God-and-man-insultin indifference-like the child's tearful and 238 l\IAI SPRINGS OF l\IEN o\-er-\"ehement h J don't care if \'oU do take my toys away! I don't í. lallt to play!" For tired men on the twelve- hour shifts, for instance, such language has the further ad\'antage of laying a whip upon exhausted muscles by steam- heating their talk. Thus such workers first find profanity and filth a friendly oil for sa\"Ïng soul and body from the wear and tear of their "fell clutch of circum- stance"; then, standards having been created, every loyal or ambitious memher of the crowd is required ei ther to hold his own or to go the others one better-if his courage and imagination can stand the pace! "Drink was the badge of manhood. So I drank with them, drink by drink, raw and straight, though the damned stuff couldn't compare with a stick of che'wing taffy or a delectable 'Cannonball.'" So Jack London tells how the bottle is used by men who feel themselves cut off from the enjoyment of the hoped-for certainty of manliness in Jess delusive fields. " You see, the drunker ye be" -so ex- plained my hobo friend just in from one of the least improved of the Northwest's Jumber-camps-" the less ye're a-mindin'_ of the flies and the bugs. And when ye sober up, ye're used to 'em!" \Vhen sober, old Uncle Zeke knew that his best days were over-because the boss was constantly giving him easier, and therefore less important, jobs. But in the saloon, half-drunk, it was a delight to hear him boast of the wonderful days of his prowess as a "tongs-wrestler" in the steel plant. In his answer to my question he named the source of the thirst of mil- lions: "Oh, I just like to get drunk enough- well, enough to get the feelin' of me old job back, like, you know." If no witness can be heard to u Her, in the unmistakable voice of sober actuality, the longed-for confirmation and assurance against the noisy testimony of manifestly disgraceful surroundings or experience, then few of us but will crave, with all the intensity of our souls, the saving congrat- ulations of the still, small voice of an in- ebriated fancy. No, it is not enough to see in vice the overwhelming of the spirit's powers by the body's passions; rather does it repre- sent the combination of them all in a final assault upon the weakest spot in the line that stands to restrict and circumscribe their normal outlet and satisfaction. Vicious men have not lost their wish for worth: they are merely making a last desperate effort to SG'llC it. The result is known as vice or crime, because such vic- tory at the weakest part of the line is al- ways not only dangerous to others but sure to prove delusive and degrading for the victor. In such men the mainspring is not lacking: on the contrary, it may be too strong, and its owner willing to pay too great a price for its up-keep. The trouble is not with the mainspring but with its indispensable escapement. Lis- ten to l\f ulvaney of "Soldiers Three": "Me hide's wore off in patches; sinthry- go has disconceited me, an' I'm a married n1an, tu. But I've had my day, I've had my day, an' nothin' can take away the taste av that! Oh, me time past, whin I put me fut through ivry livin' wan av the Tin Commandmints between revelly and lights out! . .. Ivry woman that was not a witch was worth the runnin' afther in those days, an' ivry man was my dear- est frind or-I had stripped to hinl an' we knew which was the betther a v the tu." Whether rich or poor, sane or insane, sober or intoxicated, virtuous or vicious- to be a person is to wish for the san1e fundamental satisfaction-to count one among other persons-to have life and have it more abundantly. The part our bodies play both in satis- fying the hankerings of the spirit and in fashioning the feelings by which our spir- its, from day to day and moment to mo- ment, ceaselessly concern themselves to measure our worth as humans among hu- mans-this is what we have somehow contrived largely to o\yerlook. For in this constant reckoning of our value to others and ourselves, these feelings have no choice but to accept the testimony of muscle as well as lnind, of sinew as well as spirit. "Ninety-eight per cen t of all the huge and costly strikes which we were called upon to settle finally simmered down to nothing but a difficulty between one fore- man and one man," reports a member of the War Lahar Board. From observation I would hazard that the majority of this lVIAINSPRINGS OF MEN 98 per cent occurred when one of the two persons was suffering from that" 1. 'n't." of "tiredness and temper" which fairly yearns for the opportunity to explode. Such a let-go relieves that emotional pres- sure which folJows when either the body's weariness or illness or the soul's "hurt that honor feels," brings about a lessening of the certainty of our self-worth, and so, automatically although unconsciously, calls out to our defense the reserves of in- creased sensi ti veness. Domestic felicity as well as industrial peace would undoubtedly increase if only it were some one's business to raise a red flag whenever one of any two of us is thus in the mood that itches to camou- flage our doubt about ourselves by an impressive, and therefore reassuring, show of force against the slightest imag- inable threat. Such a flag with its "Dan- ger! High Explosive About!" would be far from enough when both of any two of us thus became "pressure-poisoned" at the same time; four would be better, for the danger has much more than doubled! "The way to a man's heart is through his stomach"-thus women have for ages made a highly practical, though un- doubtedly one-sided, improvement upon the theologians who have pictured soul and body as a sort of innocent canary and hungry cat perpetually eying each other through the bars of self-control. "The war-brides, brought back from 'the tight little isle' by our soldier-boys," so a writer counsels, "will do well to re- member that unless care is taken love will fly out of the window when English cook- ing comes in at the door." " '\V e made a huge mistake; we were not meant to marry,' so I told my hus- band shortly after our marriage," reports a friend. '" No, my feelings have not been hurt,' I told him. 'In fact, I have never thought anything through so logi- cally in all my life as during this night of wakefulness. The conclusion is inescap- able; my bag is packed!' "Luckily, Dick had noticed the way our bodies are constan tl y walking in to the very centre of our thinkings through our feelings. He saved the day-or rather all these past years-for both of us. He shook his finger at me with his, 'You know, Anne, I warned you at din- ner last night not to eat that salad!' 239 And we've been living happily ever after." Perhaps the judges of the criminal as well as of the divorce courts might wisely warn us against such gastronomic dan- gers. \Vho has not encoun tered in these perplexing days more than a few salads that stop little short of murder! Vast enough-and far-reaching-sure- ly, is the open door of our feelings through which the hankerings, the poisons, and the appetites of our bodies join in with the hopes, the hurts, and the passions of our spirits in measuring the distances and directions we have travelled-or wish still to travel-from the hateful Nirvana of personal and social nothingness. But it is made still vaster by this far-reaching fact: The feelings which follow from this cease- less compounding of our current sensation, sentiment, and sense affect our attitudes, and so our actions, less in accordance with time than with intensity. "l\lany 's the time I have seen a lion, trained by a whole life of careful han- dling," testifies an expert, "driven back to the jungle spirit-perhaps never to return -by so little as five minutes of cruel treatmen 1." "He luv'd him like a vera brither: they had been drunk for weeks taegither!" is the way Bobbie Burns seems to have ob- served how humans are bound to each other, not by the length of their acquaint- ance, but by the intensity of the emo- tions which they have lived through to- gether. The writer of the paper-backed thriller has erred only in making too much use of the :same phenomenon; too many pages are apt to cut across the years by explaining how: "She never knew she loved him un til he stood beside her at her father's open grave!" "Funny"--so the doughboy back from France ruminates puzzledly-" how some officers would hardly so much as speak to us-until we got into a front-line barrage. A few hours of that-and, say! from that day to this they'd take their shirts off their backs for us-and we for them!" Friends or enemies? Amalgamation with, and undying loyalty for, this group and "agin" that? The question is not decided according to the duration of superficial contact or identity of opinion 240 l\I:\I SPRJXGS OF IEN on non-essentials. It is a question of the success or failure with which we emerge from the supreme test of going through one of life's high moments in cOlllpany with another. In the heat of the supreme emotion of those rare nloments when our soul's worth is either mortally threatened or, perhaps, receiving its baptislll in the sacred fire of exalted and unquestioned certainty-it is then that we forge the loyalties or the antipathies which bind our later interests, attitudes, and actions with unyielding hoops of steel. Such a heat may cause that sudden intensity of injured feeling which seeks immediate out- let and relief in the blow that delh'ers an undreallled-of force-and on the instant turns its deliverer into a murderer! Or it may cause that I-just-must-tell-some- one feeling, which, if chronically unsatis- fied, may spell suicide or other madness. It is a sad commentary, incidentally, on the present decline of the pastoral func- tion of our city churches that our daily newspapers have to offer our pressure- troubled fellows the relief of a sympa- thetic ear in columns bearing, in certain cities, such titles as: "Tell it to l\tlrs. Maxwell" or "Cry on Gwendolyn's Shoulder" ! Needless to say, it is exactly the pres- sure heat of such high moments that serves to fuse the nonnal peace-time multitude of conflicting view-points into the unity of fighting patriotism which supplies those super-energies for repelling to the' uttennost the mortal assault upon the nation's life. It is by means of this same heat, also, that every conflict in in- dustry serves to bind together the menl- bers of the threatened group with the cement of such a near-fanatic zeal as may defy all efforts at reasonable discussion for years to come. "Something has made these nlachinist fellows feel that they aren't measuring up -aren't holding up their end-as well as before. I wonder what it is?" Surely the hurrying "super" could wisely rumi- nate on this-and that without troubling himself with the "repressions," "com- plexes," "sublimates," etc., of the psycho- analyst, seeing that his group of tool- makers is too numerous, and so too nor- mal, to call for the alienist or the inter- preter of dreams, however helpful these might be in the case of separate individu- als. Even as it is, the super's rmnination is not simple. For the pressure of ma- chinist dissatisfaction which seeks outlet and relief through revolt is certain to he the result of some measurelllent uncon- sciously reckoned not only amid the in- finitely intricate, unstable, and dangerous delicacies and sensitivenesses described, but reckoned also upon the basis of such a "relativity" as would perplex an Ein- stein! Of this last, more next month. l\Iean- while, it is obvious that we cannot hope to know the underlying reasonableness- the true humanness-of our neighbor's action until we know the thought behind it. That thought behind it, in turn, re- mains beyond our ken until we know its genealogy-the directing wish which, ac- cording to the proverb, is its father, and the surrounding spiritual and physical environment which, through its restric- tions and releases as discovered by the feelings, comes qui te as truly to be its mother. "In five years of bein' a machinist, I have almost never had as dirty a face as YOlt have every day!" Thus a railway mechanic administered to llle a well-de- served rebuke. I had ll1ade the mistake of assuming that work which necessitated an extremely dirty pair of hands thereby rendered inescapable a dirty face. To-day great numbers of our friends have become convinced-and depressed because convinced-that a permanently and hopelessly dirty and degraded face must be accepted by modern society un- less somehow men can be brought out of the greasy shops or the grimy n1ines, or perhaps be relieved of their tiny fraction of an infinitely suhdividedfactoryprocess, and endowed wi th the supposed nobility of the ancient craftsman-if not, indeed, given the luxurious dignity of complete white-handed leisure as administrators of a socialist or cOlllmunist state which knows not tears because it knows not gold. Are these the inevitable alternatives? Before we decide let us see how the mas- ter wish for worth of our thesis jibes or fails to jibc with the master necessity of work of these modern times, and so ac- counts or fails to account for the war or the peace of twentieth-century industry- in next nlonth's .:\IAGAZINE. fji"- -==== AS I LIKE IT . . . .. ' .--;k."'. _ -:7". BY WILLIAI'v\ LYON PHELPS .. TN . ----./" I T seems strange to me that among the "reforms" which have been suggested in Dlodern education clurin the last forty years, no one has ventured to attack the study of mathematics. It is always assumed by the ignorant, that Latin and Greek are useless studies, and that nlathe- matics are valuable and practical. The truth is, that for eyery occupation except one for which higher nlathematics are a prerequisite, like civil engineering, Greek and Latin are more useful. l"or the preacher, the lawyer, the doctor, the jour- nalist, and for nearly all business men, the classics are more important than nlathe- matics. Training in these ancient lan- guages, with the accompanying culture and history, with the aid given to the Dleaning of English words and to the mas- tery of English style and e pression- where does the binomial theorenl stand in comparison? That a sound education in Latin and Greek is of value in public life may be ob- sen'ed by regarding the leading English statesmen of to-day and of the immediate past. Did these studies unfit men like Gladstone, Balfour, and Lord l\Iorley for practical affairs? J believe in the equal dignity of all suh- jects of learning. But it seems absurd for a university to require neither I..atin nor Greek for a Bachelor of Arts degree, and yet insist on the higher mathematics. I would at least allow every student a free choice as between cla5sics and mathe- nlatics. And if I were a pupil, I should not hesitate a nloment. I have no doubt that for those who have a natural aptitude for the study, mathe- matics are valuable as intellectual disci- pline and training, whether one will use them definitely or not. They are partic- ularly valuable for novelists and play- wrights. But for those who have no gift and no inclination, nlathematics are often worse than useless-they are a positive injury. Because I was forced to' do so, I YOLo LXXIII.-16 studied nlathematics faithfully and (on- scien tiously fronI the age of three to the age of twenty-one; that is, from the time I first \Vent to school until the end of mv junior year in college. After long divÍ- sian, it is my conviction that nearly every hour pent on the subject was thrown away. It was worse than thrown away; the time would have heen better em- ployed in manual labor, in outdoor exer- cise, or in sleep. Iathematics were a constant discouragement and heart-break; the harder I worked, the less result I ob- tained. lIow bitterly I regret thos.' hours and days and weeks and months and years, which Dlight have heen so much more profitably employed on studies that would have stimulated my Dlind in- stead of stupefying it! I was always an ambitious student, and wished to excel; therefore it was neces- 5ary for Dle to put Illore time on mathe- matics than on anv other cour:,e. Even !:IO, my grade in lúathematics was never high, and I could not possibly have been graduated fronl Yale were it not that in other subjects I stood so well that DIY failures in mathematical e a:ninations were treated with leniencv. \Vhich fact leads me to tate that scores of fairly intelligent AIllerican boys have heen deprived of the a(h'antages of a college education because of their in- ahility to attain a pa sing grade in mathe- matics. Thev have been sacrificed year after year to'" this Ioloch-is it worth while? I alll aware that Henry Adams, in hi:-; autobiography, regretted that he had not rccei\"ed more instruction in higher mathe- lnatics. But surelv his view of life \Va::; pessimistic enough-.without that. Let me repeat. I anI not saying fur e\'ery one tlus study is fruitless or harnl- ful. I make only two poinG. First, that fur the average man or \\oman, the clas- sics are more valuable than mathematics; econd, that in a liberal college cour e, 2.Jl 2-t2 _\5 I LIKE IT mathematics should be offered to all and forced on none. It is pleasant to remember that not all ambassadors to America are politicians; the visits of opera-singers, actors, and novelists are a civilizing influence. A feature of the present theatrical season is the presentation of French plays by mem- bers of the Comédie Française; I wish that Cecile Sorel would give us an opportunity to see and hear her in Alfred de l\1 usset's charming and stately comedy, "Les Ca- prices de l\Iarianne." Of all the pieces, ancient and modern, that I have seen at the Théâtre Français, I think that par- ticular play, with Mlle. Sorel as the hero- ine, made the most beautiful and the most lasting impression. It was a combination of the three arts of painting, poetry, and music. I was fortunate enough to hear the :first performance of the opera, "Die W alküre," at the ietropolitan this season. It was certainly the best cast assembled in any German opera in America since the days before the war; in fact, it was as good a cast as could probably be gathered to- gether anywhere in the world at this mo- ment. l\lr. Taucher made his American début as Siegmund; it was an important occasion, for it is expected that he will be the leading Wagnerian tenor for the sea- son. He more than fulfilled expectations -his voice is a true tenor, not a high bary- tone; the first notes he released sent a thrill of satisfaction through the house. His acting was intelligent and manly, his figure astonishingly graceful for a German tenor. l\Iiss Jeritza was, of course, splen- did as Sieglind; she was the chief acquisi- tion of the !\Ietropolitan forces last year, and she is never disappointing. The love scene in the first act could hardly have been nearer perfection. The veteran 'Vhitehill, who was something of a veteran when I heard him in "Tannhäuser" at Bayreuth in 1904, is always a capable ,V otan; his voice, however, is becoming worn. Paul Bender, of 1\Iunich, who made his first trip to America in 1922, was a superb Hunding, in appearance, manner, and voice. He is one of the best bass singers in the world. A man of colossal stature, like most of the great bassos, Edouard de Reszké, Plançon, Chaliapin, he is a consummate artist, with a magnifi- cent organ. Before the war, in residence at 1\iunich, I heard him twice a week at the opera for six months, and he was alwavs fine. Former visitors to l\Iunich will emember with delight the glorious singing of the barytone Feinhals, who seemed ever to be above his average; in such different rôles as Don Giovanni and \Votan he was absolutely satisfying. I hope very -much that we may have the opportuni ty of hearing Bender sing the part of Wotan in "Die Walküre"; it is usually sung by a barytone; Edouard de Reszké declined it, because he thought the music too high for his voice. Wagner, however, left it on record that he pre- ferred to have this part sung by a "high bass" rather than a barytone. In the season of 1911-12 l\Ir. Bender attempted it at Munich, and the critics were wildly enthusiastic. Curiously enough, that pessimist and atheist, Schopenhauer, thought that" Die W alküre" was immoral and ought not to be allowed on the stage; it is perhaps for- tunate that we never apply the tests of realism to so romantic an art. \Vhen he read the score, he wrote on the margin of the Siegmund-Sieglind duet in the first act, words like" horrible!" "shameful!" and finally, at the stage direction, "Cur- tain," he wrote, "It is high time!" The death of Arthur Nikisch is an irrep- arable loss. He was undoubtedly the fore- most orchestra conductor in the world. Fortunately for me, I was a graduate stu- dent at Harvard when he :first came to this country to direct the Boston Sym- phony; so that I had every opportunity to see him in action. He was the :first man I ever saw conduct an orchestra without the score; al though the great Hans von Bülow, whom I heard only as a pianist, used to have not only no score himself, but sometimes he would not allow the players to have any. It must have been inspir- ing to see the whole band, with no sheets of paper, and no music-racks, their eyes on their leader, playing away for their lives. Arthur Nikisch was my idol from the first day. His striking personality hypnotized not only the players, but the audience; I remember his coming once to l\1unich, and conducting the opera" l\Ieis- tersinger"; the orchestra rose to vertigi- AS I LIKE IT nous heights. Another great conductor is \Veingartner; one of the events of my life was a l\Iay evening in Paris, in 1912, when he conducted the French Orchestra Colonne in the Ninth Symphony. In America to-day we have a leader of genius in Leofold Stokowski, who, backed by the enthusiastic support of citizens, has made the Philadelphia Orchestra the best in our country. So far as I know, the Ninth Symphony was not once given last year in the East- ern States; nor do I know of any prepara- tions for it this season. No year should pass without its being played. The first time I heard it was in 1889, when young \Valter Damrosch conducted-I have been grateful to him ever since. The choral part makes it difficult to produce; but the choral part is the least interesting, and if it be impossible to assemble a com- pany of singers every year, why not play the symphony up to the vocal conclusion? Since I mentioned the Ignoble Prize in the November number, candidates have been suggested to me from all over the country. There are evidently many brave men and women in our land. Eventually I may be hoisted by my own petard. The" l\Iona Lisa," which is one of my favorite works of art, has been sub- mitted by three different persons, who ap- parently believe her to be no better than a vampire; but the unkindest cut of all was "Treasure Island," which I think is the best novel Stevenson ever wrote, and one of the romantic masterpieces of all literature. I make no complaint-this kind of thing is just what I expected, and I am sure I cannot possibly be shocked more than my own list shgcked others. In The Outlook for November 15 there is a delightful leading article by Lawrence Abbott, in which he states that he has never been able to read Dante. "There are lines and metaphors and sÍ1niles and detached ideas to which Dante has given c'Xpression that are, of course, beautiful and appealing. But as for taking a vol- ume of Dante's poems down from the shelf for unconscientious and spontaneous refreshment and beauty, as one takes down Calverley's 'Theocri tus,' or Keats or Browning, or Iontaigne, or James Howell's Letters, or three or four of the sonnets of Shakespeare, or three or four 2-t3 of the Psalms ascribed to David, or even the intricate but somewhat mysteriously appealing verses of Emily Dickinson-he simply cannot do it." \\Tell, in the consensus of critical opin- ion, Dante is one of the four greatest poets of the world, the other three being Homer, Shakespeare, Goethe. And yet, I am so far in agreement with Ir. Abbott that with the exception of "Hell," I practically never read Dante. I am bored by "Pur- gatory," and I find "Paradise" insuffera- bly dull. I wonder how many general readers, when they think of Dante, think only of "Hell"? Everyone to his taste. In my own mental life, Goethe has meant a thousand times more to me than Dante. Perhaps because I read him of tener. Had I studied Dante as I have studied Goethe, probably I should be a Dante enthusiast. l\lr. Abbott has guessed my object in founding the Ignoble Prize when he says: "It is designed to develop truthfulness." Precisely so; and if in some minds it should develop cleverness at the expense of truth, I cannot help that. The spiri- tual climate of the twentieth century i:-; unfavorable enough anyhow; it cannot be made much worse by a little cleverness; whereas falsehood and hypocrisy will make it inlPossible for anyone ever to be- come a critic, or indeed to become any- thing. 'Vith reference to m\- remarks on the unh-ersal interest in sport, the president of one of our high-class universities v:rites me as foHows: "Your Doctor of Divinitv who read the sporting page before he reael the war news would think charitably of a Doctor of Divinit\- (most reverend and lovable) by whose .side I sat in his great city church on a recent Sunday morning. As the organ boomed over our heads the dear man inclined toward me and whis- pered some words. '''hat words of like dignity with the organ p dude the con- gregation imagined hinl to e saying, I do not know. 'Vhat he did say was: 'How did your team come out yesterday?'" I am glad that among the unofficial am- bassadors from Europe, "we have with us" Hugh 'Valpole. Hè came in October and will stay until June. Iany British no\-c1ists come to be seen rather than heard; Lut lr. "'a/pole is an interesting 2-l-t AS I LIKE IT and accomplished public speaker, and would be well worth hearing if he had never published a line. His talks are frank, urbane, intimate; and although I am far from being in agreement with many of his critical opinions, I keenly en- joy hearing him express them. The ap- pearance of his latest novel synchronized with his own, and "The Cathedral" is by all odds his best book. Up to this time I preferred "The Green 1\Iirror" to his other writings; but he has now surpassed that. In "The Cathedral" we have a real story with real characters; the tragic fate of the archdeacon is not caused by bad luck or by a series of accidents, as is so often the case even in so accomplished a master as Thomas Hardy, but is in- herent in his own character. He was es- sentially a good man, but exactly the kind of man who is doomed. Canon Ronder is 'a subtle politician, presented with ex- traordinary skill; in fact, the only person in the book who seems to be not wholly realized by the author is the arch- deacon's son, Falk. He is described in advance as a kind of Siegfried, but he seems to me both tame and pale. I like the story immensely; yet I cannot share the novelist's view that the cathedral it- self is sinister; to me there is no building at once so beautiful and so friendly as a cathedral. A sailing ship on the sea, and a cathedral on the land-these are the loveliest things in the world. I am glad that the publishers are issuing a uniform edition of 1\lr. Walpole's novels; the earliest one, "The Prelude to Adven- ture," gives an excellent picture of Cam- bridge University. Nothing is more diffi- cult apparently than to write a convincing story of college life; no one has ever fully succeeded in the attempt. (There is only one novel of school life that is completely successful-"Tom Brown at Rugby.") The first half of "Tom Brown at Oxford" is very fine (I always had a certain ad- miration for Drysdale). Among contem- porary books, good stories of ]ife at Cam- bridge, are Archibald lVlarshall's "Peter Binney" and E. F. Benson's "The Babe, B. A.," and for Oxford perhaps the best is Compton l\;lackenzie's "Sinister Street." I t is a curious thing that so many modern English novels of school life represent the particular school in question as a sink of iniquity and a place of torture-if a man thinks of his old school that way, he was perhaps just as popular there as he de- served to be. l\Iore and more frequently .American students are going to England for gradu- ate studies; and those who can afford to pay their way are beginning to prefer Cambridge to Oxford. Their reason is a good one. What with the Rhodes schol- ars, and the multitude of other foreign- ers, Oxford is now somewhat interna- tional in atmosphere; and as one of the chief reasons for going abroad is to leave all home associations, it is better to go where you can keep away from your fel- Jow countrymen. Cambridge is the most English spot on earth; in customs and tra- ditions it is more conservative than Ox- ford, another reason for going thither. What a curious literary accident it is that Cambridge should have had nearly aU the English poets! Theoretically, it ought not to have been so, for in times past Oxford has emphasized the classics, and Cambridge mathematics. Yet in the whole course of English history Oxford never had but one first-rate English poet, Shelley, and she expelled him, in order to keep the record clear; whereas Cambridge has Spenser, l\iarlowe, l\lilton, Herrick, Dryden, Gray, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Byron, Tennyson. Burton J. Hendrick's "Life of \Valter H. Page" is a notable biography, and one of the outstanding books of 1922. 1\lr. Hendrick is a Yale graduate, and in his senior vear was one of the editors of the Yale Literary .L [ agazine, founded in 1836 by William 1\1. Evarts. He is a thor- oughly comp.tent biographer, and has performed his task in a workmanlike manner, keeping himself in the back- ground, and turning the light on his hero. In a certain sense, this is a biographical history in the traditional manner, for Page is the hero, and 1\lr. Hendrick writes in hearty admiration. The old method was to select a man because he was worth writing about, and to prove that fact; the ultra-modern method is not to select a hero but a victim; and to score off him as often as possible. Thus many contem- porary biographies are really autobiog- raphies, where we are invited to admire the living author's gifts for sensational AS I LIKE IT anecdote and ironical wit. )lr. Hen- drick's method is scrupulously objective. It is interesting to see how Page grew away from and overcame his early preju- dices. He was born and brought up in the South, and when he was studying later at Johns Hopkins, under the incompara- ble Gilderslee\Oe, he had not shaken off anything. For the first time he met a student from the North, and wrote: "He is that rare thing, a Yankee Christian gentleman." He hated one of the faculty and wrote that he was "a native of Con- necticut, and Connecticut, I suppose, is capable of producing any unholy human phenomenon." He met an attractive foreign girl, which led him to the following meditation: "The little creature might be taken for a Southern girl, but never for a Yankee. She has an easy manner and even an air of gentility about her that doesn't appear north of l\1ason and Dixon's line." Ir. Hendrick justly re- marks: "This sort of thing is especially entertaining in the youthful Page, for it is precisely against this kind of com- placency that, as a mature man, he di- rected his choicest ridicule." Personally I find these early years more interesting than the later ones; but I suppose nine out of ten readers will be chiefly attracted to the chapters dealing with Page's career as ambassador to England, from 1913 till his death. He was an excellent ambassador, but I do not think he should necessarilv be praised for wisdom and foresight in his eagerness to have .America enter the war. Living as he did in England, meeting daily leading statesmen and society personages, he could hardly have felt otherwise. He was in a most uncomfortable position, and behaved extremely well; but I have little sympathy with his impatience to- ward President \Vilson, natural as it was. England, of course, wished America to enter the war at once; but it was the mani- fest duty of the President of the United States not to do what other nations wanted him to do, but to do what seemed to hin1 best for the country whose execu- tive he was. 6\ statesman is a doctor, his country the patient; it is his duty to keep the patient alhoe as long as possible, and in gooj condition. I care as little for self- ish hatred as I do for hypocritical friend- ship. 245 The two autobiographies by Augustus Thomas and John Drew, which appeared simultaneously, will be widely read and appreciated. 1\1r. Thomas is an engineer, a philosopher, a public speaker, a humor- ist, an athlete, a cartoonist, a theologian, an executive business man, an actor, a playwright. It is essential that he should write a sequel to this volume, for the sim- ple reason that his eminence comes chiefly from his original dramas; and there is not nearly enough in these entertaining pages to satisfy public curiosity. One feels after reading this book that whatever fame and emolument lr. Thomas now enjoys, he richly deserves; I wonder how many men, even with the requisite ability, would be willing to endure the physical hardships and deferred hopes that were his daily fare for many years? \Ve have here the life-story of an American who wen t forward simply because moving in any other direction never occurred to him; his natural gifts and good family inheri- tance were reinforced by indomitable energy, by a power of will that grew by what it fed on. The book is a soliloquy rather than a literary composition. It was dictated, this method producing exactly the opposite result to that ob- servable in the case of Henry James. It was only after he began dictating that the novelist's style became hopelessly in- volved and" ultra-literary," whereas Ir. Thomas is unashamedly colloquial. His dramatic masterpiece, "The '''"itch- ing Hour," was a natural product of his interest in the occult; and the pages deal- ing with that marvellous person, \Vash- ington Irving Bishop, who, like D. D. Home, did many things that have never been explained, are full of challenge. J was particularly impressed by Bishop's finding a word that 1r. Thomas had se- lected in a book; for precisely the same thing happened to me, and I have no solu- tion and no theory. I was sitting in a hotel in Ientone, watching with sc.eptical amusement the tricks of a pair of travel- ling adventurers, when suddenly the gypsy-looking man turned to me and in- formed the audience that if I would select a word in a big book I was holding, his wife would find it immediatelv. She was on the other side of the rooni'. I opened the book slightly, so that no one could see 2-t6 AS I LIKE IT the page, and then I placed my finger on a very common word, and closed the vol- ume. The man made passes at his wife; she advanced across the room, like a som- nambulist, took the book from my hands, turned instantly to the page, and placed her finger on the right word. I haven't got o\'er it yet. Praise should be gi\'en the publishers for making "The Print of l\Iy Remem- brance" such a light book. It is a fat volume, and has nearly five hundred pages; but it is delightfully easy to hold in the hand. Twenty years ago I started a campaign for light books. At that time I could always tell whether or not a book was printed in America, merely by "heft- ing" it. English books were always light, and ours the reverse. To-day the major- i ty of good books in America are easy to hold; the ideal is dull paper, black type, and light weight. There is no longer any excuse for the old monstrosity of shiny, eye-killing paper, thin type, and weight so ponderous that to read the book becomes a. gymnastic, rather than a literary, exer- CIse. Speaking of books printed in America, it is much better to have that legend shown on the reverse of the title-page than at the end of the volume, where it so often makes an anti-climax. A novel's last page will sometimes read like this: "She pressed her lips to his. Printed in the United States of America." John Drew's "l\iy Years on the Stage" is charming, because John Drew wrote it; how could it be otherwise? He is a gen- tleman by nature, breeding, and training, also by personal preference. With his infallible good taste he chose an ideal mother. Never shall I forget the last time I saw her on the stage. It was in New Haven, on the night of l\tlay 8, 1896. An all-star cast was performing in the "Rivals "-Jefferson, Goodwin, 'Vilson, Crane, Julia l\Iarlowe, and others. l\tIrs. Drew was seventy-seven years old, and never acted better. In a rôle so easy to overdo, she was perfection. Not content with ordinary applause, the students in the audience burst into wild cheering. The dear old lady came before the curtain, and threw a kiss like a queen. Booth Tarkington, in his entertaining preface, speaks of his delight in the Daly performances when he was a boy at Ex- eter; at the same moment I was an under- graduate at Yale, and his graceful tribute beautifully expresses my own feelings. Those were great nights at Daly's, with l\tlr. Drew, Miss Rehan, lVlrs. Gilbert, l\1r.. Lewis, Mr. Lel\loyne, and the rest. \Ve live them over again in this book. (Here I learn for the first time the origin of the name Ada Rehan.) The reason why John Drew always got along so well with l\Ir. Daly, l\iiss Rehan, 1\fiss Adams, l\Ir. Charles Frohman, and with everyone else, is never mentioned, but how plain it is! The theatrical season of 1922-23 has been notable for the number and excel- lence of Shakespearian performances. \Valter Hampden, one of the most gifted of American actors, is appearing in "Hamlet," " l\1acbeth," "Othello," " 1\ler- chant of Venice"; incidentally I pay hom- age to him for reviving that wonderful old comedy of l\Iiddleton's, "A New \Vay to Pay Old Debts." As I write these lines, David Warfield is rehearsing for Shylock, Ethel Barrymore and Jane Cowl the rôle of Juliet, and John Barrymore has just electrified New York with his interpreta- tion of Hamlet. This performance, under the direction of Arthur Hopkins, and with the scenery designed by Robert Edmund Jones, is magnificently successful. It takes four hours and twenty minu tes, and there is literally not one dull moment. 1fr. Barrymore is excellent from begin- ning to end, and in the last scene best of all. The play is beautifully mounted, and leaves the mind of the spectator full of pictures. I think, though, that the Ghost ought to appear in the early scenes, for Horatio gives a detailed account of the apparition to Hamlet. A column of light, with a yoice coming off stage, is not effec- tive. I suppose there never was a greater Ghost in "Hamlet" than Lawrence Bar- rett; I saw him when he was acting with Edwin Booth; and I have never heard the lines spoken so impressively. It is inter- esting to observe to-day that our most popular actors and actresses, who could fill a house with any modern play, deliber- ately prefer Shakespeare; and as I was fol- lowing the scenes of" Hamlet" last week, I could not help thinking once more that Shakespeare's supremacy in poetry is no more evident than his supremacy as a THE POINT OF VIF\Y playwright. Noone apparently ever so well understood the theatre. An interesting new hook is "\Vhittier's Unknown Romance," giving for the first time his letters to Elizabeth Lloyd. His kindness and boundless charity are all the more remarkable when we remember that he was a lifelong sufferer from two ail- ments that would have soured the average man-dyspepsia and insomnia. This is an important work, but the editor seems to think it is \Vhittier's only love-story. I happened to discover years ago that he was in love with Cornelia Russ, of Hart- ford, and the letter in which he asked her to marry him, I published in the Century J[ agazinc for l\lay, 1902. 1\lr. Pickard immediately declared it to be a forgery, but when I showed him the original, he admitted its genuineness. Then T. W. 247 Higginson, in his "Life of \Vhittier," cited Pickard as proof that my letter was false, and on my requesting him to have the statement corrected, declined to do so, on the ground that it would cost too much to change the plates. \Vhittier, like most men, was a sentimentalist, and fell deeply in love several times. And anyone who doubts the sincerity of his passion has only to read his letter to Iiss Russ. I see that many are now engaged in drawing up lists of the greatest living men. A list of the first ten in America was widely circulated last summer. Arnold Bennett has recently prepared a Big Six for England, which contains the names of Wells, Shaw, Hardy, Asquith, and two dark horses. If I had under oath to name the greatest living American in 1923, he would be John Singer Sargent. TI-E POINT OF V1EW T o reduce or not reduce, that is the question agitating many a feminine and not a few masculine minds. \Vhether it is better to turn a deaf ear to the cynical flings of one's fellows, let out one's clothes, and buy a pair of arch-sup- ports, or to seek some royal road whereon one may add light-ob- structing substance to his anatomy, and yet, somehow, find his shadow grow less. But why reduce? Did not Doctor Eb- stein, the great German professor of reduc- tion, himself apply the word "enviable" to us welJ-nourished, well-rounded individu- als? True, he said we might some day merge into the" ridiculous," and later join the ranks of the "pitiable," but-. \\Tords are historic and the dictionary bristles with evidence of the enviousness of the lean and skinny. Over against" frugal feeder," there stand such epithets as "gorger," "gorman- dizer," "crammer," "stuffer"; for "one who eats sparingly" there are not only" those who eat their fill," but those" who handle a good knife and fork," or those (( who have the stomach of an ostrich"; the "abstemi- On Reducing ous" dyspeptic has spent his time devising such terms as "guzzler," "greedy," "gul- ous"; the stingy "scanty eater" styles us "hoggish," "swinish," "voracious," even " ravenous"; and the" Lenten diner" looks upon us as "luxurious," "high livers," and, coarsely, "greedy guts." \Yhat say the philosophers to this mo- mentous business of reducing? \" e know not the dimensions of Boswell nor his rea- sons for approaching the ponderous Doctor Johnson on the subject, but the philoso- pher's blunt answer was material and uncon- vincing. Here is the conversation: " Boswell. ' You see one man fat who eats moderately, and another lean who eats a great deal.' "Johllson. 'Xay, sir, whatever may be the quantity that a man eats, it is plain that if he is too fat, he has eaten more than he should have done. One man may have a digestion that consumes food better than common; but it is certain that solidity is increased by putting something to it.' "Boswell. 'But may not solids swell and be distended?' 248 THE POI T OF YIE\Y " ] o1znsoll. ' Yes, sir, they may swell and be distended; but that is not fat.' " After all, does eating have anything to do with it? Did not l\Irs. Hawkins a hundred years ago inform us of how ::\Iiss l\Iendax "lived for a long time on a biscuit a day, but she evidently did not reduce on it." And yet it was all she had to live on "ex- cepti g only what she picked up in her travels about the house." The doctors know no more than the phi- losophers as to what makes for bulk. There was that man Banting and his follmvers who delighted in starving their fellows, and there was that old Dutchman, Boerhaave of Ley- den, who somehov{ made for himself a repu- tation in his day and was correspondingly conceited. So high-handed did he become that when a certain rich merchant of Am- sterdam asked him to take his case, he would have nothing to do with him unless he come to Leyden, and bring his three hun- dred and fifty pounds avoirdupois 011 fool. It was a goodly journey, and there was bag- gage to carry besides the three and half hundredweight. True, in this pilgrim's progress the rich Amsterdamer had daily to shorten his belt and daily became lighter of foot, but after he reached Leyden the im- pudent Boerhaave put him to work sawing wood. He lost half his weight and "lived as healthy as a fish to a good old age," so this history reads, but it was a crude and sad method, though such as we would ex- pect from a medical man. But we live in happier days. Opera- singers now advise us how, and itis so simple. You lift your left leg just so, eight times, then the other. You can do it in bed if you wish. There needs no pilgrimage to a physician in Amsterdam nor in New Am- sterdam. Still better, you can do it to music-a thrust here and a side step there, a bow to your right and a twist to your left, and, presto! in a moment-beiore break- fast, you are your own sylph-like self. Is it not all set down in the advertising column? It is so simple and easy, but, after all, why reduce? It's all a matter of taste. \\'hy should we enviable, well-rounded crea- tures be dominated by the envious lean and hungry? Is there no spot on earth where we are appreciated to the full? Yes, in far Arabia-fabled for all that is magical and beautiful, a woman (and, of course, a man) who has not the girth of a young camel is of little consequence. There, women are privileged to fill themselves, even as a Thanksgiving bird is stuffed, with bread- crumbs and fenugreek. Let those who will starve themselves, saw wood, or even lift up their limbs to music; we will dwell in the tents of the Arabs forever. W E find it delightfully relaxing having a hired man instead of a chauffeur. \Ve have tried both. \Ve had a chauffeur for several years, a handsome, debonair French-Canadian lad, Henri, with thick silky black hair, and b autiful white teeth. \Ve all liked him; oh, yes, we liked him exceedingly; but Our Hired :\Ian we could not live up to him, and so we were forced to let him go. The hu- miliating fact is-I blush to confess it-we were not aristocratic enough for him. You see, being born in the country, we still cling to some of our plebeian ways, and Henri (woe betide the person who called him Henry) just could not stand for plebeianism. \Ve live in the city now--otherwise we should never have known Henri-and own two motor-cars and a Ford, for which we need a driver. Having met Henri, and hav- ing viewed lvith favor his attractive person, we finally persuaded him to enter our em- ploy. For a time all went happily, and we congratulated ourselves upon our "trea- sure." \Ve were proud to sit in the back seat and to gaze upon Henri's straight, fine figure in its perfectly fitting, always carefully pressed uniform, and to note his skill as he guided the car. \,,"hile we were satisfied with Henri, Henri, alas, was not always satisfied with us, and our social position. If there was to be a wedding, or a large reception of any kind, he would say to one of us, "Are you goin' to the party, l\Iiss Betsey? It's goin' to be a swell one, I guess. They got an awnin' and cops!" and as we were seldom courageous enough to face the expression of disappoint- ment and disapproval in his bright, brown eyes if we had to tell him we were not in- vited, we often evaded the point by mur- muring something about another engage- ment, or not feeling well enough to go. Henri did his best to make us prominent and important. \Vhenever he called for us anywhere he would push ahead of all other machines, and when anyone reprimanded T1-IE POI T OF 'IE\V him for it, he would draw himself up and announce sternly, "This is the \\. ards' auto- mobile," as if that accounted for all rude- ness and allowed special privileges. Once in a bad storm, after he had driven us to the station in the Ford taxicab, a man, taking it for a public conveyance, started to get into it. \\'e turned to watch Henri's flaming cheeks, and to hear his withering voice say: "This is a private car." He drove away fully expecting, I am sure, to see the man shrink to invisibility. It was mortifying enough to be obliged to run a Ford without ha ving it mistaken for an ordinary taxi. As for charity work among the poor, Henri absolutely discouraged that; he did not care to have us visit in the "slums," and made his feelings so evident that we found it necessary to apologize every time we made such an excursion. Poverty he considered a disgrace, with which he and his "people" (meaning us) ought to have no dealings. \"hile he was with us, dancing was much in vogue. Apparently he was an adept in the terpsichorean art, if one could judge by his conversation on the subject, and he was sorry not to have us more intelligent about the one-step, the waltz, the fox-trot, and the tango. Although we honestly tried to un- derstand his technical remarks about them, we realized that we always failed. In this as in other things we were too slow for Henri. He liked to dash about the country --or city either-at fifty or sixty miles an hour, and resented our modest desire to travel at twenty or twenty-five. The" first families" travelled fast, and he wanted us to. \Ye embarrassed him by working about in our garden in disreputable old garments, or by using the hose. \Ye were not living up to our position. In another respect, too, we were lax. \Ve usually stayed in town in the summer. Now all of the aristocracy had country homes. Finally, fearing for our reputation, we took a house at the seashore. Henri was pleased. That was all we asked. Twice he achieved, I think, true happi- ness: once when he was privileged to drive Charles Evans Hughes, and again soon after when a real baroness honored our car. But we could not furnish such guests often, and reluctantly we told Henri he could go. \Ye did not tell him why-we dared not. Sadly we bade him good-by; sadly we watched him disappear around the corner. 2-t9 Then Gus came-not Gustave or Augus- tus, but plain Gus-our hired man. To be sure he wears a chauffeur's uniform part of the time, but one look at him convinces even the most sceptical that he belongs in over- alls and a straw hat. Gus is a conscientious, thoroughly reliable, stocky youth with pale light hair and faded blue eyes. He "works around the place." He does not care whether we are ever invited anywhere or not. He prefers a Ford to any other kind of car. He likes our old clothes as well as our better ones. He allows us to live in our city house in the summer. In short, Gus, like ourselves, came from the country, and we all understand one another perfectly. Occasionally we meet Henri speeding by in a. low , red racing-car. He speaks kindly and tolerantly to us. \Ve respond cordially; then we turn with joyous relief to Gus. F OR the male of the human species life has become just one darn shave after another. The safety-razor is emblem indisputable of modern man's subserviency to the decrees of custom. Formerly al- lowed to flourish like weeds on a pauper's grave, beards and whiskers are not On Wlúskers now quite in vogue. In this our and the Brutal I d f h f d . 1 Art of Shaving an 0 t e ree, mere man al y humbles himself before convention and strives to subdue these unpopular attributes of masculinity. Every morning an enor- mous mountain of lather is worked up on an infinite variety of chins, and a veritable wilderness of variegated stubble falls reluc- tantly under the savage onslaught of a myriad of razors. K or are the attacks al- ways bloodless. \Yhiskers may be super- fluous, unexplainable-but they do indeed make up one of life's stern realities. It is a far cry, expressed in years or miles, back to the Garden of Eden at the time when the well-known l\Ir. Adam and the original first lady of the land \vere renting the premises. "'hat is the connection be- tween Adam and whiskers, you ask? Sim- ply this: Adam had 'em-and they've been the sorrowful heritage of man ever since. Adam was required to remove to another residential district, because his giddy young wife disobeyed regulations concerning some of the property on the place. Xot only that, but he and his posterity were con- demned to lives of toil. And for a long 250 THE POINT OF VIE'V time the sons of Adam were pretty well occupied with getting a living. The cultivation of whiskers was only a side-line in the good old days. True, the Ioslems swore fervently: "By the Beard of the Prophet!" And in that crude age, when cold-cream was hard to obtain at any price, whiskers may have had an actual utilitarian value, in that they protected the tender, leathery skin of the caveman from sun and wind. The point, however, is that the old-timers had enough sense not to shave. They allowed nature to follow its course and let their whiskers blow where they listed. With his crude agricultural methods, Adam naturally had a hard time of it. In later centuries bread-winning has become vastly easier. The fact of original sin and the fact of whiskers, however, still remain. Adam's successors still have whiskers to contend with, a problem on their hands- or, rather, on their faces-to remind them of their humility, that life is a constant struggle. What a terrible judgment must some day fall upon the heads of those misguided zealots who have had the temerity to set customs in morals, in dress, or in personal habits for this sheep-like society! If that first vain meddler had not shaved, mankind would have been spared an annoyance that is positively staggering in the aggregate. \Ve know who discovered America; we are similarly aware of the perpetrator of the Eskimo Pie; but no man can say who was the first man to shave. \Yhen I was a child I washed as a child, holding my neck and ears peculiarly invio- late by soap and water, after the traditions of boyhood. Now that I have become a man I have put asidè.all such childish scru- ples. Then I saw in a glass-seldom; now I see myself clearly, face to face, very, very often, as I stand before my mirror, obeying that extra commandment of society that says: "Shave thy physiognomy religiously; for whiskers are unseemly, an abomination in the sight of society." l\Iodern society will have none of primitive facial embellish- ment. And so I have come into my in- heritance of the peculiarly masculine an- noyance of shaving. A beard is the most persistent thing in aU the world. Defeated, slain, it falls only to rise again. Upon the fertile hillsides of one's cheeks and chin, or in the shady nooks near the Adam's apple, it sprouts eternally. Like Tennyson's brook, I can imagine my beard vaunting its triumph, its ability to come back after each slaughter with re- newed vitality: .. You may hack and you may hoe, But I go on forever!" The safety-razor blade gives fair satisfac- tion the first time or two it is used, in order that its user may be deluded into buying more of the same brand. But after this brief period of efficiency it becomes a tor- ture device. Shaving becomes a matter of brute strength and stoical endurance-the same thing as stump-pulling on a smaller scale. Theoretically, a lather's function is to soften the beard and prepare it for the blade. Actually, it merely serves to pro- vide a soap-screen through which the blood- thirsty blade may sneak down upon the minor bumps, corners, and protuberances of one's face, and slice them off, under cover, with momentary impunity. When a sufficient amount of face and beard has thus been removed, we apply soothing lotions to an outraged epidermis, and repair the wreckage as best we can. Speak to me not of the martyrs of the Church, for they are as nothing compared to those millions of to-day who endure daily martyrdom under the razor. The blood of the martyrs would appear as the most in- significant of rivulets compared with the broad, red stream drawn from America's collective stubbled chin each morning. Shaving, we may conclude, is one of the prices we pay for being members of modern society. And I, of course, will continue to shave. There is a certain satisfaction, com- parable to none other, in being able to run one's hand over a temporarily beardless cheek and experience that profound com- placence, that sweet assurance that one has conformed to society's decree that he be smooth-shaven. One feels presentable then, even in this Ever-Ready-Autostrop-Gem of a world of ours. J, ,;,-:': / , j',j THE FIELD OF A T , _ .d - -==- . l. ....: í :- I "", I . , "!..-" : .:: .iií -.' . . . I " . I @ (--'"dint/ood & ['"dtru'oo,l. ï , I, i - I Pennsylvania Station, Xew York, McKim, Mead, and White, Architects. F or a Better Appreciatio11 of the Art of Architecture BY ÐE'YITT CLINTO POXD I LLrSTRATIOXS FRO:'.I PHOTOGR \PHS O F the masterpieces of all the arts those of architecture can be the most easily appreciated. This may seem to be a broad statement which would require qualification) but it is not made without careful consideration of fairly weIl- 1.nown facts. " hereas it takes a musician of some attainment to appreciate the works of Debussy or Tchaikovski) any person with ordinary faculties can appreciate the beauty of one of our most modern architectural achievements-the Cunard Building in New York. I ùelieve it is safe to say that this builòing, designed by Benjamin \\Ïstar l\forris) bears about the same relationship to the art of architecture as the Symphony l)athétique of Tchaikovski bears to music. Another of the arts-painting-undoubt- edly has a popular appeal, but even those who admire most of the work of our painters 110t only admit but demand that a knowl- edge of technique is required before one is qualified to appreciate their work. To cite even another type of art: the recent discus- sion over a work of sculpture in a K ew York park has called forth indignant protests to to the effect that of the value of such sculp- ture only artists are competent to juòge. Bearing this attitude in mind it is inter- esting to note the statement made to Ches- terton by an enthusiastic English friend as the two passed through the main waiting- room in the Pennsylvania Station in New York: "This is like a cathedral," he said. \ctually the classic vaulting resembles that of a great pagan natatorium rather than a Christian cathedral, but the technical inac- curacy of the description would be easily 25 1 252 THE FIELD OF ART overlooked by an architect, who would un- dèrstand the appreciation implied. There was no doubt about appreciation; it was simply evident that Chesterton's friend did not have at his command the technical words with which to express it in the patter of the architect. Examples of such non-technical appre- art receives is not always characterized by the utmost intelligence. I realize that one must have a boldness even to rashness to lay down rules with regard to the standards by which any art may be judged, but owing to the anarchy which reigns in the literary criticisms of architecture it might be wise to attempt to determine some fundamental rules which might be applied to such examples of the art as are worthy of critical notice. There really are two standards which common ex- perience would show are ap- plicable, neither one of which alone would be sufficient. The first one will appeal, I believe, to the great major- ity of Americans who have demanded that all things must be practical. There should not be much oppo- sition to the statement that in order to be regarded as an acceptable example of archi- tecture a building must fulfil the P ur p ose for which it has , '" -V0< ' : em g;ae:.be p il ed7 most cases to the plan of a structure rather than to its appearance, although, of course, it would be absurd to design a residence in such a manner that it would re- semble a factory, or a ware- house to appear as a pagan temple. 'Vith regard to the plan of a structure, almost anyone, by the exercise of judgment, can be a com- petent judge. If it is diffi- cult to find one's way around in a building, it is badly planned; if, on the other hand, all parts are accessible and easily reached, if there is no congestion or interference of any kind in passageways, if there is a minimum of space lost in corridors, stair- halls, and useless rooms, then the building is well planned. No great knowledge of 'the technique of architecture is required to understand this simple principle. To turn to the other standard, we all have knowledge of buildings which are admirably planned but which furnish no inspiration to " L' >:. .;;" : }:.::'>{ :\: L ::: ' .. .. '.,:, :, ,. ' ' "" '" ' l ' ': {" &: i-}r::' /{', ' . ,< ;:\ :1 ;;1!;/' , .,.. '. '- r:,, I > E;; ,: A., ", " ',i, "t:;, rL. " :", ,;' àl-' la' ! v . ' ; -; ' j " à , 4 , ,'. ,.';..., " , ' ' ";;' , ; 1_II,ft I-:> '," :". 'i' _ 'N,: " .. "'1'-: . - '\ - - I fl Q. ."" . 4"'- ':, ..... :,' .< ,t'J:;!} e ! ' " t/!? .,' >i"';, _. " , - '. r.,;_,.}, , '-' . ,- " ( , ""i'f r ;ø... "'{ . - .. . l ... . ;:", , .. - " , ' '...,( "'-" >, ., i' "', .:'.:i' ". /-t .'.; : ;....., : "' :': ;, ' :i of ...J )( , ',:,,'!'>' , ' , , ' A!..' ''"''p, ,,4 ,!. 'I q ' 0:, '< ; t :,.l: ! _' , ;F $ ,... ' '2:(- 1"., C, " f Ii> -...'. _', - ;' i; :. + .[, I -<.:. .'" _#__ . '., 'r" '. ; . .l;. l!:.f= I -- - k7 ; ':;:' , -;' .' ' , '-: ' ; -: '. :::: jl - · . ',' - :>, , : :,.:;; - 4 / . . _. .eN..:..:.' ' -...... ..,!! d'" " ' .- .: r . ' Kitchen. dining-hall. and Holder tower across the Little Court, Princeton University. Day and Klauder, Architects. ciation are very common. A woman who lives in a charming country residence, de- signed after the English half-timber style, said that her house was "like a church." She loved her house but simply did not understand the motives used, and efforts taken by the architect, in order to produce his results. It is evident, therefore, that in order to appreciate architecture it is not necessary to have knowledge of its technique. Such appreciation is far from being uni- versal, however, and even such notice as the ... ,'- .,. . 1'" ..... ,. . ..: '-. ':I , - ... <( , ,.. :" .. '( f II' , r:r . ; ... .. .... .. :,.r : I iJ ... "'" I! (. .. '- ... .,;:- .. , ,- t lot" ". J . . ...... . ... . " . The Columbia rniversity Library, New York. McKim, )Ieaò, and White, Architects, A calcnò.lr of current art exhibitions will Le founù on page 13. ... t' " I\, ." ; ;' -- . ..."." b 0 F. Schmidl. Drawn y . Y ' " .. A GUN BO . .. GRAB . " P age 316. . of Torowa, "Tbe Conversion, SCRIBNER'S. VOL. LX\III MAGAZINE Jl I RCH, 1923 !\TO. 3 A Son at the Front Bl" E])ITII 'YHAH.TOX XIV :JL Cl. Ä HEN Campton took his sketch of George I W I rJ to Léonce Black, the . " . dealer who specialized in " Camptons," he _I was surprised at the 7ÇlÄ magnitude of the sum which the great pic- ture-broker, lounging in a glossy \Var Of- fice uniform among his Gauguins and Vuil- lards, immediately offered. Léonce Black noted his surprise and smiled. " You think there's nothing do- ing nowadays? Don't you believe it, l\fr. Campton. Now that the big men have stopped painting, the collectors arc all the keener to snap up what's left in their portfolios." He placed the cheque in Campton's hand, and drew hack to study the effect of the sketch, which he had slipped into a frame against a velvet cur- tain. " Ah-" he said, as if he were tast- ing an old wine. As Campton turned to go the dealer's enthusiasm bubbled over. "Haven't you got anything more? Remember me if you ha \'e." U I don't sell my sketches," said Camp- ton. "This was exceptional-for a char- ity. . ." "I know, I know. 'VeIl, you're likely to have a good many more calls of the same sort before we get this war over," the dealer remarked philosophically. "Anyhow, remember I can place anything you'll give me. \Vhen people want a Campton it's to me they come. I've got standing orders {rom two clients. . . both given before the war, and both good to- day. " Campton paused in t}w doorway, seized by his old fear of the painting's assing into Anderson Brant's posses- SIOn. "Look here: where is this one going?" The dealer cocked his handsome grey head and glanced archly through plump eyelids. "Violation of professional se- crecy? \Vell... 'V ell... under con- straint I'll confess it's to a young lady: great admirer, artist herself. Had her order by cable from N ew York a year ago. Been on the lookout ever since." "Oh, all right," Campton answered, re- pocketing the money. He set out at once for the" Friends of French Art," and Léonce Black, bound for the l\1inistry of 'Var, walked by his side, regaling him alternately with the gossip of the l\Iinistry and with racy an- ecdotes of the dealers' world. In :\I. Black's opinion the war was an ine cus- able blunder, since Germany was getting to be the best market for the kind of freak painters out of whom dealers who "know how to lllake a man 'foam' " can make a big turn-over. "I don't know what on earth will become of all thosp poor 'devils now: Paris cared for them only because she knew German\' would give any money for their things. Person- ally, as you know, I\.e always preferred sounder goods: I'm a classic, my dear Campton, and I can feel only classic art," said the dealer, swelling out his uni- formed breast and stroking hi A\ssyrian nose as though its handsome curve fol- lowed the pure Delphic line. U But, as long as things go on as they are at pres- ent in my department of the administra- tion, the war's not going to end in a hurry," he continued. "And now we're Copyrighted in 1923 in United States, Canada, and Great Britain, by Charles Scribner's Sons. Printed in N ew York. All rights reserved. 2':;0 260 A SOX AT THE FRONT in for it, we've got to see the thing through. " Campton found Boylston, as usual, in his melancholy cabinet particlllier. He was listening to the tale of a young woman with streaming eyes and an extravagant hat. She was so absorbed in her trouble that she did not notice Campton's en- trance, and behind her back the painter made a sign to say that she was not to be interrupted. He was as much interested in the sup- pliant's tale as in watching Boyl ton's way of listening. That modest and com- monplace-looking young man was begin- ning to excite a lively curiosity in Camp- ton. It was not only that he remembered George's commendation, for he knew that the generous enthusiasms of youth may be inspired by trifles imperceptible to the older. It was Boylston himself who interested the painter. He knew no more of the young man than the scant details l\Iiss Anthony could give. Boylston, it appeared, was the oldest hope of a well- to-do Connecticut family. On his leav- ing college a place had been reserved for him in the paternal business; but he had announced good-humouredly that he did not mean to spend his life in an office, and one day, after a ten minutes' con- versation with his father, as to which de- tails were lacking, he had packed a suit- case and sailed for France. There he had lived ever since, in shabby rooms in the rue de Verneuil, on the scant allowance remitted by an irate parent: apparently never running into debt, yet always ready to help a friend. All the American art-students in Paris knew Boylston; and though he was still in the early thirties, they all looked up to him. For Boylston had one quality which always impresses youth: Boylston knew everybody. Whether you wenl with him to a smart restaurant in the rue Royale, or to a wine-shop of the Left Bank, the patron welcomed him with the same cordiality, and sent the same emphatic instructions to the cook. The first fresh peas and the tenderest spring chicken were always for this quiet youth, who, when he was alone, dined cheerfully on veal and vin ordinaire. If you wanted to know where to get the best Burgundy, Boylston could tell you; he could also tell you where to buy an engagement ring for your girl, a Ford runabout going at half-price, or the papier timbré on which to address a summons to a recalcitrant laundress. If you got into a row with your land- lady you found that Boylston knew her, and that at sight of him she melted and withdrew her claim; or, failing this, he knew the solicitor in whose office her son was a clerk, or had other means of reduc- ing her to reason. Boylston also knew a man who could make old clocks go, an- other who could clean flannels without their shrinking, and a third who could get you old picture-frames for a song; and, best of all, when any inexperienced American youth was caught in the dark Parisian cobweb (and the people at home were on no account to hear about it) Boylston was found to be the friend and familiar of certain occult authorities who, with a smile and a word of warn- ing' could break the mesh and free the victim. The mystery was, how and why aJI these people did what Boylston wanted; but the reason began to dawn on Camp- ton as he watched the young woman in the foolish hat deliver herself of her grievance. Boylston was simply a per- fect listener-and most of his life was spent in listening. Everything about him listened: his round forehead and peering screwed-up eyes, his lips twitching re- sponsively under the close-clipped mous- tache, and every crease and dimple of his sagacious and humorous young counte- nance; even the attitude of his short fat body, with elbows comfortably bedded in heaped-up papers, and plump brown fin- gers plunged into his crinkled hair. There was never a hint of hurry or impatience about him: having once asserted his right to do what he liked with his life, he was apparently content to let all his friends prey on it as they pleased. You never caught his eye on the clock, or his lips shaping an answer before you had turned the last corner of your story. Yet when the story was told, and he had surveyed it in all its bearings, you could be sure he would do what he could for you, and do it before the day was over. "Very well, Mademoiselle," he said, when the young woman had finished. " I A SOX A\T THE FRO T promise you I'll see Ime. Beausite, and try to get her to recognize your claim." " Iind you, I don't ask charity-l won't take charity from your commit- tee!" the young lady hissed, gathering up a tawdry hand-bag. "Oh, we're not forcing it on anyone," smiled Boylston, opening the door for her. \Vhen he turned back to Campton his face was flushed and irowning. " Poor thing! She's a nuisance, but I'll fight to the last ditch for her. The chap she lives with was Beausite's secretary and under- study, and devilled for him before the war. The poor fellow has come back from the front a complete wreck, and can't e,"en collect the salary Beausite owes him for the last three months before the war. Beausite's plea is that he's too poor, and that the war lets him out of paying. Of course he counts on our doing it for him." "And you're not going to?" " \V ell," said Boylston humorously, "I shouldn't wonder if he beat us in the long run. But I'll have a try first; and any- how the poor girl needn't know. She used to earn a little money doing fashion- articles, but of course there's no market for that now, and I don't see how the pair can live. They have a little boy, and there's an infirm mother, and they're waiting to get married till the girl can find a job." " Good Lord!" Campton groaned, with a sudden vision of the countless little trades and traffics arrested hy the war, and all the industrious thousands reduced to querulous pauperism or slow death. "How do they live-all these people?" "They don't-always. I could tell you-" "Don't, for God's sake; I can't stand it." Campton drew out the cheque. "I-Jere: this is what I've got for the Davrils." "Good Lord!" said Boylston, staring with round eyes. "It will pull them through, anyhow, won't it?" Campton triumphed. "\Vell-" said Boylston: "It will if you'll endorse it," he added, smiling. Campton laughed and took up a pen. A day or two later Campton, return- ing home one afternoon, overtook a small 261 hlack-veiled figure with a limp like his own. He guessed at once that it was the lame Davril girl, come to thank him; and his dislike of such ceremonies caused him to glance about for a way of escape. But as he did so the girl turned with a smile that put him to shame. He remembered Adele Anthony's saying, one day when he had found her in her refugel' office pa- tiently undergoing a like ordeal: "\\, e\"e no right to refuse the only coin they can repay us in." The Davril girl was a plain likeness of her brother, with the same hungry flame in her eyes. She wore the nondescript black that Campton had remarked at the funeral; and knowing the importance which the French attach to every detail of conventional mourning, he wondered that mother and daughter had not laid out part of his gift in crape. But doubt- less the equally strong instinct of thrift had caused l\Ime. Davril to put away the whole sum. l\Ille. Davril greeted Campton pleas- antly, and assured him that she had not found the long way from Villejuif to Montmartre too difficult. "I would have gone to you," the painter protested; but she answered that she wanted to see with her own eyes where her brother's friend lived. In the studio she looked about her with a quick searching glance, said "Oh, a pi- ano-" as if the fact were connected with the object of her errand-and then, set- tling herself in an armchair, unclasped her shabby hand-bag. "l\Ionsieur, there has been a misunder- standing; this money is not ours," she said, laying Campton's cheque on the table. A flush of annoyance rose to the paint- er's face. ""hat on earth had Boylston let him in for? If the Davrils were as proud as all that it was not worth while to ha'"e sold a sketch it had cost him such a pang to part with. He felt the exas- peration of the would-be philanthropist when he first disco'"ers that nothing com- plicates life as much as doing good. "But, IademoiselIe--" "This money is not ours. If René had lived he would never ha,"e sold your pic- ture; and we would starve rather than betray his trust." 262 -\ SO AT THE FROì\T \Vhen stout ladies in velvet declare that thev would stanTe rather than sac- rifice this or that principle, the statement has onl\' the cold beaut\. of rhetoric; but on the lrawn lips of a thinly-clad young woman eddently acquainted with the process, it becomes a fiery reality. "Stan"e-nonsense :\Iy dear young lady, you betray him when you talk like that," said Campton, moved by her pas- lOn. She shook her head. "It depends, ::\1onsieur, which things count. most to one. \Ye shall never-my n10ther and I -do anything that René would not have done. The picture was not ours: we brought it back to you-" "But if the picture's not yours it's mine," Campton interrupted; "and I'd a right to sell it, and a right to do what I choose with the money." His visitor smiled. "That's what we fee]; it was what I was coming to." And clasping her threadbare glove-tips about tht arms of the chair 1\1 lie. Davril set forth with extreme precision the object of her visit. It was to propose that. Campton should hand over the cheque to the "Friends of French Art," de\"oting one-third to the aid of the families of combatant painters, the rest to young musicians and authors. "It doesn't seem right that only the painters' families should benefit by what your committee are doing. Anrl René would ha\"e thought so too. He knew so many young men of letters and journal- ists who, before the war, just managed to keep their families alh"e; and in my profession I could tell you of poor nlusic- teachers and accompanists whose work stopped the day war broke out, and who have been living e\"er since on the crusts their luckier comrades could spare them. René would ha\'e let us accept from you help that was shared with others: he would ha\ye been so glad. often, of a few francs to relieve the misery we ee about us. And this great sum-might be t.he beginning of a cooperative work for artists ruined by the war." She went on to explain that in the families of almost all the young artists at the front there was at least one member at home who practised one of the arts, or who was capable of doing some kind of useful work. The value of Campton's gift, ::\1Jle. Davril argued, would be tripled if it were so employed as to give the art- ists and their families occupation: pro- ducing at least the illusion that those who could were earning their living, or helping their less fortunate comrades. "It's not only a question of saving their dignity: I don't believe much in that. You have dignity or you haven't-and if you have, it doesn't need any saving," this clear- toned young woman remarked. "The real question, for all of us artists, is that of keeping our hands in, and our interest in our work alive; sometimes, too, of giving a new talent its first chance. At any rate, it would mean work and not stagnation; which is all that nlost charity produces." She developed her plan: for the musi- cians, concerts in private houses, (hence her glance at the piano); for the painters, small exhibitions in the rooms of the com- n1ittee, where their pictures would be sold with a deduction of twenty per cent, to be returned to the general fund; and for the writers-well, their lot was per- haps the hardest to deal with; but an em- ployment agency might be opened, where those who chose could put their names down and take such work as was offered. Above all, 1-1l1e. Davril again insisted, the fund created by Campton's gift was to be devoted only to giving employment, not to mere relief. Can1pton listened with growing atten- tion. Nothing hitherto had been less in t.he line of his interests than the large schemes . of general amelioration which were coming to be classed under the transatlantic term of "Social Welfare." If questioned on t.he subject a few months earlier he would probably have concealed his fundamental indifference under the profession of an extreme individualism, and the assertion of every man's right to suffer and starve in his own way. Even since René Davril's deat.h had brought home to him the boundless havoc of the war, he had felt no more than the in1- pulse to ease his own pain by putting his hand in his pocket when a particular case was too poignant to be ignored. Yet here were people who had already offered their dearest to France, and were now pleading to be allowed to give all the rest; and who had had the courage and A SO'\'" AT THE FRO T wisdom to think out in advance the form in which their gift would do most good. Campton had the awe of the unpractical man for anyone who knows how to apply his ideas. He felt that therc was no use in disputing 1\llle. Davril's plan; hc must either agree to it or repocket his cheque. "I'll do as you want, of course; but I'm not much good about details. Hadn't you bctter consult some one else?" he suggcstcd. Oh, that was already done: she had outlined her project to l\fiss Anthony and 1\1r. Boylston, who approycd. All she wanted was Campton's consent; and this he gave the more cordially when he learned that, for the present at least, nothing more was expected of him. First steps in beneficence, he felt, were un- speakably terrifying; yet he was already aware that, resist as he might, he would ne,"er be able to keep his footing on the brink of that abyss. Into it, as the days wcnt by, his gaze was oftener and oftener plunged. He had begun to feel that pity was his only re- maining link with his kind, the one bar- rier between himself and the dreadful solitude which awaited him when he re- turned to his studio. "That would there have been to think of there, alone among his unfinished pictures and his broken memories, if not the wants and woes of people more bereft than himself? His own future was not a thing to dwell on. George was safe: but what George and he were likely to make of each other after the ordeal was over was a question he pre- ferred to put aside. He was more and more taking George and his safety for granted, as a solid standing-ground from which to reach out a hand to the thou- sands struggling in the depths. As long as the world's fate was in the balance it was every man's duty to throw into that balance his last ounce of brain and muscle. Campton wondered how he had ever thought that an accident of birth, a re- moteness merely geographical, could jus- tify, or even make possible, an attitude of moral aloofness. Harvey .:\Iayhew's rea- sons for wishing to annihilatc Germany began to seem less grotesque than his own for standing aside. In the heat of his conversion he no longer grudged the hours given to 1fr. 263 )layhew. lIe patiently led his truculent relative from one government office to another, everywhere laying stress on 1\lr. \Iayhew's sympathy with France and his desire to ach-ocate her cause in the United States, and trying to curtail his enumer- ation of his grievances by a glance at the clock, and the reminder that they had an- other 1\Iinister to see. 1\1r. l\Iayhew was not very manageable. His ad,"enture had gro'....n with repetition, and he was in- creasingly disposed to feel that the re- taliation he called down on Germany could best be justified by telling every one what he had suffered from her. In- tensely aware of the value of time in Utica, he was less sensible to it in Paris, and seemed to think that, since he had left a flourishing business to preach the Holy \Var, other people ought to leave their affairs to give him a hearing. But his zeal and persistence were irresistible, and doors which Campton had seen barred against the most reasonable ap- peals flew open at the sound of 1\lr. 1\Iay- hew's trumpet. His pink face and silvery hair gave him an apostolic air, and circles to which America had hitherto been a nlere speck in space suddenly discovered that he represented that legendary char- acter, the Typical American. The keen Boylston, prompt to note and utilize the fact, urged Campton to inter- est 1\lr. l\Iayhew in the "Friends of French Art," and with considerable flour- ish the former Peace Delegate was pro- duced at a committee meeting and gi'Ten his head. But his interest flagged when he found that the "Friends" concerned themselves with Atrocities only in so far as any act of war is one, and that their immediate task was the humdrum one of feeding and clothing the families of the combatants, and sending "comforts" to the trenches. He served up, with a some- what dog-eared eloquence, the usual ac- count of his 0\\"11 experiences, and pressed a modest gift upon the treasurer; but when he departed, after wringing every- body's hands, and leaving the French members bedewed with emotion, Camp- ton had the con,"iction that their quiet weekly meetings would not often be flut- tered by his presence. Campton was spending an increasing amount of time in the Palais Royal res- 26 A SO AT THE FRO T taurant, where he performed any drudg- ery for which no initiath'e was required. Once or twice, when ::\Iiss Anthony was submerged by a fresh influx of refugees, he lent her a hand too; and 0Í11ll0St days he dropped in late at her office, waited for her to sift and di nliss the last applicants, and saw her home through the incessant rain. It interested hinl to note that the altruism she had so long wasted on pam- pered friends was developing into a \',;ise and orderly beneficence. He had always thought of her as an eternal school girl; now she had grown into a woman. Some- times he fancied the change dated from the moment when their eyes had met across the station, the day they had seen George off. He wondered whether it might not be interesting to paint her new face, if ever painting became again think- able. "Passion- I suppose the great tIling is a capacity for passion," he mused. In himself he imagined the capacity to be quite dead. He loved his son: yes- but he was beginning to see that he loved him for certain qualities he had read into him, and that perhaps after all-. \Vell, perhaps after all the sin for which he was now atoning in loneliness was that of having been too exclusively an artist, of having cherished George too egotisti- cally and self-indulgently, too nluch as his own most beautiful creation. If he had loved him more humanly, more tenderly and recklessly, might he ha,-e not put into his son the tenderness and recklessness which were beginning to seem to hÍIn the qualities most supremely human? xv A WEEK or two later, conling home late from a long day's work at the office, Campton saw :i\hne. Lebel awaiting him. He always stopped for a word now; fearing each time that there was bad news of Jules Lebel, but not wishing to seem to avoid her. To-day, howeyer, lme. Lebel, though mysterious, was not anÅious. ":\lonsieur will find the studio open. There's a lady: she insisted on going up." "A lady? \Vhy did you let her in? \Vhat kind of a lady?" "A lady-welJ, a lady with such nlag- nificent furs that one couldn't keep her out in the cold," ::\1 me. Lebel answered with simplicity. Campton went up apprehensively. The idea of unknown persons in possession of his studio always made him nervous. \Vhoever they were, whatever errands they came on, they always-especially women-disturbed the tranquil course of things, faced him with unexpected prob- lems, unsettled hinl in one way or another. Bouncing in on people suddenly was like dynamiting fish: it left him with his n1Ïnd full of fragments of dismembered thoughts. As he entered he perceived from the temperate atmosphere that l\lme. Lebel had not only opened the studio but made up the fire. The lady's furs must indeed be magnificent. She sat at the farther end of the room, in a high-backed chair near the stove, and when she rose he recognized his for- Iner wife. The long sable cloak, which had s1ipped back over the chair, justified l\lme. Lebel's description, but the dress beneath it appeared to Campton simpler than 1\lrs. Brant's habitual raiment. The lamplight, striking up into her pow- dered face, puffed out her underlids and made harsh hollows in her cheeks. She looked frightened, ill and yet determined. U John-" she began, laying her hand on his sleeve. It was the first tinle she had ever set foot in his shabby quarters, and in hi astonishment he could onlv stalnmer out: "Julia-" ... But as he looked at her he saw that her face was wet with tears. "Not-bad news?" he broke out. She shook her head and, drawing a handkerchief fronl a diamond-mono- grammed bag, wiped away the tears and the powder. Then she pressed the hand- kerchief to her lips, gazing at him with eyes as helpless as a child's. "Sit ùown," said Campton. As they faced each other across the long table, with papers and paint-rags and writing materials pushed aside to make room for the threadbare napkin on which his plate and glass, and LottIe of vin or- dinaire, were set out, he wondered if the scene woke in her any memory of their first days of gaiety and poverty, or if she A SO"" AT TilE FRO T merely pitied him for still livin in such squalor. ..\nd suddenly it occurred to him that when the war was oyer, and George came back, it would be pleasant to hunt out a littlc apartment in an old house in the Fauhourg St. Germain, put some good furniture in it, .uul oppose the discreeter charm of such an interior to the heavy splendours of the Avenue l\Iarigny. How could he explct to hold a luxury- loving youth if he had only this dingy studio to recei\"e him in? :.\Irs. Brant began to speak. "I canle here to see YOU bccausc ] didn't wish anyone to kñ'ow; not .\dele, nor even Anderson." Leaning toward hinl she went on in short breathless sen- tences: "I've just left Iadge Talkett: you know her, I think? She's at .:\Ime. dl. Dolmetsch's hospital. Something drcad- ful has happened... too dreadful. It seenlS that Inlc. de Dolmetsch was yerv much in lo,.c with Ladislas Isador; t writer, wasn't he? 1 don't know hi books, but Iadgc tells me they're won- derful . . . and of course men like that ought not to be sent to the front. . . " "l\Ien like what?" "Geniuses," said Irs. Brant. "lIe was dreadfully delicate besides, and was doing wonderful work on some military commission in Paris; I believe he kncw any number of languages. And puor l\Ime. de Dolmetsch-you know I've never approved of her; but things are so changed nowadays, and at any rate she was madly attached to him, and had donc cverything to keep him in Paris: medical certificates, people at Headquarters work- ing for her, and all the rest. But it seems there are no end of officers always in- triguing to get staff-jobs: strong able- bodied young men who ought to he in the trenches, and are fit for nothing elsc, hut who are jealous of the others. ..\nd last week, in spite of all she could do, poor Isador was ordered to thc front." Campton made an impatient moye- Jl1ent. It was eyen more distasteful to him to hc appealed to by [rs. Brant in Isador's name than bv )lme. de Dol- mctsch in George's. His gorge ro e at the thought that people should a ....uciatc in their nlind cases as different as th(} e of his son and ...\1 me. dc DolnlCtsch's luver. 263 " I'nl sorry," he aid. "B u t if you' vc come to ask me to do something more about George-take any new steps-it's no use. I can't do the sort of thing to keep my son safe that Ime. de Dol- lnetsch would do for her laver." \1rs. Brant stared. "Safc? Hc wa killed the day after he got to the front." "Goud Lor{[- Isadur ? " Ladislas Isador killed at the front! The words remained unmeaning; by no effort could Campton relate them to the fat middle-aged philanderer with hi:-; Jewish eyes, his Slav eloquence, hi Levantine gift for getting on, and for getting out from under. Campton tried to picture the clever contriving devil drawn in his turn into that merciless red eddy, and gulped ùown the 'Ionster's throat with the rest. ""hat a rnad world it was, in which the same horrible ancl magnificent doom awaited the coward and the hero! "!)oor Ime. de Dolmetsch!" he mut- tcred, remembering with a sense of rc- morse her desperate appeal and his curt rcbuff. Oncc again the poor creaturc's love had enlightened her, and shc had foresecn what no one else in the world would have bclic\'ed: that her lovcr was to die like a hero. "Isador was nearly forty, and had a weak heart; and shc'd left nothing, liter- ally nothing, undone to save him." Campton rcad in his wife's eyes what was cOIning. "It's impossihle mr<<.J that George hould not he taken," )lrs. Brant went on. The samc thought had tightened Camp- ton's own heart-strings; out he had hoperl she would not say it. "It Inay be George' turn .tHY day, ,. she in isted. Thcy sat and looked at each uther without speaking; then she hegan again imploringly: "I tell you there's not a mo- ment to be lost!" Campton picked up .t palette-knifc and hcgan ahsently to rub it wit h an oily r.lg_ Ir:-;. Brant's anguished \"(>ice still soundc(l on. h Unless something is done immedi- ,ately. .. It apIlears there's a regular hunt for cmbltsqucs, as they're called. A if it was c\"cryhody's bu iness to hc killed How's the stafT-work to hc c.lrried on if they're all takcn? Hut it's certain that if 266 A SO AT THE FRONT we don't act at once... act energeti- callv . . ." He fixed his eyes on hers. "\Vhy do you come to 111Æ?" he asked. Her lids opened wide. "But he's our child." " Your husband knows more people- he has ways, you'ye often told me-" She reddened faintly and seemed about to speak; but the reply died on her lips. "Why did you say," Campton pur- sued, "that you had come here because you wanted to see me without Brant's knowing it?" She lowered her eves and fixed them on the knife he was still automatically rub- bing. "Because Anderson thinks... Ander- son won't. .. He says he's done all he can." " Ah-" cried Campton, drawing a deep breath. " \Vell- ? " He threw back his shoulders, as if to shake off an oppressive weight. "1- feel exactly as Brant does." " You-you feel as he does ? You, George's father? But a father has never done all he can for his son! There's al- ways something more that he can do!" The words, breaking from her in a cry, seemed suddenly to change her from an ageing doll into a living and agonized woman. Campton had never before felt as near to her, as moved to the depths by her. For the length of a heart-beat he saw her again with a red-haired baby in her arms, the light of morning on her face. " M y dear-I'm sorry," he said, his hand on hers. " Sorry-sorry? I don't want you to be sorry. I want you to do something-I want you to save him!" He faced her with bent head, gazing absently down on their interwoven fin- gers: each hand had forgotten to release the other. "I can't do anything more," he re- peated. She started up with a despairing ex- clamation. "What's happened to you? Who has influenced you? What has changed you?" How could he answer her? He hardly knew himself: had hardly been conscious of the change till she suddenly flung it in his face. If blind animal passion be the profoundest as well as the fiercest form of attachment, his love for his boy was at that moment as nothing to hers. Yet his feeling for George, in spite of all the phrases he dressed it in, had formerly in its essence been no other. That his boy should survive-survive at any price- that had been all he cared for or sought to achieve. It had been convenient to justi- fy himself by arguing that George was not bound to fight for France; but Campton now knew that he would have made the same effort to protect his son if the coun- try engaged had been his own. In the careless pre-war world, as George himself had once said, it had seemed unbelievable that people should ever again go off and die in a ditch to oblige anybody. Even now, the auto- matic obedience of the millions of the un- taught and the unthinking, though it had its deep pathetic significance, did not move Campton like the clear-eyed sacri- fice of the few who knew why they were dying. Jean Fortin, René Davril, and such lads as young Louis Dastrey, with his reasoned horror of butchery and waste in general, and his instant grasp of the necessity of this particular sacrifice: these were the victims who had first shed light on the dark problem. Campton had never before, at least consciously, thought of himself and the few beings he cared for as part of a greater whole, component elements of the im- mense amazing spectacle. But the last four months had shown him man as a de- fenseless animal suddenly torn from his shell, stripped of all the interwoven ten- drils of association, habit, background, daily ways and words, daily sights and sounds, and flung out of the human hab- itable world into naked ether, where noth- ing breathes or lives. That was what war did; that was why those who best under- stood it in all its farthest-reaching abom- ination willingly gave their lives to put an end to it. He heard Mrs. Brant softly crying. "Julia," he said, "Julia, I wish you'd try to see . . . " She dashed away her tears. "See what? All I see is you, sitting here safe and saying you can do nothing to save him! But to have the right to say that A SO AT THE FRO:\T you ought to he in the trenches yourself ! 'Vhat do you suppose those young men out there think of their fathers, safe at home, who are too high-minded and con- scientious to protect them?" He looked at her compassionately. "Yes," he said, "that's the bitterest part of it. But for that, there would harrIly be anything in the worst war for us old peo- ple to He awake about." Irs. Brant had stood up and was fever- ishly pulling on her gloves: he saw that she no longer heard him. He helped her to draw her furs about her, and stood waitin while she straightened her veil and tapped the waves of hair into place, her eyes hlindly seeking for a mirror. There was nothing more that either could say. fIe lifted the lamp, and went out of the door ahead of her. " You needn't come down," she said in a sob; but leaning over the rail into the darkness he answered: "I'll give you a light: the concierge has forgotten the lamp on the stairs." He went ahead of her down the long greasy flights, and as they reached the ground floor he heard a noise of feel conl- ing and going, and frightened yoices ex- claiming in the porter's lodge. In the door- way :\lrs. Brant's splendid chauffeur stood looking on compassionately at a group of women gathered about l\Ime. Lebel. The oÍd woman sat in her den, her arms stretched across the table, her sewing in a heap at her feet. On the table lay an open letter. The grocer's wife from the corner stood by, sobbing. Irs. Brant stopped inyoluntarily, and Campton, sure of what was coming, pushed his way through the neighbours about the door. .l\Ime. Lebel's eyes met his with the mute reproach of a tortured animàI. " Jules," she said, "last 'Vednes- day . . . through the heart." Campton took her old ''''lthefed hand. The women ceased sobbing and a hush fell upon the stifling little roonl. 'Yhen Campton looked up again he aw J uJia Brant, pale and bewildered, hurrying toward her motor; and the vault of the porte-cochère sent back the chauffeur's answer to her startled question: " I)oor old lady-yes, it's her only on who's ucen killed at the front." 267 XYI CA..\1P IO sat \\ith his friend Dastrey in the latter's pleasant little entresol crowded with Chinese lacquer and Vene- tian furniture. Dastrey, in the last days of January, had been sent home from his ambulance with an attack of rheumatism; and when it became dear that he could no longer be of use in the mud and cold of the army zone he had reluctantly taken his place hehind a desk at the l\1inistry of 'Var. The friends had dined early, so that he might get back to his night-shift; and they sat over coffee and liqueurs, the mist of their cigars floating across lustrous cabi- net-fronts and the worn gilding of slender consoles. On the other side of the hearth young noylston, sunk in an armchair, smoked and listened. "It always comes back to the same thing," Campton was saying nervously. H'Vhat right have useless old men like me, sitting here ,,,ith my cigar by this good fire, to preach blood and butchery to boys like George and your nephew?" Again and again, during the days sincp ::\lrs. Brant's visit, he had turned o\"er in his mind the sanle torturing question. How was he to answer that last taunt of hers? Not long ago, Paul Dastrey would have seemed the last person to whonl he could have submitted such a problem. Das- trey, in the black August days, starting for the front in such a frenzy of bafi1ed blood-lust, had remained for Campton the type of man with whom it was im- possible to discuss the war. But threp Inon ths of hard and courageous service in Posies de Sccollrs and along the awful hattIe-edge had sent him home with a mind no longer befogged by personal problelns. He had done his utmost, and knew it; and the fact gave him the pro- fessional calnl which keeps surgeons anò nurses steady through all the horrors they live among. Those few nlonths at the front had matured and nlellowed him more than a lifetime of Paris. He leaned back with half-closed 1id . dispassionately considering his friend's ditlìculty. "I sec. Your idea is that, being unable 268 A SO AT THE FRONT to do e\'en the humble kind of job that I've been assigned to, you've no righlllot to try to keep your boy out of it if you can? " "\Vell-bv any honourable means." Dastrey lãugh d faintly, and Calnpton reddened. "The word's not happy, I admi t." "I wasn't thinking of that: I was con- sidering how the meaning had evaporated out of lots of our old words, as if the gen- eral smash-up had broken their stoppers. So many of them, you see," said Dastrey smiling, "we'd taken good care not to un- cork for centuries. Since I've been on the edge of what's going on fifty miles from here a good many of my own words have lost their meaning, and I'm not prepared to say where honour lies in a case like yours." He mused a moment, and then went on: "What would George's view be?" Campton did not immediately reply. Not so many weeks ago he would have welcomed the chance of explaining that George's view, thank God, had remained perfectly detached and objective, and that the cheerful acceptance of duties forcibly imposed on him had not in the least obscured his sense of the fundamen- tal injustice of his being mixed up in the thing at aU. But how could he say this now? If George's view were still what his father had been in the habit of saying it was, then he held that view alone: Campton hiInself no longer thought that any civi- Jized man could afford to stand aside from such a conflict. "As far as I know," he said, "George hasn't changed his mind." Boylston stirred in his armchair, knocked the ash from his cigar, and looked up at the ceiling. "Whereas you-" Dastrey suggested. " Yes," said Campton. "I feel differ- ently. You speak of the difference of having been in contact with what's going on out there. But how can anybody not be in contact, who has any imagination, any sense of right and wrong? Do these pictures and hangings ever shut it out from you-or those books over there, when you turn to them after your day's work? Perhaps they do, because you've got a real job, a job you've been ordered to do, and can't not do. But for a useless drifting devil like me-my God, the sights and the sounds of it are always with me ! " "There are a good many people who wouldn't call you useless, 1\1r. Campton," said Boylston. Campton shook his head. "I wish there were any healing in the kind of thing I'm doing; perhaps there is to you, to whom it appears to come naturally to love your kind." (Boylston laughed.) "Service is of no use without conviction: that's one of the uncomfortable truths this stir-up has brought to the surface. I was meant to paint pictures in a world at peace, and I should have more respect for myself if I could go on unconcernedly do- ing it, instead of pining to be in all the places where I'm not wanted, and should be of no earthly use. That's why-" he paused, looked about him, and sought understanding in Dastrey's friendly gaze: "That's why I respect George's opinion, which really consists in not having any, and simply doing without comment the work assigned to him. The whole thing is so far beyond human measure that one's individual rage and revolt seem of no more use than a woman's scream at an accident she isn't in." As he spoke, Campton knew that he was only arguing against himself. He did not in the least believe that any individual sentiment counted for nothing at such a time, and Dastrey really spoke for him in rejoining: "Everyone can at least contribute an attitude: as you have, my dear fellow. Boylston's here to confirm it. " Boylston grunted his assent. "An attitude-an attitude?" Camp- ton retorted. "The word is revolting to me ! Anything a man like me can do is too easy to be worth doing. And as for anything one can say: how dare one say anything, in the face of what is being done out there to keep this room and this fire and this ragged end of life safe for such survivals as you and me?" Campton crossed to the table to take an- other cigar. As he did so he laid an apolo- getic pressure on his host's shoulder. "l\len of our age are the chorus of the tragedy, Dastrey: we can't help our- selves. As soon as I open my lips to A SOX AT THE FRO:\'"T blame or praise I see myse1f in white pet ticoats, with a long beard held on by an elastic, goading on the comhatants in a cracked voice from a safe corner of the ramparts. On the whole 1'd sooner be spinning among the women." "\Vell," said Dastrey, getting up, "I've got to get back to my spinning: where, by the way, there are some yery pretty young women at the distaff. It's extraordinary how much better pret ty girls type than plain ones: I see now why they get all the jobs." The three went out into the winter blackness. They were all used by this time to the new Paris: to extinguished lamps, shuttered windows, empty streets, the almost total cessation of wheeled traffic. All through the winter, life had seemed in suspense everywhere, as much on the battle-front as in the rear. Day after day, week after week, of rain and sleet and mud; day after day, week after week, of vague non-committal news from west and east; everywhere the enemy bamed but still menacing, everywhere death, suffering, destruction, without any perceptible oscillation of the scales, any compensating hope of good to come out of the long slow endless waste. The be- numbed and darkened Paris of those February days seemed the visible image of a benumbed and darkened world. Down the asphalt sheeted with fine rain the rare street lights stretched their interminable reflections. The three men crossed the bridge and stood watching the rush of the Seine. Below them gloomed the vague bulk of deserted bath- houses, unlit barges, river-steamers out of commission. The Seine too had ceased to lh'e: only a single orange gleam, low on the water's edge, undulated on the jetty waves like a long streamer of sea- weed. The two Americans left Dastrey at his l\Iinistry, and the painter strolled on to Boylston's lodging before descending to the underground railway. He, whom his lameness had made so heavy and indo- lent, now limped about for hours at a time over wet pavements and under streaming skies: these midnight tramps had become a sort of expiatory need to him. "Out there-out there, if they had these wet stones under them they'd think it was 269 the floor of heaven!" he used to muse, driving on obstinately through the mud and darkness. The thought of "Out there" besieged him day and night, the phrase was always in his cars. \Vherever he went he was pursued by visions of that land of doom: visions of fathomless mud, rat-haunted trenches, freezing nights under the sleety sky, men dying in the barbed wire be- tween the lines, or crawling out to save a comrade and being shattered to death on the return. I-Iis collaboration with Boyl- ston had brought Campton into dose con- tact with these things. lIe knew by heart the history of scores and scores of young men of George's age who were doggedly suffering and dying a few hours away from the Palais Royal office where their records were kept. Some of these histories were so heroically simple that the sense of pain was lost in beauty, as though one were looking at suffering transmuted into poetry. But others were abominable, unendurable, in their long-drawn use- less horror: stories of cold and filth and hunger, of ineffectual effort, of hideous mutilation, of men dying of thirst in a shell-hole, and ha1f-dismembered bodies dragging themselves back to shelter only to perish as they reached it. \Vorst of all were the perpetually recurring reports of military blunders, medical neglect, care- lessness in high places: the torturing knowledge of the lives that might have been saved if this or that officer's brain, this or that surgeon's hand, had acted more promptly. A disheartening im- pression of waste, confusion, ignorance, obstinacy, prejudice, and the indifference of selfishness or of mortal fatigue, ema- nated from these narratives written home from the front, or faltered out by white lips on hospital pillows. The "Friends of French ..\rt," espe- cially since they had enlarged their range, had to do with young men accustomed to the freest play of thought and criticism. A nation in arms does not judge a war as simply as an army of professional soldiers. All these young intelligences were so many subtly-adjusted instruments for the testing of the machinery of which ÙleY formed a part; and not one accepted the results passively. Yet in one respect all were agreed: the" had to be" of the first 2ïO A SOX AT TJ-IE FRO T days was still on eyer}" lip. The German tnénace lllust he met: chance willed that theirs should he the generation to meet it; and on that point speculation was vain, discussion useless. The question that stirred them all was how the country they were defending was helping them t'O carryon the struggle. There the e,.idencc was cruelly clear, the comnlent often scathingly explicit; and Campton, bend- ing still farther oyer the abyss, caught a shuddering glimpse of what might he- must be-if political blunders, inertia, tol- ('rance, perhaps even evil anlbitions and connivances, should at last outweigh the effort of the front. There was no logical argument against such a possibility. All civilizations had their orhit; all societies rose and fell. Some day, no doubt, by the action of that law, everything that made the world livable to Canlpton and his kind would crumble in new ruins above the old. Yes-but woe to them by whom such things came; woe to the gen- eration that bowed to such a law. The Powers of Darkness were always watching and seeking their hour; but the past was a record of their failures as well as of their triumphs. Campton, brushing up his his- tory, remembered the great turning-points of progress, saw how the liberties of Eng- land had been born of the ruthless disci- pline of the Norman conquest, and how even out of the hideous welter of the French Revolution and the Napoleonic wars had come more freedom and a wiser order. The point was to remember that the efficacy of the sacrifice was always in proportion to the worth oÎ the yictims; and there at least his faith was sure. He could not, he felt, leave his former wife's appeal unnoticed; and after a day or two he wrote to George, telling him of 1\lrs. Brant's anxiety, and asking in "ague terms if George himself thought any change in his situation probable. His letter ended abruptly: "I suppose it's hardly time yet to ask for leavc-" XVII NOT long after his midnight tramp with Boylston and Dastrey the post brought Campton two letters. One was postmarked Paris, the other hore the mili- tary frank and was addressed in his son's hand: he laid it aside while he glanced at the first. It contained an engraved card: 1\[RS. AXDF.RSOX BRA T At Home on Fcbruary 20th at 4 o'clock 1\[r. Harvey :l\Iayhew will gÍ\'e an account of his captivity in Germany. 1\{ me. de D()lmet ch will sing. For the henefIt of the "I,'riends of I,'rench Art Committee." Tickets 100 francs. Enclosed was the circular of the subcom- mittee in aid of 'Iusicians at the Front, with which Campton was not directly associated. It bore the nanles of .l\lrs. Talkett, 1\lme. Beausite, and a number of other French and American ladies of his wife's group. Campton tossed the card away. lIe was not annoyed hy the invitation: he knew that .NIiss Anthony and 1\1 lie. Da- vril were getting up a series of drawing- room entertainments for that branch of the charity, and that the card had been sent to him as a member of the Honorary Committee. But any reminder of the sort always gave a sharp twitch to the Brant nerve in him. He turned to George's letter. As usual it was not long; but in other respects it was unlike his son's usual com- munications. Campton read it over two or three times. "Dear Dad, thanks for yours of the tenth, which must have come to me on skis, the snow here is so deep." (There had, in fact, been a heavy snow-fall in the Argonne). "Sorry mother is bothering about things again: as you've often re- minded me, they always have a way of 'being as they will be,' and even war doesn't seem to change i t. Nothing to wor- ry her in my case-hut you can't expect her to believe that, can you ? Neither you nor I can hçlp it, 1 suppose. "There's one thing that might help, though; and that is, your letting her feel that you're a little nearer to her. \Var makes a lot of things look differently, especially this sedentary kind of war: it's rather like going over all the old odds- and-ends in one's cupboards. And some of them do look so foolish. "I wish you'd see her now and then- just naturally, as if it had happened. A SO AT 'I'll E FlU ):\1' You know you've got one Inexhaustihle Topic between you. The said 1. T. is doing well, and has nothing new to com- municate up to now except a change of ael(lress. Hereafter please write to my Base inst ead of directin here, as there's some chance of a shift of II. Q. The pre- caution is probably just a new twist of the olel red tape, signifying nothing; lmt Base will always reach me if we arc shifteel. Let mother kn0w, ami e plain, ple.L c; otherwbe she'll Ùlink the un- thinkable. "Interrupted by big elrive-quill-drive, of course! " As ever "GEORGIUS SCRIßLERUS. " 1). S. Don't be too savage to U nele Andy either. "No. 2.-1 Jzad thought of leave; hut perhaps you're right ahout that." It was the first time George had written in that way of his mother. lEs smiling policy had always he en to let things alone, a11(\ go on impartially dividing his devo- tion between his parents, since they re- fused to share e\ I &. ;". ",,- ,.- \ 1 './ "'_ ..-) "(. , .r., .' . , ì" '\ ,.'! /' t' rjf :'t.. .t ,.,' ,. 'I t _ lll'l.:;J__ _ " , .: , . .1 1 . 1 ' 1 . m ,,( ... - "':.'I.. I.I.'" 1 ,- .1' '........., \.'\....4. . .(1, , I I I - -c\.\ , "", - "'t'" . ' - , .."'"'\'\) '. . ., ,..- '. - - \.ì. '. - ... r. _ ,___ I ", :\ \ it \'" "L C' ':" t t', .' .\ ( .-"""" j!\. r . ........... f-- -. 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'\ '5' {l f' l ... I \ i r. j. ' , : a: . I :;' i'';' ' ', :: . \ . ø: . í. f .l,t.{! ' ;." II J[ I' . J"_ \ .. 1 I ! [;", .....! -":'" J .'. \. I'ua-,"'; . '" J ;";" Tf, \. ' é J!t " , ' ' \ f . i !, Iht , J 1 · \. , l. . f {ø ' ,I. . ' 1 ' "n'" I" d' ò :- \ . i t :' I". . (J1 . ../ Ji '. l {J ..: i"! / f 1 , J . tt *! _ Jli.. 'X)l( t'IÛ: .".f .:,' . 11 1 '} \ i 1 " i I.. I ',1 4 .' , ,, , , M' . .1,. ':..I lIi!. .".' \ ' r \; .-!' - , ; .f I: .. ' " IHf . !f, t, r. 1 I . \.ft,., f , ....} "tÙ, 'v- "'. . . I < '_,( -I f,,;. 2'k.f I " F ìU :' ,,' ':! I I!J I ' l lrr 't \: > Jli 1 '. _ \(jJUII!JW t ; ' ! ' ::ji , ';I 1 k!, . p i 1 1 \ ). L lJt1 >> : t \ J < : t'ir ) e , J I ( I 'f- ';," t .' .JI"" . f, I ') 1 "1' l' f ILit , ) ,' i' rJ I , . { !" . \ " I ," t t ( 1 t ; . up It V';" J I . 'I.,; ."" '1 r . J < \ f it }J) 1 . í I,. I 1 . ,'"r 'rf-: J · ', ." : t J '].,': ' í i:.;. 'I W: I W (, "' .. ' # !/l} lniill " ,r;- fl. ':"" ' . ' or; '?, >, I , . ; . tL\ , I ! . f.', Ly t ;" ' l l.,(î, " '_ - . t, !r I'-':4,t'.... 'l., :..::..;! q :r\-!. .. f A""'1 < IY', , ".t. 1 r J, tl Þ l i ' It ..- ", r,( ,i '1lii ?,t ,F<"-.:t>>tp,. ," -/ . f ' " ' {'-(, ' .\l;'..tl " j','''{ " . -.,. \ ,_ ... r; ",1'" ':;;;: l , ' "I' . · . ':71'1 ) .' _ " 1 . " . .\ !.:" . f"'''''' '- . i rV 'J& ..... t f ' " : . . 1 . I, - - ;",: ' {, "-of ". .:,ti . t : p, ..5i:.. &., -' þ .... '. , _ \-, ' ' .M> r J .....--.....". ),:-(;> .1 -.,,-' -r , \l tt : '.,J) ." t - 1 J' ' i t'+ I "q 'j""} t ' 1r,... t.. . - . J i "' "" 1 .: /, . · t Jo., .....fI, r.' !ì""(1 f ., / .__'. ' ' " r 1ttf . j 'r ), i ", I I /' , ;. fl' )t #JJ.;A. ' '.f, .. .. << f -., I} , . ""[ , . l irA, V--' --s-. .. .... r - t . ( J,,,"'f( \ i.l\,y'" ..' , .- . -, ctUCAC.D 111. A, 't t" .. r " .>,,, 1 . ) i' . I " " .f ./' t 1 Clark Street. This view north from :\'Ionroc Street shows the Conway, Putnam. and County Court buildings. 2ï6 \' '\ ( ; #?'-;- ,. t l . \I:r : ,'n f' 'w.- :.1 · .. :, - I 1 . t I I- ,.. 'I.r 11' " .5'" ' 1- .,ç . -L '. ; \ . '.", . i '- (. i' ( }\ I II ; l ' -:("''' J . I '" , ( , "",:.,q .' "*',.. I'. i · -f · .;,. ,t1f """ J.&.t- ,0; , ..' -.11 '; . I ;.s- J J 'Or. It. o ..- 1 1 : 'If I l' . j, t', I. I 1Ft s it f .. 1"7"" !, t. t. ,.-) J 'Y. "'" . ' , . . ,'" . Y' , . \. , "',.... , ,li :.., 11' ',' )ft, \ {\.:A 'l f' s, .. '.-..-... ,,' .... ..."\,. ..... w.-c::...-. ...... 's, : "f-...." , , . . I " , t J; .).... I f .,.. t, ..'ÿf . ...;t,, \ I , , ," - - '. \ ""'''' (b t ' , ' '; '; ';: . ..., . Jlrr-" Þ?::: , '.. r J .. . -:. 1" I .' t("j -' " 1.... I " I I .' , J'1I" , II':-'J 1 -T f c '" ./ì I' , '-. , ; l .!7 J 1.- = f : , ì it.! ' ( f l , f to' I I .M:;.. hl. 1 I 1, f ( ; . I \. TT, ' I .." I ", {II I' (I fJ"lJ \ 6..', :. :' , 4 1; II , J'j ", '!.n ..( l} .1 1 r r "ff,t fo ..... I , , 'I ! j rf ") ,J q r J J f "!lF , f' I f l. ' ß \. I r.. , . f ' ,: I;; j} \ þ , . \ (t ft1;: ' , -'\. ,/7 .. 1 J .. l · ...-: J f r' . .i 1 . · .. I ;f' , . '{l I ; . ." . r-t ,! t:"t" .! . ,1' , ,'1 , ..: r;", , -t I t t i . t . ,} .. h . 11 i I :- 'I f. _.' 11J- _L-_ . I \ ", ---\.. ':' ,&. to 11 . ,_ Lt.tt7_ - ,'1._-, ..",r':,'" : , ", --.." ".... -". t2 '1 ': .1 t n Iichigan \venue Boulevard, South. The Boulevard ic; the pride of all Chica oans, Less than a century ago this dic;trict was a swamp with canoes on its wateJ1i; barely a half century ago it was a be.lp of ruins, ow it is the site of the Art IIbtitute, tbe Logan Monument, tbe Taft Fountain. the Field Museum, s\yscrapinf!; hostelries. and Cashion shops. 277 ,I. , :t t, t" ? 'rlIA . :: r'l 1 't t i. rl 9 ,I I .. ð;: . d.\ ..,,'''/.. .ì ,. ,, f",,". ' . .., 'Jt 'j, ,j' .,t;:, . , t ì't ::',.. r'ì 1'1 'th 1 ft 'n;' J, \ t !'; "i ft' .n ' j '(.. . ; :r : . t':' ,.\..I;lV Vol '''''''1 ..F J.....!9.1!"'! . ,II.. . ('Ii< .. '....J. Ii' ';10 \ ?"... \\ 1(,..- 'Q , ;'; , t 1 '1,;.. , . p. f " '1-01>.., : vl.( ì t. . ''I. Lll f J \ . , J1''' , I. · ; I . 4 i . -: t; . .ff. ,,1t : . . ok --..:.. \ < ,' it W!.L '....:...-..1* ' . :1-4 i- M '" ', I"!.., .t.. T,..e t, ..,:', '1'4 ,'Ii' ,-, :' , . , ' rz:' '..... _ . . ... .;;:Ùt _ , .. . , ' l. f :..rl:- . i . i,\J . .i J. .rf. ' to -... . . L:t 1 f. - t't l'lII. i " "1'1if. t1;Ji t.'''\' ',t l _ r k,""t 1)....--.. \&UI 'tf,;tÂ-.\ ,, _: l"" .tH' .;h J .' i l ': ) t þX.l P ' \ ': $. -:. .. ..... \:', ';' k' f. . ;; l tif S).' 'j' t I """ y '.... .: '. ,-. . , J :/,r' ", _ . " _' '\í,-' ._, . ' _ . . . ' " f .. '''' ( ", ;f;" ",.... '-. ì .iff': ,; -', , '.. 'J"'" ( " :;::, > ). t-.... -,>;:. ..) .--...". .... .." f J .. I J r. ;f ' t\ l ,i'l \ 1d ;, ,: l : / ;!', ' <'2":: ::. : ,I' :.; : l ;' -J b :. I " ,'! "j, " ::::r/ t'[ , .... . ti . . . I' &.' f. ..J';:t'" 't., '^ I .- \ ;" ':\il *.' "''''' ''. ì . ', t ,'._ p. - t" ç' . f' ' rd ì- , ' " , _. ';: _ { t. L . ' . .ß' '1:',]\ -f-' f -' j, l! I r r', \ . . r! =r ... .. I. I FJ 1.r ,,\"'" ,,,,.,;...;' I -, {) r - · ,\ '\ ' If/ ./ 'I ' ;"" :if, . if ' \'"'":.:':-: : '\ .!Mt' *,: i :! jU .:-: J 'ÌJ_ l -( '.i Ji: :: , ..J: ' ( r,f: '" ' - :., --......... . . ''', I . 'li ' ;1 1 . .""" ',' I\. '}-s4, 0. I '. . '. wot"_.. J ' ^ (;' ìJ ' ,,:,.( '. "" t f/' . ;.: --# .hfl '. _" .) I ,t. " . . . .t ."",, ''J..,C.,L ; i tí ( J "Z. , . .,' , ...., ____' , 'tii:. ' , -t;", t< . ., '"'"l(w'C...........{2Z. pIo: :;;..-- ." ..J' "'Y . Clark Street at the Bridge. The Chicago River is a1\, ays interesting-its sluggi'ih waters colorful and the traffic upon it a combination of , river, canal, and lake boats. 2ï8 I J \ . \ ' " . } " , . rh: " 1 '\ ' ' '\ ,..", . ,\ I', .. .. '\ -t - \ "f t ' . , i,. ' , .f ',: r ;, " Ii' ,I . l_ j).! "" I ,I " :1; [tJLI 1\1(:\( -.í tloi ''':' , ' '. ,\ :tif" - rfl. -'1' ..lt' t- :.l .-r., . i - ' , I "h ..l -t"" Ll11.. " . J .I 01" - r { "1'< 'J " -.:r- I ;. ,l.'ljtìLJ...: ,.;-- .. l . ' )}1 1. . i :-r;" I ""')" 1'", . p" ,...,.,...".....\ ,(, I Ii t 'A' ' 1 " , -.' t: .) '1,1" J'" ;1 .1 '1-' \,' ......". l . '. ì I,. t. f \ ,., ..II".. ,- . - 'J. J J " \ .. r; . -:....... r . '- l' I"'" '\: ", # ' r J"'/'",7,-I.li;.I' t. .-,;. !\I'.-' I ... fl l)-l' I" " ; -. . " \.;..il 7. t , , . ( I ;'f ( , "J r, / ,.....' I 'f. t. I I I h.' ;..... . .- \. "rti:'-'rf 4 ( " '1 ,1 .', '.M .r--; t i! r ', . ', I J, ' '{. ', I I '" ' t r 1 ,':. ' ! , \ r I I It -'T ',ßI 1 , . fl " .j} r '111 ., .11 ( -'/t ,,' ,. " ì ,,, r 1/;" ). -It' Y . 1 ". { . , (Hi... "J i -, . : ,. ,, ;I '/ t't 1 t Jf , ! 'I" 1!'li "/f" r;. 1JfÍíi. .... r 11::\ - -'ft t fl.' : !f.II, :..f- t L; 1. r xl;?'\ ' :'n ,I , ! r 'f"",I j' , i' ,( ".' .,.. !" ,, · J(" f. r " oJ 1 \ . .. I "I (,J t ' I ': ( I i J.)-;:- ,1-:- . í1',: . ( .. I I . t l' ,\ Þ h" J - t t ... t t ' ill I 't' " , " :.' .:.') ; h' II . l j l( ) i' 'f\h"' '.., ," .b " ' ., ) ,J . 1 f, f " ... , , , 1 J L- þ \ ,;r. , . ) " t '. j- , , .. f " 1'( f , ,; . r, . . &. '-, _. 1 . 'T '_' -ft+--: .....J -....I( ....... " ..........' - u,l....._ - ' , - .-, - ' f . 0, ,.-.,- o:-- "'!'j::!1 . /J 11.YfJ":>' r-. . f - ') ,Þ '. <. L ., 1 1 , . . {f.. 1-;li . -'; :)Á :', , f 1 .: \ . _ 1 ' I. :. f --' rl .. ,-.- ,-, .... . - ,". .... -t -. . ' ". .,..... '! ! ( , 1 f 1t "', 771'- ";--,r;r ;:-br*;, J1ir-i 1 "t ' )"I ;1 .' r' ' .. c' . . h "' ', ' J . /,:." I ..;J ) .1,' d.k ' ',f i cr; ;\ ... t 'f ,.:rft' ìJ) f!l1 ,(, II I . , ! I ' , ..i..l . .. J Â'f ' , , ,t r ff.t, ,...,, .I. J'" '.. , . . I .;,'" ,: I.., - , . ' it r ' -Ii ':.'" · ,,,-t. \.' If -, .", t Þ .. ,. f"" Cf ', , 'f ''tf' fit ,?\ ff,.,'.:., . j · 1,. ';' !t\' t '.: I " t..If í- 1 . t. f /'..J,. ,1 -! J..' .' 'Í"' ,,\ , "4 0 __ . I\" 1\ J.1\ ," 'I ct' 'i'- 1'! - . . . l' ..... \ \ ,; ,i:et. ,t Ii' -.;, /: { _....:t . 1 ' " ." I ,j ",,"JI ' ' " .. ", __ t"ì.ol" J . & \' . ,..."'. -: , f 'L.. ......- -- "'I' "f: .....-. 1, ft t' J " · --- . ;Þ' ':. ("'1('1\.(,0 'l...1 --0:- I J , . !. . , . \ ", . f';', "' :,,1\ 1:\1, ( t' . ; I" \fl .1 I 1 -4 J ) , . \ t ' ".., ," "' , "\1 \.' . ':yø, $ . . : ..v\ ' . ) r;J .- South Clark Street. T',.: elevated lines encircle the rl:>\\n-town section in a mi hty band of steel c.111ed the "Loop." Within or near this district are located the principal hotels. office-buildin <;, financial institutions, and retail storn.. O\er the mass of slreet-cars. trucks, and shoppers towcrs the dome of the Federal Building. 279 \" . r r, ( , . :' f-fti> t. ,.. ,Ht . T ' . · " , . ' if'l '-'/' - ",- ' ' I {i' .àiIoÕP_ -:--' ( , \ . J .t. 4! "-' I ('." ':".', .' c.. _ _ . "" ".J"\", :,- ' r f" 'A ......;.... I ". "\...' .r-, I . t' 'ÿ..{ I '.. t ,,.. . 'I ( " 1 f:.l . 4....,""'-...1 . f I .11:')' ÿ' I 1 T ? \. " 'd t '-j+i 'j 4 ,. ""* ,.., .' 'J f i . , 1; n '; ) " " F " -' J)1'1"i:' : " i', I .!;: n J ) . t, ("1., '( \ f)' '1 ; .J : ,tNrt-' . l'J.,"i ) '.\;'t 'i, I IJ. ' I I Ji' '1'1 I:. :nh -ljI '" .:, '" zr:.: -.....(' ..-"!.-;:':._-_ ..,. I . I'j ;".-.I.. 1 :zz::..j! ,'-. .,. -\- ,.. 1,...,.ij 1 . ;- ...'. . l /,1"'P , _, .----., -.- - , ,J 'f _ ' :' _ ..', - ";.j- P-rr . - -- .1 - - - . .' ' -. , - ; .. "( J iii. ,Ifill.' H h f" 1 . Q"; . Æ ' \"1 '\ '; "'. I' · t · , {of , .1. . 1\ J 1\' t. i . # d f,Jf (: 4-f',_ ':.: :r:,,,: ,, "!" I "" ," .) ., ".. - . '11 :'I" "t' 1 t. .;t w. . \ .: 1/; . j..- ";""" . .. , . '- " . ' - ! ._" .'. ,ri:/1 . :.: . ...t..o:::.' "'I" ' ,lo< '.. 'i' J 'I , - . 'I I 1 off;< . _. , T f t' .. '-''7 '';'' - - . ;; ,f;t,..-: . 'tOt '; ., ., ' . '/:../ . . 'T- ''''.!r ..- . 1l;-i on r .' l ;lL }'., '!i . t ;,. ,.;.{ '" ' ?> ' ',-"""-' ... ! -ì ': ,i, < ,,'r. . -.,:;:j; : : . w ..-:...:-:'_ . _ . .. ."!? 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